On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 250 Oliver Wendell Holmes OOR Soul, the center of my Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end? And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Within be fed, without be rich no more:— And death once dead, there's no more dying then. 251 THE DISPUTE OF THE HEART AND BODY OF FRANÇOIS VILLON1 HO is this I hear?-Lo, this is I, thine heart, What That holds on merely now by a slender string. Strength fails me, shape and sense are rent apart, The blood in me is turned to a bitter thing, Seeing thee skulk here like a dog shivering. Ye Leave me at peace. Why?-Nay now, leave me at peace; 1 Translated by Algernon Charles Swinburne. In this edition italics distinguish the speeches of the "heart." I will repent when I grow ripe in wit.— I say no more.-—I care not though thou cease.— What art thou, trow?-A man worth praise, perfay.This is thy thirtieth year of wayfaring.— 'Tis a mule's age.-Art thou a boy still?-Nay.Is it hot lust that spurs thee with its sting, Grasping thy throat? Know'st thou not anything?— Thou art undone.-I will make shift to rise.- I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart. Wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit, Then mightst thou plead this pretext with thine heart; But if thou know not good from evil a whit, Either thy head is hard as stone to hit, Or shame, not honor, gives thee most content. What canst thou answer to this argument?— When I am dead I shall be well at ease.God! what good hope!-Thou art over-eloquent.I say no more. I care not though thou cease.- Whence is this ill?-From sorrow and not from sin. When Saturn packed my wallet up for me Fool, wilt thou make thy servant lord of thee? All power upon the stars a wise man hath; Nay, as they made me I grow and I decrease.- Wouldst thou live still?—God help me that I may!- I say no more.-I care not though thou cease. François Villon 252 STER ODE TO DUTY TERN Daughter of the Voice of God! Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe, From vain temptations dost set free, And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth Upon the genial sense of youth: They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no disturbance of my soul Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control, But in the quietness of thought: Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires: My hopes no more must change their name; I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend |