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ENGLISH
POEMS

By

Richard Le Gallienne

London: John Lane at The Bodley Head in Vigo Street.

Boston: Copland & Day
69 Cornhill.

A.D. 1895.


_First Edition
        September 1892

Second Edition
        October 1892

Third Edition
        January 1894

Fourth Edition
        Revised April 1895_



To Sissie Le Gallienne





EPISTLE DEDICATORY

_Dear Sister: Hear the conclusion of the whole matter. You dream like
mad, you love like tinder, you aspire like a star-struck moth--for what?
That you may hive little lyrics, and sell to a publisher for thirty
pieces of silver.

Hard by us here is a 'bee-farm.' It always reminds me of a publisher's.
The bee has loved a thousand flowers, through a hundred afternoons, he
has filled little sacred cells with the gold of his stolen kisses--for
what? That the whole should be wrenched away and sold at so much 'the
comb'--as though it were a hair-comb. 'Mummy is become merchandise...
and Pharaoh is sold for balsams.'

Can we ever forget those old mornings when we rose with the lark, and,
while the earliest sunlight slanted through the sleeping house, stole to
the little bookclad study to read--Heaven bless us!--you, perhaps, Mary
Wollstonecraft, and I, Livy, in a Froben folio of 1531!!

Will you accept these old verses in memory of those old mornings? Ah,
then came in the sweet o' the year.

Yours now as then_,

R. Le G.

May 14th, 1892.

CONTENTS


_Epistle Dedicatory,

To the Reader_,


I. PAOLO AND FRANCESCA,

II. YOUNG LOVE--

     i. Preludes,

    ii. Prelude--'I make this rhyme,'

   iii. 'But, Song, arise thee on a greater wing,'

    iv. Once,

     v. The Two Daffodils,

    vi. 'Why did she marry him?'

   vii. The Lamp and the Star,

  viii. Orbits,

    ix. Never--Ever,

     x. Love's Poor,

    xi. Comfort of Dante,

   xii. A Lost Hour,

  xiii. Met once more,

   xiv. A June Lily,

    xv. Regret

   xvi. Love Afar

  xvii. Canst thou be true across so many miles?

_Postscript_


III. COR CORDIUM--

To my Wife, Mildred

The Destined Maid: a Prayer

With some old Love Verses

In a copy of Mr. Swinburne's _Tristram_

Comfort at Parting

Happy Letter

Primrose and Violet

'Juliet and her Romeo,'

In her Diary

Two Parables

A Love Letter

In the Night

The Constant Lover

The Wonder-Child


IV. MISCELLANEOUS--

The House of Venus

Satiety

What of the Darkness?

Ad Cimmerios

Old Love Letters

Death in a London Lodging

Time Flies

So soon Tired

Autumn

A Frost Fancy

The World is Wide

Saint Charles!

Good-Night

Beatrice

A Child's Evensong

An Epitaph on a Goldfish

Beauty Accurst

To a Dead Friend

Sunset in the City

The City in Moonlight


V. OF POETS AND POETRY--

Inscriptions

The Decadent to his Soul

To a Poet

The Passionate Reader to his Poet

Matthew Arnold

'Tennyson' at the Farm

'The Desk's Dry Wood,'

A Library in a Garden

On the Morals of Poets

Faery Gold

All Sung

Corydon's Farewell to his Pipe




ENGLISH POEMS

TO THE READER

_Art was a palace once, things great and fair,
And strong and holy, found a temple there:
Now 'tis a lazar-house of leprous men.
O shall me hear an English song again!
Still English larks mount in the merry morn,
An English May still brings an English thorn,
Still English daisies up and down the grass,
Still English love for English lad and lass--
Yet youngsters blush to sing an English song!_

_Thou nightingale that for six hundred years
Sang to the world--O art thou husht at last!
For, not of thee this new voice in our ears,
Music of France that once was of the spheres;
And not of thee these strange green flowers that spring
From daisy roots and seemed to bear a sting_.

_Thou Helicon of numbers 'undefiled,'
Forgive that 'neath the shadow of thy name,
England, I bring a song of little fame;
Not as one worthy but as loving thee,
Not as a singer, only as a child_.



PAOLO AND FRANCESCA


To R.K. Leather
(July 16th, 1892.)

PAOLO AND FRANCESCA

  It happened in that great Italian land
    Where every bosom heateth with a star--
  At Rimini, anigh that crumbling strand
    The Adriatic filcheth near and far--
    In that same past where Dante's dream-days are,
  That one Francesca gave her youthful gold
    Unto an aged carle to bolt and bar;
  Though all the love which great young hearts can hold,
How could she give that love unto a miser old?

  Nay! but young Paolo was the happy lad,
    A youth of dreaming eye yet dauntless foot,
  Who all Francesca's wealth of loving had;
    One brave to scale a wall and steal the fruit,
    Nor fear because some dotard owned the root;
  Yea! one who wore his love like sword on thigh
    And kept not all his valour for his lute;
   One who could dare as well as sing and sigh.
Ah! then were hearts to love, but they are long gone by.

  Ye lily-wives so happy in the nest,
    Whose joy within the gates of duty springs,
  Blame not Love's poor, who, if they would be blest,
    Must steal what comes to you with marriage rings:
    Ye pity the poor lark whose scarce-tried wings
  Faint in the net, while still the morning air
    With brown free throats of all his brethren sings,
  And can it be ye will not pity her,
Whose youth is as a lark all lost to singing there?

  In opportunity of dear-bought joy
    Rich were this twain, for old Lanciotto, he
  Who was her lord, was brother of her boy,
    And in one home together dwelt the three,
    With brothers two beside; and he and she
  Sat at one board together, in one fane
    Their voices rose upon one hymn, ah me!
  Beneath one roof each night their limbs had lain,
As now in death they share the one eternal pain.

  As much as common men can love a flower
    Unto Lanciotto was Francesca dear,
  'Tis not on such Love wields his jealous power;
    And therefore Paolo moved him not to fear,
    Though he so green with youth and he so sere.
  Nor yet indeed was wrong, the hidden thing
    Grew at each heart, unknown of each, a year,--
  Two eggs still silent in the nest through spring,
May draws so near to June, and not yet time to sing!

  Yet oft, indeed, through days that gave no sign
    Had but Francesca turned about and read
  Paolo's bright eyes that only dared to shine
    On the dear gold that glorified her head;
    Ere all the light had from their circles fled
  And the grey Honour darkened all his face:
    They had not come to June and nothing said,
  Day followed day with such an even pace,
Nor night succeeded night and left no starry trace.

  Or, surely, had the flower Paolo pressed
    In some sweet volume when he put it by.
  Told how his mistress drew it to her breast
    And called upon his name when none was nigh;
    Had but the scarf he kissed with piteous cry
  But breathed again its secret unto her,
    Or had but one of every little sigh
  Each left for each been love's true messenger:
They surely had not kept that winter all the year.

  Yea! love lay hushed and waiting like a seed,
    Some laggard of the season still abed
  Though the sun calls and gentle zephyrs plead,
    And Hope that waited long must deem it dead;
    Yet lo! to-morrow sees its shining head
  Singing at dawn'mid all the garden throng:
    Ah, had it known, it had been earlier sped--
  Was it for fear of day it slept so long,
Or were its dreams of singing sweeter than the song?

  But what poor flower can symbol all the might
    And all the magnitude, great Love, of thee?
  Ah, is there aught can image thee aright
    In earth