Grass of Parnassus(帕那色斯草)

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Grass of Parnassus

by Andrew Lang

Grass of Parnassus

DEEDS OF MEN

[Greek text which cannot be reproduced]. To Colonel Ian Hamilton.

To you, who know the face of war, You, that for England wander far,

You that have seen the Ghazis fly From English lads not sworn to die, You

that have lain where, deadly chill, The mist crept o'er the Shameful Hill,

You that have conquered, mile by mile, The currents of unfriendly Nile,

And cheered the march, and eased the strain When Politics made valour

vain, Ian, to you, from banks of Ken, We send our lays of Englishmen!

SEEKERS FOR A CITY.

"Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a hill

visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed thither. . . But

the number and variety of the ways! For you know, THERE IS BUT

ONE ROAD THAT LEADS TO CORINTH."

HERMOTIMUS (Mr Pater's Version).

"The Poet says, DEAR CITY OF CECROPS, and wilt thou not say,

DEAR CITY OF ZEUS?"

M. ANTONINUS.

"To Corinth leads one road," you say: Is there a Corinth, or a way?

Each bland or blatant preacher hath His painful or his primrose path, And

not a soul of all of these But knows the city 'twixt the seas, Her fair

unnumbered homes and all Her gleaming amethystine wall!

Blind are the guides who know the way, The guides who write, and

preach, and pray, I watch their lives, and I divine They differ not from

yours and mine!

One man we knew, and only one, Whose seeking for a city's done, For

what he greatly sought he found, A city girt with fire around, A city in an

Grass of Parnassus

empty land Between the wastes of sky and sand, A city on a river-side,

Where by the folk he loved, he died. (1)

Alas! it is not ours to tread That path wherein his life he led, Not ours

his heart to dare and feel, Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel; Yet are we not

quite city-less, Not wholly left in our distress - Is it not said by One of old,

"Sheep have I of another fold?" Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will, For

us there is a city still!

"Dear city of Zeus," the Stoic says, (2) The Voice from Rome's

imperial days, In Thee meet all things, and disperse, In Thee, for Thee, O

Universe! To me all's fruit thy seasons bring, Alike thy summer and thy

spring; The winds that wail, the suns that burn, From Thee proceed, to

Thee return.

"Dear city of Zeus," shall WE not say, Home to which none can lose

the way! Born in that city's flaming bound, We do not find her, but are

found. Within her wide and viewless wall The Universe is girdled all. All

joys and pains, all wealth and dearth, All things that travail on the earth,

God's will they work, if God there be, If not, what is my life to me?

Seek we no further, but abide Within this city great and wide, In her

and for her living, we Have no less joy than to be free; Nor death nor grief

can quite appal The folk that dwell within her wall, Nor aught but with our

will befall!

THE WHITE PACHA.

Vain is the dream! However Hope may rave, He perished with the

folk he could not save, And though none surely told us he is dead, And

though perchance another in his stead, Another, not less brave, when all

was done, Had fled unto the southward and the sun, Had urged a way by

force, or won by guile To streams remotest of the secret Nile, Had raised

an army of the Desert men, And, waiting for his hour, had turned again

And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know GORDON is dead, and

these things are not so! Nay, not for England's cause, nor to restore Her

trampled flag - for he loved Honour more - Nay, not for Life, Revenge, or

Grass of Parnassus

Victory, Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die. He will not

come again, whate'er our need, He will not come, who is happy, being

freed From the deathly flesh and perishable things, And lies of statesmen

and rewards of kings. Nay, somewhere by the sacred River's shore He

sleeps like those who shall return no more, No more return for all the

prayers of men - Arthur and Charles - they never come again! They shall

not wake, though fair the vision seem: Whate'er sick Hope may whisper,

vain the dream!

MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886.

To-morrow is a year since Gordon died! A year ago to-night, the

Desert still Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill Of lust and

blood. Their old art statesmen plied, And paltered, and evaded, and

denied; Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will, And craven heart, and

calculated skill In long delays, of their great homicide.

A year ago to-night 'twas not too late. The thought comes through our

mirth, again, again; Methinks I hear the halting foot of Fate Approaching

and approaching us; and then Comes cackle of the House, and the Debate!

Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.

ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA.

On the offer of help from the Australians after the fall of Khartoum.

Sons of the giant Ocean isle In sport our friendly foes for long, Well

England loves you, and we smile When you outmatch us many a while, So

fleet you are, so keen and strong.

You, like that fairy people set Of old in their enchanted sea Far off

from men, might well forget An elder nation's toil and fret, Might heed not

aught but game and glee.

But what your fathers were you are In lands the fathers never knew,

Grass of Parnassus

'Neath skies of alien sign and star You rally to the English war; Your hearts

are English, kind and true.

And now, when first on England falls The shadow of a darkening fate,

You hear the Mother ere she calls, You leave your ocean-girdled walls,

And face her foemen in the gate.

COLONEL BURNABY.

[Greek text which cannot be reproduced]

Thou that on every field of earth and sky Didst hunt for Death, who

seemed to flee and fear, How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie Slain in

the Desert by some wandering spear: 'Not here, alas!' may England say,

'not here Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die, But in that dreadful battle

drawing nigh To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer:

Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood, And in some glen

have stayed the stream of flight, The bulwark of thy people and their

shield, When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood, Till back into the

Northland and the Night The smitten Eagles scattered from the field.'

MELVILLE AND COGHILL.

(The place of the little hand.)

Dead, with their eyes to the foe, Dead, with the foe at their feet,

Under the sky laid low Truly their slumber is sweet, Though the wind

from the Camp of the Slain Men blow, And the rain on the wilderness

beat.

Dead, for they chose to die When that wild race was run; Dead, for

they would not fly, Deeming their work undone, Nor cared to look on the

face of the sky, Nor loved the light of the sun.

Honour we give them and tears, And the flag they died to save, Rent

from the rain of the spears, Wet from the war and the wave, Shall waft

Grass of Parnassus

men's thoughts through the dust of the years, Back to their lonely grave!

RHODOCLEIA

TO RHODOCLEIA - ON HER MELANCHOLY

SINGING.

(Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the

Greek Anthology.)

Still, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead, Still singing of the meads of

asphodel, Lands desolate of delight? Say, hast thou dreamed of, or

remembered, The shores where shadows dwell, Nor know the sun, nor see

the stars of night?

There, 'midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze As a girl pines for home,

Looking along the way that she hath come, Sick to return, and counts the

weary days! So wouldst thou flee Back to the multitude whose days are

done, Wouldst taste the fruit that lured Persephone, The sacrament of

death; and die, and be No more in the wind and sun!

Thou hast not dreamed it, but remembered I know thou hast been there,

Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead Rise in the twilight air, And

crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits tread, And climbed the golden stair!

Nay, by thy cloudy hair And lips that were so fair, Sad lips now

mindful of some ancient smart, And melancholy eyes, the haunt of Care, I

know thee who thou art! That Rhodocleia, Glory of the Rose, Of Hellas,

ere her close, That Rhodocleia who, when all was done The golden time of

Greece, and fallen her sun, Swayed her last poet's heart.

With roses did he woo thee, and with song, With thine own rose, and

with the lily sweet, The dark-eyed violet, Garlands of wind-flowers wet,

And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night long Burned till the dawn

was burning in the skies, Praising THY GOLDEN EYES, AND FEET

Grass of Parnassus

MORE SILVERY THAN THETIS' FEET!

But thou didst die and flit Among the tribes outworn, The unavailing

myriads of the past: Oft he beheld thy face in dreams of morn, And,

waking, wept for it, Till his own time came at last, And then he sought

thee in the dusky land! Wide are the populous places of the dead Where

souls on earth once wed May never meet, nor each take other's hand, Each

far from the other fled!

So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou Didst never taste of the

Lethaean stream, Nor that forgetful fruit, The mystic pom'granate; But

from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now, The fugitive of Fate, Thou farest

in our life as in a dream, Still wandering with thy lute, Like that sweet

paynim lady of old song, Who sang and wandered long, For love of her

Aucassin, seeking him! So with thy minstrelsy Thou roamest, dreaming of

the country dim, Below the veiled sky!

There doth thy lover dwell, Singing, and seeking still to find thy face

In that forgetful place: Thou shalt not meet him here, Not till thy singing

clear Through all the murmur of the streams of hell Wins to the Maiden's

ear! May she, perchance, have pity on thee and call Thine eager spirit to

sit beside her feet, Passing throughout the long unechoing hall Up to the

shadowy throne, Where the lost lovers of the ages meet; Till then thou art

alone!

Grass of Parnassus

AVE.

'Our Faith and Troth All time and space controules Above the highest

sphere we meet Unseen, unknowne, and greet as Angels greet'

Col, Richard Lovelace. 1649

CLEVEDON CHURCH.

[In memoriam H. B.]

Westward I watch the low green hills of Wales, The low sky silver

grey, The turbid Channel with the wandering sails Moans through the

winter day. There is no colour but one ashen light On tower and lonely tree,

The little church upon the windy height Is grey as sky or sea. But there

hath he that woke the sleepless Love Slept through these fifty years, There

is the grave that has been wept above With more than mortal tears. And far

below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain, As Hallam's

dirge through all the years must keep Its monotone of pain.

* * * * *

Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, My heart flits forth from

these Back to the winter rose of northern skies, Back to the northern seas.

And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat Below the minster grey, Caverns

and chapels worn of saintly feet, And knees of them that pray. And I

remember me how twain were one Beside that ocean dim, I count the

years passed over since the sun That lights me looked on him, And

dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep, Shall greet me not again, Far, far

below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain.

TWILIGHT ON TWEED.

Grass of Parnassus

Three crests against the saffron sky, Beyond the purple plain, The kind

remembered melody Of Tweed once more again.

Wan water from the border hills, Dear voice from the old years, Thy

distant music lulls and stills, And moves to quiet tears.

Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood Fleets through the dusky land;

Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, My feet returning stand.

A mist of memory broods and floats, The Border waters flow; The air

is full of ballad notes, Borne out of long ago.

Old songs that sung themselves to me, Sweet through a boy's day

dream, While trout below the blossom'd tree Plashed in the golden steam.

* * * * *

Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, Fair and too fair you be; You tell

me that the voice is still That should have welcomed me.

1870.

METEMPSYCHOSIS.

I shall not see thee, nay, but I shall know Perchance, the grey eyes in

another's eyes, Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow On purest

brows, yea, and the swift surmise Shall follow and track, and find thee in

disguise Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow, When through the

scent of heather, faint and low, The weak wind whispers to the day that

dies.

From all sweet art, and out of all old rhyme, Thine eyes and lips are

light and song to me; The shadows of the beauty of all time, In song or

story are but shapes of thee; Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear,

Shall life or death bring all thy being near?

LOST IN HADES.

I dreamed that somewhere in the shadowy place, Grief of farewell

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GrassofParnassus1GrassofParnassusbyAndrewLangGrassofParnassus2DEEDSOFMEN[Greektextwhichcannotbereproduced].ToColonelIanHamilton.Toyou,whoknowthefaceofwar,You,thatforEnglandwanderfar,YouthathaveseentheGhazisflyFromEnglishladsnotsworntodie,Youthathavelainwhere,deadlychill,Themistcrepto'ertheShamefulHi...

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