Lo, I am worn with travail
And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes As dark red circles filled with dust.
And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes As dark red circles filled with dust.
Pound-Ezra-Umbra-The-Early-Poems-of-Ezra-Pound
.
.
.
.
. . ,m ,. . . . . ,. . .
(Abbreviated from the Conversation of Mr T. E. H. )
1. Note to "La Fraisne"
2. Personae and Portraits Bibliography . . .
10
. . .
.
.
. . .
? PERSONAE
GRACE BEFORE SONG
LORD GOD of heaven that with mercy dight
Th' alternate prayer-wheel of the night and light Eternal hast to thee, and in whose sight
Our days as rain drops in the sea surge fall,
As bright white drops upon a leaden sea Grant so my songs to this grey folk may be :
As drops that dream and gleam and falling catch the
sun.
Evanescent mirrors every opal one
Of such his splendour as their compass is,
Be bold, My Songs, to seek such death as this.
ii
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
? LA FRAISNE' SCENE : The Ash Wood of Mahern
FOR I was a gaunt, grave councillor
Being in all things wise, and very old,
But I have put aside this folly and the cold
That old age weareth for a cloak.
I was quite strong at least they said so
The young men at the sword-play ;
But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me.
I have curled 'mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak
Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke
Of the old ways of men have I cast aside.
By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha
Have I found me a bride
That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways She hath hushed my rancour of council,
Bidding me praise
Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.
She hath drawn me from mine old ways,
Till men say that I am mad ;
But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad,
For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I ? I have put aside all folly and all grief.
I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf
1
note at end of volume. 12
Prefatory
? And left them under a stone
And now men call me mad because I have thrown
All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men,
Because my bride
Is a pool of the wood, and
Though all men say that I am mad
It is only that I am glad,
Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love That is sweeter than the love of women
That plague and burn and drive one away.
Once when I was among the young men . . >:'
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men, Once there was a woman . . .
. . . butIforget. . . shewas. . . . . . I hope she will not come again.
. . . I do not remember . . ;V
I think she hurt meonce, but . . .
That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here :
For we are quite alone
Here 'mid the ash trees.
'Tis true that I am gay
Aie-e !
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
? BAH !
CINO
Italian Campagna 1309, the open road
I have sung women in three cities,
But it is all the same ;
And I will sing of the sun.
Lips, words, and you snare them,
Dreams, words, and they are as jewels,
Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement : And they are not ;
Having become the souls of song.
Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and
" Would
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter, Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light,
Would Cino of the Luth were here " !
Once, twice, a year
Vaguely thus word they :
"""
Cino ? Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi
The singer is't you mean ? "
" Ah yes, passed once our way, A saucy fellow, but . . .
N
Sighing, say,
Cino,
? (Oh they are all one these vagabonds), Peste ! 'tis his own songs ?
Or some other's that he sings ?
But you, My Lord, how with your city ? "
But you " My Lord," God's pity !
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you
Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am, Sinistro.
1 have sung women in three cities. But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . eh? . . . theymostlyhadgreyeyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.
" 'Polio Phoibee, old tin pan, you
Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us
Hath for boss thy lustre gay !
'Polio Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied ;
Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet !
Seeking o'er the new-laid rast-way Tothegardensofthesun . . .
I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
15
? her " amoros " to esgart
of Aelis her free- speech
NA AUDIART
Que be-m vols mal
NOTE : Anyone who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song
wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preeminent lady of Langue d'Oc some trait or some fair semblance : thus of Cembelins
her love-lit
running, of the Vicomptess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at
Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of 1'
Lady Audiart "although she would that ill come unto him he sought and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make " Una dompna soiseubuda " a borrowed lady or as the Italians translated it " Una donna ideale. "
THOUGH thou well dost wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart,
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart,
Stately, tall and lovely tender Who shall render
Audiart, Audiart Praises meet unto thy fashion ?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady " Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope How the stays ply back from it ;
I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . .
Nay no whit
Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, 16
wit,
glance,
? Just for the swirl
Thy satins made upon the stair, 'Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
" Audiart, Audiart "
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea though thou wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart. Thy loveliness is here writ till,
gold.
till thou come 2 again.
That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul
Scorning a new, wry'd casement, Churlish at seemed misplacement, Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Oh,
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form
Being so young and fair As then only in dreams,
Being then young and wry'd, Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften, Knowing, I know not how,
B
1 I. e. in illumed
manuscript. 17
2 Reincarnate.
Audiart,
.
? Thou wert once she
For whose fairness one forgave Audiart Que be-m vols mal.
18
Audiart, Audiart Audiart,
? VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE
TOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
(Christ make the shepherds'* homage dear ! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone
Drink of the winds their chill small-beer
And lap o' the snows food's gueredon
Then makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! )
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon ?
(What of the magians* scented gear ? }
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear Lest love return with the foison sun
And slay the memories that me cheer
(Such as I drink to mine fashion)
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won?
and Mars to Zeus drawn near Where are the lips mine lay upon,
Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear That bade my heart his valour don ?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon ? )
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince : ask me not what I have done Nor what God hath that can me cheer But ye ask first where the winds are gone
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
1
l (Saturn /)
Signum Nativitatis. 19
? A VILLONAUD : BALLAD OF THE GIBBET
OR THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION SCENE : " En ce bourdel ou tenons nostre estat"
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
" Freres humains qui apres nous <vi<vez. "
DRINK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
Fraiu^ois and Margot and thee and me,
Drink we the comrades merrily
That said " Till then " for the tree us, gallows !
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron " Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the " Haulte Noblesse " And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree !
Francois and Margot and thee and me, Drink we to Marienne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a preservative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, UHomme qui Rit.
20
l
? Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign,
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree !
Fra^ois and Margot and thee and me, For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee.
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness
That plundered St Hubert back o' the fane : Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess
In " faith and troth " to a traitoress,
"" Which of his brothers had he slain ?
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Fran9ois and Margot and thee and me :
These that we loved shall God love less And smite alway at their faibleness ?
Skoal ! ! to the gallowsj and then pray we : God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his " Haulte Citee. "
21
? MESMERISM
" And a cafs in the tuater-butt" ROBERT BROWNING
AYE you're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
Tocatchyouatwormturning. HolyOdd'sbodykins!
" Cat's i' the water butt " in verse- ! Thought's your
barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we'll believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But God ! what a sight you ha' got o' our in'ards,
Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope, Broad as all ocean and leanin' man-kin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius,
Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption, Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius,
Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
Here's to you, Old Hippety-Hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
Yougrabbedatthegoldsure; hadnoneedtopackcents Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
22
? FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO YOUR songs?
Oh! Thelittle mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills Her note, the little rabbit folk That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other,
Pulling on their shoes for the day's business. Serious child business that the world
Laughs at, and grows stale ; Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well !
Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels, Such an one as the world feels
A sort of curse against its guzzling And its age-lasting wallow for red greed And yet; full speed
23
Some score years hence
? Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon
Such an one as women draw away from
For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Shows razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard ;
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name . Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not
And lost mid-page Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyses form and thought to see How I 'scaped immortality.
24
. ;
'
? PRAISE OF YSOLT
IN vain have I striven,
to teach my heart to bow ;
In vain have I said to him
"There be many singers greater than thou. "
But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany,
As a vague crying upon the night
That leaveth me no rest, saying ever,
"a
Song, song. "
Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight
Seeking ever a song.
Lo, I am worn with travail
And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes As dark red circles filled with dust.
Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,
And little red elf words
Little grey elf words
Little brown leaf words
Little green leaf words crying for a song.
The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the
spring time
Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song. White words as snow flakes but they are cold, Moss words, lips words, words of slow streams.
In vain have I striven
to teach my soul to bow,
In vain have I pled with him :
"There be greater souls than thou. "
For in the morn of my years there came a woman As moon light calling,
25
" A crying for a song,
crying
song,"
crying
" A
song,"
? As the moon calleth the tides,
" Song, a song. "
Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me
As the moon doth from the sea,
But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words
Saying
" The soul sendeth us. "
"Aa " song, song !
And in vain I cried unto them " I have no song For she I sang of hath gone from me. "
But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonderfolk, A woman as fire upon the pine woods
"a
crying Song, song. "
As the flame crieth unto the sap.
My song was ablaze with her and she went from me As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new
forests
And the words were with me
crying
ever " a
Song, song. "
And I " I have no song,"
Till my soul sent a woman as the sun : Yea as the sun calleth to the seed,
As the spring upon the bough
So is she that cometh, the mother of songs,
She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes The words, little elf words
that call ever unto me
"a
Song, song. "
ENVOI
In vain have I striven with my soul
to teach my soul to bow. What soul boweth
while in his heart art thou ? 26
? FOR E. McC
That 'was my counter-blade under Leonardo Terrene, Master of Fence
GONE while your tastes were keen to you, Gone where the grey winds call to you,
By that high fencer, even Death,
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth ;
Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you.
Drew you your sword most gallantly
Made you your pass most valiantly
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.
Gone as a gust of breath
Faith ! no man tarrieth,
" Se il cor ti manca" but it failed thee not! " Non tifidar^ it is the sword that speaks "/ me'. "!
Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade 'Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid
As memorable broken blades that be
Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry. As old Toledos past their days of war
Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore, So art thou with us, being good to keep
In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm sleep.
ENVOI
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield ! He shall not take thee all.
1 Sword-rune " If thy heart fail thee trust not in me. " 27
? AT THE HEART O' ME
A. D. 751
WITH ever one fear at the heart o' me Long by still sea-coasts
coursed my Grey-Falcon, And the twin delights
of shore and sea were mine, Sapphire and emerald with
fine pearls between.
Through the pale courses of
the land-caressing in-streams Glided my barge and
the kindly strange peoples Gave to me laugh for laugh,
and wine for my tales of wandering And the cities gave me welcome
and the fields free passage, With ever one fear
at the heart o' me.
An thou should'st grow weary
An "
from out the borderland, What should avail me
booty of whale-ways ? What should avail me
gold rings or the chain-mail ? What should avail me
the many-twined bracelets ? 28
they
" should call to thee
ere my returning,
? What should avail me,
O my beloved, "
Here in this "
what should avail me
Out of the booty and gain of my goings ?
1
l
Middan-gard
Anglo-Saxon "Earth. "
THE WHITE STAG
I HA* seen them 'mid the clouds on the heather. Lo ! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.
the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting,
"
Bid the world's hounds come to horn !
29
? IN DURANCE
I AM homesick after mine own kind,
Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces, But I am homesick after mine own kind.
"Thesesellour " Oh pictures ! well,
They reach me not, touch me some edge or that, But reach me not and all my life's become
One flame, that reaches not beyond
My heart's own hearth,
Or hides among the ashes there for thee. "Thee"? Oh, "Thee" is who cometh first Out of mine own soul-kin,
For I am homesick after mine own kind
And ordinary people touch me not.
And I am homesick After mine own kind that know, and feel
And have some breath for beauty and the arts.
Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spirit And have none about me save in the shadows
When come they, surging of power, " DAEMON,"
"Quasi KALOUN. " S. T. says Beauty is most that, a "calling to the soul. "
Well then, so call they, the swirlers out of the mist of my soul,
They that come mewards, bearing old magic.
But for all that, I am homesick after mine own kind And would meet kindred even as I am, Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret.
" All they that with strange sadness "
30
? Have the earth in mockery, and are kind to all,
My fellows, aye I know the glory
Of th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hide
As I hide most the while
And burst forth to the windows only whiles or whiles
For love, or hope, or beauty or for power, Then smoulder, with the lids half closed
And are untouched by echoes of the world.
Oh ye, my fellows : with the seas between us some be, Purple and sapphire for the silver shafts
Of sun and spray all shattered at the bows ;
And some the hills hold off,
The little hills to east us, though here we Have damp and plain to be our shutting in.
" " and we are one. Up!
And soul yet my
sings
Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kin
To whom my breast and arms are ever warm,
For that I love ye as the wind the trees
That holds their blossoms and their leaves in cure
And calls the utmost singing from the boughs
That 'thout him, save the aspen, were as dumb
Still shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of how
"Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies . . . "
? MARVOIL
A POOR clerk " Arnaut the less " call
I, they me,
And because I have small mind to sit
Day long, long day cooped on a stool
A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha* taken to rambling the South here.
The Vicomte of Beziers 's not such a bad lot.
I made rimes to his lady this three year :
Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon,
Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging His helmet at Beziers.
Then came what might come, to wit: three men and
one woman,
Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady
Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends :
Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers Bored to an inch of extinction,
Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me ! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,
Stringing long verse for the Burlatz ;
All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the
Aragonese,
Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.
And if when I am dead
They take the trouble to tear out this wall here. They'll know more of Arnaut of Marvoil
Than half his canzoni say of him.
32
? As for will and testament I leave none.
Save this: Beziers
" Vers and canzone to the Countess of
In return for the first kiss she gave me. " May her eyes and her cheek be fair
To all men except the King of Aragon, And may I come speedily to Beziers
Whither my desire and my dream have preceded me.
O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,
Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,
For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with this
parchment,
So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes,
And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly my thought.
Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,
When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow
That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here.
Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.
O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur,
And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind, Keep yet my secret in thy breast here ;
Even as I keep her image in my heart here. Mihi pergamena deest
33
? AND THUS IN NINEVEH
"AYE! Iamapoetanduponmytomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves
And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword.
" Lo ! this thing is not mine
Nor thine to hinder,
For the custom is full old,
And here in Nineveh have I beheld
Many a singer pass and take his place x In those dim halls where no man troubleth
His sleep or song.
And many a one hath sung his songs
More craftily, more subtle-souled than I;
And many a one now doth surpass
My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb
Shall all men scatter rose leaves
Ere the night slay light With her blue sword.
" It is not, Raana, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I
Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life As lesser men drink wine. "
34
? EXULTATIONS
GUIDO INVITES YOU THUS
" LAPPO I leave behind and Dante too, Lo, I would sail the seas with thee alone !
Talk me no love talk, no bought-cheap fiddl'ry, Mine is the ship and thine the merchandise,
All the blind earth knows not th'emprise Whereto thou calledst and whereto I call.
Lo, I have seen thee bound about with dreams, Lo, I have known thy heart and its desire ; Life, all of it, my sea, and all men's streams Are fused in it as flames of an altar fire !
Lo, thou hast voyaged not ! The ship is mine. ' 1 The reference is to Dante's sonnet " Guido vorrei . . . "
35
? NIGHT LITANY
O DIEU, purifiez nos coeurs ! Purifiez nos coeurs !
Yea the lines hast thou laid unto me
in pleasant places, And the beauty of this thy Venice
hast thou shown unto me Until is its loveliness become unto me
a thing of tears.
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters ?
O God of the night,
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming ?
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
Purifiez nos coeurs. For we have seen
The glory of the shadow of the likeness of thine handmaid,
Yea, the glory of the shadow of thy Beauty hath walked
? Upon the shadow of the waters In this thy Venice.
And before the holiness Of the shadow of thy handmaid
Have I hidden mine eyes, O God of waters.
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
O God of waters,
make clean our hearts within us
And our lips to show forth thy praise, For I have seen the
Shadow of this thy Venice
Floating upon the waters, And thy stars
Have seen this thing out of their far courses Have they seen this thing,
O God of waters, Even as are thy stars
Silent unto us in their far-coursing, Even so is mine heart
become silent within me.
Purifiez nos coeurs God of the silence',
Purifiez nos cceurs God of waters.
37
? SESTINA: ALTAFORTE
LOQUITUR : En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer
up of strife. Eccovi !
Judge ye !
Have I dug him up again ?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte.
" The Leopard," the device of Richard (Coeur de Lion).
I
DAMN it all ! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come !
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah ! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple,
opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
Ill
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing ! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music ! Bah ! there's no wine like the blood's crimson !
38
""
Papiols is his jongleur.
Let's to music !
? May
God damn for ever all who " Peace " cry !
VII
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music. VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music !
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our " The " rush clash. charges 'gainst Leopard's
And let the music of the swords make them crimson ! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash !
Hell blot black for alway the thought " Peace "
!
39
? PIERE VIDAL OLD
It is of Piere Vidal, the fool par excellence of all Provence, of whom the tale tells how he ran mad, as a wolf, because of his love for Loba of Penautier, and how men hunted him with dogs through the mountains of Cabaret and brought him for dead to the dwelling of this Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, and how she and her Lord had him healed and made welcome, and he stayed some time at that court. He speaks :
WHEN I but think upon the great dead days
And turn my mind upon that splendid madness, Lo ! I do curse my strength
And blame the sun his gladness ; For that the one is dead
And the red sun mocks my sadness.
Behold me, Vidal, that was fool of fools !
Swift as the king wolf was I and as strong
When tall stags fled me through the alder brakes,
And every jongleur knew me in his song, And the hounds fled and the deer fled
And none fled over long.
Even the grey pack knew me and knew fear. God ! how the swiftest hind's blood spurted hot
Over the sharpened teeth and purpling lips !
Hot was that hind's blood yet it scorched me not
As did first scorn, then lips of the Penautier ! Aye ye are fools, if ye think time can blot
From Piere Vidal's remembrance that blue night. God ! but the purple of the sky was deep !
Clear, deep, translucent, so the stars me seemed Set deep in crystal; and because my sleep
Rare visitor came not, the Saints I guerdon For that restlessness Piere set to keep
4
? One more fool's vigil with the hollyhocks. Swift came the Loba, as a branch that's caught, Torn, green and silent in the swollen Rhone,
Green was her mantle, close, and wrought
Of some thin silk stuff that's scarce stuff at all,
But like a mist wherethrough her white form fought,
And conquered ! Ah God ! conquered ! Silent my mate came as the night was still.
Speech? Words? Faugh! Whotalksofwordsand love ? !
Hot is such love and silent,
Silent as fate is, and as strong until It faints in taking and in giving all.
Stark, keen, triumphant, till it play& at death. God ! she was white then, splendid as some tomb
High wrought of marble, and the panting breath
Ceased utterly. Well, then I waited, drew, Half-sheathed, then naked from its saffron sheath Drew full this dagger that doth tremble here.
Just then she woke and mocked the less keen blade. Ah God, the Loba ! and my only mate !
Was there such flesh made ever and unmade !
God curse the years that turn such women grey !
Behold here Vidal, that was hunted, flayed, Shamed and yet bowed not and that won at last.
And yet I curse the sun for his red gladness,
I that have known strath, garth, brake, dale,
And every run-away of the wood through that great
madness,
Behold me shrivelled as an old oak's trunk
And made men's mock'ry in my rotten sadness ! 41
? No man hath heard the glory of my days :
No man hath dared and won his dare as I :
One night, one body and one welding flame !
What do ye own, ye niggards ! that can buy
Such glory of the earth ?
Such battle-guerdon with his prowesse high ?
O Age gone lax ! O stunted followers, That mask at passions and desire desires,
Behold me shrivelled, and your mock of mocks ; And yet I mock you by the mighty fires
That burnt me to this ash.
Ah!
Cabaret !
Ah Cabaret, thy hills again !
Or who will win ""
Take your hands off me ! . . . \_Sniffingtheair. Ha ! this scent is hot !
? BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE1 Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion
HA' we lost the goodliest fere o' all For the priests and the gallows tree ?
Aye lover he was of brawny men, O' ships and the open sea.
When they came wi' a host to take Our Man His smile was good to see,
" First let these " go !
our
" Or I'll see ye damned," says he.
quo'
Goodly Fere,
Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
" Why took ye not me when I walked about
"
Alone in the town ?
. . ,m ,. . . . . ,. . .
(Abbreviated from the Conversation of Mr T. E. H. )
1. Note to "La Fraisne"
2. Personae and Portraits Bibliography . . .
10
. . .
.
.
. . .
? PERSONAE
GRACE BEFORE SONG
LORD GOD of heaven that with mercy dight
Th' alternate prayer-wheel of the night and light Eternal hast to thee, and in whose sight
Our days as rain drops in the sea surge fall,
As bright white drops upon a leaden sea Grant so my songs to this grey folk may be :
As drops that dream and gleam and falling catch the
sun.
Evanescent mirrors every opal one
Of such his splendour as their compass is,
Be bold, My Songs, to seek such death as this.
ii
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
? LA FRAISNE' SCENE : The Ash Wood of Mahern
FOR I was a gaunt, grave councillor
Being in all things wise, and very old,
But I have put aside this folly and the cold
That old age weareth for a cloak.
I was quite strong at least they said so
The young men at the sword-play ;
But I have put aside this folly, being gay In another fashion that more suiteth me.
I have curled 'mid the boles of the ash wood, I have hidden my face where the oak
Spread his leaves over me, and the yoke
Of the old ways of men have I cast aside.
By the still pool of Mar-nan-otha
Have I found me a bride
That was a dog-wood tree some syne. She hath called me from mine old ways She hath hushed my rancour of council,
Bidding me praise
Naught but the wind that flutters in the leaves.
She hath drawn me from mine old ways,
Till men say that I am mad ;
But I have seen the sorrow of men, and am glad,
For I know that the wailing and bitterness are a folly. And I ? I have put aside all folly and all grief.
I wrapped my tears in an ellum leaf
1
note at end of volume. 12
Prefatory
? And left them under a stone
And now men call me mad because I have thrown
All folly from me, putting it aside
To leave the old barren ways of men,
Because my bride
Is a pool of the wood, and
Though all men say that I am mad
It is only that I am glad,
Very glad, for my bride hath toward me a great love That is sweeter than the love of women
That plague and burn and drive one away.
Once when I was among the young men . . >:'
And they said I was quite strong, among the young men, Once there was a woman . . .
. . . butIforget. . . shewas. . . . . . I hope she will not come again.
. . . I do not remember . . ;V
I think she hurt meonce, but . . .
That was very long ago.
I do not like to remember things any more.
I like one little band of winds that blow In the ash trees here :
For we are quite alone
Here 'mid the ash trees.
'Tis true that I am gay
Aie-e !
Quite gay, for I have her alone here And no man troubleth us.
? BAH !
CINO
Italian Campagna 1309, the open road
I have sung women in three cities,
But it is all the same ;
And I will sing of the sun.
Lips, words, and you snare them,
Dreams, words, and they are as jewels,
Strange spells of old deity,
Ravens, nights, allurement : And they are not ;
Having become the souls of song.
Eyes, dreams, lips, and the night goes. Being upon the road once more,
They are not.
Forgetful in their towers of our tuneing
Once for Wind-runeing They dream us-toward and
" Would
Passionate Cino, of the wrinkling eyes,
Gay Cino, of quick laughter, Cino, of the dare, the jibe,
Frail Cino, strongest of his tribe
That tramp old ways beneath the sun-light,
Would Cino of the Luth were here " !
Once, twice, a year
Vaguely thus word they :
"""
Cino ? Oh, eh, Cino Polnesi
The singer is't you mean ? "
" Ah yes, passed once our way, A saucy fellow, but . . .
N
Sighing, say,
Cino,
? (Oh they are all one these vagabonds), Peste ! 'tis his own songs ?
Or some other's that he sings ?
But you, My Lord, how with your city ? "
But you " My Lord," God's pity !
And all I knew were out, My Lord, you
Were Lack-land Cino, e'en as I am, Sinistro.
1 have sung women in three cities. But it is all one.
I will sing of the sun.
. . . eh? . . . theymostlyhadgreyeyes, But it is all one, I will sing of the sun.
" 'Polio Phoibee, old tin pan, you
Glory to Zeus' aegis-day,
Shield o' steel-blue, th' heaven o'er us
Hath for boss thy lustre gay !
'Polio Phoibee, to our way-fare Make thy laugh our wander-lied ;
Bid thy 'fulgence bear away care. Cloud and rain-tears pass they fleet !
Seeking o'er the new-laid rast-way Tothegardensofthesun . . .
I have sung women in three cities But it is all one.
I will sing of the white birds
In the blue waters of heaven,
The clouds that are spray to its sea.
15
? her " amoros " to esgart
of Aelis her free- speech
NA AUDIART
Que be-m vols mal
NOTE : Anyone who has read anything of the troubadours knows well the tale of Bertran of Born and My Lady Maent of Montaignac, and knows also the song he made when she would none of him, the song
wherein he, seeking to find or make her equal, begs of each preeminent lady of Langue d'Oc some trait or some fair semblance : thus of Cembelins
her love-lit
running, of the Vicomptess of Chales her throat and her two hands, at
Roacoart of Anhes her hair golden as Iseult's ; and even in this fashion of 1'
Lady Audiart "although she would that ill come unto him he sought and praised the lineaments of the torse. And all this to make " Una dompna soiseubuda " a borrowed lady or as the Italians translated it " Una donna ideale. "
THOUGH thou well dost wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart,
Where thy bodice laces start
As ivy fingers clutching through Its crevices,
Audiart, Audiart,
Stately, tall and lovely tender Who shall render
Audiart, Audiart Praises meet unto thy fashion ?
Here a word kiss !
Pass I on Unto Lady " Miels-de-Ben,"
Having praised thy girdle's scope How the stays ply back from it ;
I breathe no hope
That thou shouldst . . .
Nay no whit
Bespeak thyself for anything.
Just a word in thy praise, girl, 16
wit,
glance,
? Just for the swirl
Thy satins made upon the stair, 'Cause never a flaw was there Where thy torse and limbs are met Though thou hate me, read it set
1
In rose and
Or when the minstrel, tale half told, Shall burst to lilting at the phrase
" Audiart, Audiart "
Bertrans, master of his lays, Bertrans of Aultaforte thy praise
Sets forth, and though thou hate me well, Yea though thou wish me ill
Audiart, Audiart. Thy loveliness is here writ till,
gold.
till thou come 2 again.
That hath no perfect limning, when the warm Youth dew is cold
Upon thy hands, and thy old soul
Scorning a new, wry'd casement, Churlish at seemed misplacement, Finds the earth as bitter
As now seems it sweet,
Oh,
And being bent and wrinkled, in a form
Being so young and fair As then only in dreams,
Being then young and wry'd, Broken of ancient pride,
Thou shalt then soften, Knowing, I know not how,
B
1 I. e. in illumed
manuscript. 17
2 Reincarnate.
Audiart,
.
? Thou wert once she
For whose fairness one forgave Audiart Que be-m vols mal.
18
Audiart, Audiart Audiart,
? VILLONAUD FOR THIS YULE
TOWARDS the Noel that morte saison
(Christ make the shepherds'* homage dear ! ) Then when the grey wolves everychone
Drink of the winds their chill small-beer
And lap o' the snows food's gueredon
Then makyth my heart his yule-tide cheer (Skoal ! with the dregs if the clear be gone ! )
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year. Ask ye what ghosts I dream upon ?
(What of the magians* scented gear ? }
The ghosts of dead loves everyone
That make the stark winds reek with fear Lest love return with the foison sun
And slay the memories that me cheer
(Such as I drink to mine fashion)
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
Where are the joys my heart had won?
and Mars to Zeus drawn near Where are the lips mine lay upon,
Aye ! where are the glances feat and clear That bade my heart his valour don ?
I skoal to the eyes as grey-blown mere (Who knows whose was that paragon ? )
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
Prince : ask me not what I have done Nor what God hath that can me cheer But ye ask first where the winds are gone
Wineing the ghosts of yester-year.
1
l (Saturn /)
Signum Nativitatis. 19
? A VILLONAUD : BALLAD OF THE GIBBET
OR THE SONG OF THE SIXTH COMPANION SCENE : " En ce bourdel ou tenons nostre estat"
It being remembered that there were six of us with Master Villon, when that expecting presently to be hanged he writ a ballad whereof ye know :
" Freres humains qui apres nous <vi<vez. "
DRINK ye a skoal for the gallows tree !
Fraiu^ois and Margot and thee and me,
Drink we the comrades merrily
That said " Till then " for the tree us, gallows !
Fat Pierre with the hook gauche-main,
Thomas Larron " Ear-the-less," Tybalde and that armouress
Who gave this poignard its premier stain Pinning the Guise that had been fain
To make him a mate of the " Haulte Noblesse " And bade her be out with ill address
As a fool that mocketh his drue's disdeign.
Drink we a skoal for the gallows tree !
Francois and Margot and thee and me, Drink we to Marienne Ydole,
That hell brenn not her o'er cruelly.
Drink we the lusty robbers twain,
Black is the pitch o' their wedding dress, Lips shrunk back for the wind's caress
As lips shrink back when we feel the strain
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a preservative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, UHomme qui Rit.
20
l
? Of love that loveth in hell's disdeign,
And sense the teeth through the lips that press 'Gainst our lips for the soul's distress
That striveth to ours across the pain.
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree !
Fra^ois and Margot and thee and me, For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee.
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness
That plundered St Hubert back o' the fane : Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess
In " faith and troth " to a traitoress,
"" Which of his brothers had he slain ?
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Fran9ois and Margot and thee and me :
These that we loved shall God love less And smite alway at their faibleness ?
Skoal ! ! to the gallowsj and then pray we : God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his " Haulte Citee. "
21
? MESMERISM
" And a cafs in the tuater-butt" ROBERT BROWNING
AYE you're a man that ! ye old mesmerizer
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
Tocatchyouatwormturning. HolyOdd'sbodykins!
" Cat's i' the water butt " in verse- ! Thought's your
barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we'll believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But God ! what a sight you ha' got o' our in'ards,
Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope, Broad as all ocean and leanin' man-kin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius,
Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption, Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius,
Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
Here's to you, Old Hippety-Hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
Yougrabbedatthegoldsure; hadnoneedtopackcents Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
22
? FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO YOUR songs?
Oh! Thelittle mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills Her note, the little rabbit folk That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other,
Pulling on their shoes for the day's business. Serious child business that the world
Laughs at, and grows stale ; Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame. Thypublicinmyscreed
Is listed. Well !
Behold mine audience,
As we had seen him yesterday.
Scrawny, be-spectacled, out at heels, Such an one as the world feels
A sort of curse against its guzzling And its age-lasting wallow for red greed And yet; full speed
23
Some score years hence
? Though it should run for its own getting, Will turn aside to sneer at
'Cause he hath
No coin, no will to snatch the aftermath Of Mammon
Such an one as women draw away from
For the tobacco ashes scattered on his coat And sith his throat
Shows razor's unfamiliarity And three days' beard ;
Such an one picking a ragged Backless copy from the stall,
Too cheap for cataloguing, Loquitur,
"Ah-eh! the strange rare name . Ah-eh ! He must be rare if even / have not
And lost mid-page Such age
As his pardons the habit,
He analyses form and thought to see How I 'scaped immortality.
24
. ;
'
? PRAISE OF YSOLT
IN vain have I striven,
to teach my heart to bow ;
In vain have I said to him
"There be many singers greater than thou. "
But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany,
As a vague crying upon the night
That leaveth me no rest, saying ever,
"a
Song, song. "
Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight
Seeking ever a song.
Lo, I am worn with travail
And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes As dark red circles filled with dust.
Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,
And little red elf words
Little grey elf words
Little brown leaf words
Little green leaf words crying for a song.
The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the
spring time
Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song. White words as snow flakes but they are cold, Moss words, lips words, words of slow streams.
In vain have I striven
to teach my soul to bow,
In vain have I pled with him :
"There be greater souls than thou. "
For in the morn of my years there came a woman As moon light calling,
25
" A crying for a song,
crying
song,"
crying
" A
song,"
? As the moon calleth the tides,
" Song, a song. "
Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me
As the moon doth from the sea,
But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words
Saying
" The soul sendeth us. "
"Aa " song, song !
And in vain I cried unto them " I have no song For she I sang of hath gone from me. "
But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonderfolk, A woman as fire upon the pine woods
"a
crying Song, song. "
As the flame crieth unto the sap.
My song was ablaze with her and she went from me As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new
forests
And the words were with me
crying
ever " a
Song, song. "
And I " I have no song,"
Till my soul sent a woman as the sun : Yea as the sun calleth to the seed,
As the spring upon the bough
So is she that cometh, the mother of songs,
She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes The words, little elf words
that call ever unto me
"a
Song, song. "
ENVOI
In vain have I striven with my soul
to teach my soul to bow. What soul boweth
while in his heart art thou ? 26
? FOR E. McC
That 'was my counter-blade under Leonardo Terrene, Master of Fence
GONE while your tastes were keen to you, Gone where the grey winds call to you,
By that high fencer, even Death,
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth ;
Such is your fence, one saith, One that hath known you.
Drew you your sword most gallantly
Made you your pass most valiantly
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death.
Gone as a gust of breath
Faith ! no man tarrieth,
" Se il cor ti manca" but it failed thee not! " Non tifidar^ it is the sword that speaks "/ me'. "!
Thou trusted'st in thyself and met the blade 'Thout mask or gauntlet, and art laid
As memorable broken blades that be
Kept as bold trophies of old pageantry. As old Toledos past their days of war
Are kept mnemonic of the strokes they bore, So art thou with us, being good to keep
In our heart's sword-rack, though thy sword-arm sleep.
ENVOI
Struck of the blade that no man parrieth Pierced of the point that toucheth lastly all,
'Gainst that grey fencer, even Death,
Behold the shield ! He shall not take thee all.
1 Sword-rune " If thy heart fail thee trust not in me. " 27
? AT THE HEART O' ME
A. D. 751
WITH ever one fear at the heart o' me Long by still sea-coasts
coursed my Grey-Falcon, And the twin delights
of shore and sea were mine, Sapphire and emerald with
fine pearls between.
Through the pale courses of
the land-caressing in-streams Glided my barge and
the kindly strange peoples Gave to me laugh for laugh,
and wine for my tales of wandering And the cities gave me welcome
and the fields free passage, With ever one fear
at the heart o' me.
An thou should'st grow weary
An "
from out the borderland, What should avail me
booty of whale-ways ? What should avail me
gold rings or the chain-mail ? What should avail me
the many-twined bracelets ? 28
they
" should call to thee
ere my returning,
? What should avail me,
O my beloved, "
Here in this "
what should avail me
Out of the booty and gain of my goings ?
1
l
Middan-gard
Anglo-Saxon "Earth. "
THE WHITE STAG
I HA* seen them 'mid the clouds on the heather. Lo ! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover, When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.
the white stag, Fame, we're a-hunting,
"
Bid the world's hounds come to horn !
29
? IN DURANCE
I AM homesick after mine own kind,
Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces, But I am homesick after mine own kind.
"Thesesellour " Oh pictures ! well,
They reach me not, touch me some edge or that, But reach me not and all my life's become
One flame, that reaches not beyond
My heart's own hearth,
Or hides among the ashes there for thee. "Thee"? Oh, "Thee" is who cometh first Out of mine own soul-kin,
For I am homesick after mine own kind
And ordinary people touch me not.
And I am homesick After mine own kind that know, and feel
And have some breath for beauty and the arts.
Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spirit And have none about me save in the shadows
When come they, surging of power, " DAEMON,"
"Quasi KALOUN. " S. T. says Beauty is most that, a "calling to the soul. "
Well then, so call they, the swirlers out of the mist of my soul,
They that come mewards, bearing old magic.
But for all that, I am homesick after mine own kind And would meet kindred even as I am, Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret.
" All they that with strange sadness "
30
? Have the earth in mockery, and are kind to all,
My fellows, aye I know the glory
Of th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hide
As I hide most the while
And burst forth to the windows only whiles or whiles
For love, or hope, or beauty or for power, Then smoulder, with the lids half closed
And are untouched by echoes of the world.
Oh ye, my fellows : with the seas between us some be, Purple and sapphire for the silver shafts
Of sun and spray all shattered at the bows ;
And some the hills hold off,
The little hills to east us, though here we Have damp and plain to be our shutting in.
" " and we are one. Up!
And soul yet my
sings
Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kin
To whom my breast and arms are ever warm,
For that I love ye as the wind the trees
That holds their blossoms and their leaves in cure
And calls the utmost singing from the boughs
That 'thout him, save the aspen, were as dumb
Still shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of how
"Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies . . . "
? MARVOIL
A POOR clerk " Arnaut the less " call
I, they me,
And because I have small mind to sit
Day long, long day cooped on a stool
A-jumbling o' figures for Maitre Jacques Polin, I ha* taken to rambling the South here.
The Vicomte of Beziers 's not such a bad lot.
I made rimes to his lady this three year :
Vers and canzone, till that damn'd son of Aragon,
Alfonso the half-bald, took to hanging His helmet at Beziers.
Then came what might come, to wit: three men and
one woman,
Beziers off at Mont-Ausier, I and his lady
Singing the stars in the turrets of Beziers, And one lean Aragonese cursing the seneschal To the end that you see, friends :
Aragon cursing in Aragon, Beziers busy at Beziers Bored to an inch of extinction,
Tibors all tongue and temper at Mont-Ausier, Me ! in this damn'd inn of Avignon,
Stringing long verse for the Burlatz ;
All for one half-bald, knock-knee'd king of the
Aragonese,
Alfonso, Quatro, poke-nose.
And if when I am dead
They take the trouble to tear out this wall here. They'll know more of Arnaut of Marvoil
Than half his canzoni say of him.
32
? As for will and testament I leave none.
Save this: Beziers
" Vers and canzone to the Countess of
In return for the first kiss she gave me. " May her eyes and her cheek be fair
To all men except the King of Aragon, And may I come speedily to Beziers
Whither my desire and my dream have preceded me.
O hole in the wall here! be thou my jongleur As ne'er had I other, and when the wind blows,
Sing thou the grace of the Lady of Beziers,
For even as thou art hollow before I fill thee with this
parchment,
So is my heart hollow when she filleth not mine eyes,
And so were my mind hollow, did she not fill utterly my thought.
Wherefore, O hole in the wall here,
When the wind blows sigh thou for my sorrow
That I have not the Countess of Beziers Close in my arms here.
Even as thou shalt soon have this parchment.
O hole in the wall here, be thou my jongleur,
And though thou sighest my sorrow in the wind, Keep yet my secret in thy breast here ;
Even as I keep her image in my heart here. Mihi pergamena deest
33
? AND THUS IN NINEVEH
"AYE! Iamapoetanduponmytomb Shall maidens scatter rose leaves
And men myrtles, ere the night Slays day with her dark sword.
" Lo ! this thing is not mine
Nor thine to hinder,
For the custom is full old,
And here in Nineveh have I beheld
Many a singer pass and take his place x In those dim halls where no man troubleth
His sleep or song.
And many a one hath sung his songs
More craftily, more subtle-souled than I;
And many a one now doth surpass
My wave-worn beauty with his wind of flowers, Yet am I poet, and upon my tomb
Shall all men scatter rose leaves
Ere the night slay light With her blue sword.
" It is not, Raana, that my song rings highest Or more sweet in tone than any, but that I
Am here a Poet, that doth drink of life As lesser men drink wine. "
34
? EXULTATIONS
GUIDO INVITES YOU THUS
" LAPPO I leave behind and Dante too, Lo, I would sail the seas with thee alone !
Talk me no love talk, no bought-cheap fiddl'ry, Mine is the ship and thine the merchandise,
All the blind earth knows not th'emprise Whereto thou calledst and whereto I call.
Lo, I have seen thee bound about with dreams, Lo, I have known thy heart and its desire ; Life, all of it, my sea, and all men's streams Are fused in it as flames of an altar fire !
Lo, thou hast voyaged not ! The ship is mine. ' 1 The reference is to Dante's sonnet " Guido vorrei . . . "
35
? NIGHT LITANY
O DIEU, purifiez nos coeurs ! Purifiez nos coeurs !
Yea the lines hast thou laid unto me
in pleasant places, And the beauty of this thy Venice
hast thou shown unto me Until is its loveliness become unto me
a thing of tears.
O God, what great kindness
have we done in times past
and forgotten it,
That thou givest this wonder unto us,
O God of waters ?
O God of the night,
What great sorrow
Cometh unto us,
That thou thus repayest us
Before the time of its coming ?
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
Purifiez nos coeurs. For we have seen
The glory of the shadow of the likeness of thine handmaid,
Yea, the glory of the shadow of thy Beauty hath walked
? Upon the shadow of the waters In this thy Venice.
And before the holiness Of the shadow of thy handmaid
Have I hidden mine eyes, O God of waters.
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
Purifiez nos cceurs,
O God of waters,
make clean our hearts within us
And our lips to show forth thy praise, For I have seen the
Shadow of this thy Venice
Floating upon the waters, And thy stars
Have seen this thing out of their far courses Have they seen this thing,
O God of waters, Even as are thy stars
Silent unto us in their far-coursing, Even so is mine heart
become silent within me.
Purifiez nos coeurs God of the silence',
Purifiez nos cceurs God of waters.
37
? SESTINA: ALTAFORTE
LOQUITUR : En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer
up of strife. Eccovi !
Judge ye !
Have I dug him up again ?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte.
" The Leopard," the device of Richard (Coeur de Lion).
I
DAMN it all ! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come !
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah ! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple,
opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
Ill
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash ! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing ! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music ! Bah ! there's no wine like the blood's crimson !
38
""
Papiols is his jongleur.
Let's to music !
? May
God damn for ever all who " Peace " cry !
VII
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson. And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music. VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music !
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our " The " rush clash. charges 'gainst Leopard's
And let the music of the swords make them crimson ! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash !
Hell blot black for alway the thought " Peace "
!
39
? PIERE VIDAL OLD
It is of Piere Vidal, the fool par excellence of all Provence, of whom the tale tells how he ran mad, as a wolf, because of his love for Loba of Penautier, and how men hunted him with dogs through the mountains of Cabaret and brought him for dead to the dwelling of this Loba (she-wolf) of Penautier, and how she and her Lord had him healed and made welcome, and he stayed some time at that court. He speaks :
WHEN I but think upon the great dead days
And turn my mind upon that splendid madness, Lo ! I do curse my strength
And blame the sun his gladness ; For that the one is dead
And the red sun mocks my sadness.
Behold me, Vidal, that was fool of fools !
Swift as the king wolf was I and as strong
When tall stags fled me through the alder brakes,
And every jongleur knew me in his song, And the hounds fled and the deer fled
And none fled over long.
Even the grey pack knew me and knew fear. God ! how the swiftest hind's blood spurted hot
Over the sharpened teeth and purpling lips !
Hot was that hind's blood yet it scorched me not
As did first scorn, then lips of the Penautier ! Aye ye are fools, if ye think time can blot
From Piere Vidal's remembrance that blue night. God ! but the purple of the sky was deep !
Clear, deep, translucent, so the stars me seemed Set deep in crystal; and because my sleep
Rare visitor came not, the Saints I guerdon For that restlessness Piere set to keep
4
? One more fool's vigil with the hollyhocks. Swift came the Loba, as a branch that's caught, Torn, green and silent in the swollen Rhone,
Green was her mantle, close, and wrought
Of some thin silk stuff that's scarce stuff at all,
But like a mist wherethrough her white form fought,
And conquered ! Ah God ! conquered ! Silent my mate came as the night was still.
Speech? Words? Faugh! Whotalksofwordsand love ? !
Hot is such love and silent,
Silent as fate is, and as strong until It faints in taking and in giving all.
Stark, keen, triumphant, till it play& at death. God ! she was white then, splendid as some tomb
High wrought of marble, and the panting breath
Ceased utterly. Well, then I waited, drew, Half-sheathed, then naked from its saffron sheath Drew full this dagger that doth tremble here.
Just then she woke and mocked the less keen blade. Ah God, the Loba ! and my only mate !
Was there such flesh made ever and unmade !
God curse the years that turn such women grey !
Behold here Vidal, that was hunted, flayed, Shamed and yet bowed not and that won at last.
And yet I curse the sun for his red gladness,
I that have known strath, garth, brake, dale,
And every run-away of the wood through that great
madness,
Behold me shrivelled as an old oak's trunk
And made men's mock'ry in my rotten sadness ! 41
? No man hath heard the glory of my days :
No man hath dared and won his dare as I :
One night, one body and one welding flame !
What do ye own, ye niggards ! that can buy
Such glory of the earth ?
Such battle-guerdon with his prowesse high ?
O Age gone lax ! O stunted followers, That mask at passions and desire desires,
Behold me shrivelled, and your mock of mocks ; And yet I mock you by the mighty fires
That burnt me to this ash.
Ah!
Cabaret !
Ah Cabaret, thy hills again !
Or who will win ""
Take your hands off me ! . . . \_Sniffingtheair. Ha ! this scent is hot !
? BALLAD OF THE GOODLY FERE1 Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion
HA' we lost the goodliest fere o' all For the priests and the gallows tree ?
Aye lover he was of brawny men, O' ships and the open sea.
When they came wi' a host to take Our Man His smile was good to see,
" First let these " go !
our
" Or I'll see ye damned," says he.
quo'
Goodly Fere,
Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
" Why took ye not me when I walked about
"
Alone in the town ?
