And she that loved the master years agone, That bears his signet in her "Signor Square,"

"Che lo glorifico."[9]

She spread her arms, And in that deep embrace All thoughts of woe were perished And of pain and weariness and all the wrack Of light-contending thoughts and battled-gleams, (That our intelligence doth gain by strife against itself) Of things we have not yet the earned right to clearly see.

And all, yea all that dust doth symbolize Was there forgot, and my enfranchised soul Grew as the liquid elements, and was infused With joy that is not light, nor might nor harmony, And yet hath part and quality of all these three, Whereto is added calm past earthly peace.

Thus with Verona's spirit, and all time Swept on beyond my ken, and as the sea Hath in no wise a form within itself, _Cioe_, as liquid hath no form save where it bounden is By some enshrouding chalice of hard things-- As wine its graven goblet, and the sea Its wave-hewn basalt for a bordering, So had my thought and now my thought's remembrance No "_in_formation" of whatso there pa.s.sed For this long s.p.a.ce the dream-king's h.o.r.n.y gate.

And when that age was done and the transfusion Of all my self through her and she through me, I did perceive that she enthroned two things: Verona, and a maid I knew on earth; And dulled some while from dream, and then become That lower thing, deductive intellect, I saw How all things are but symbols of all things,[10]

And each of many, do we know But the equation governing.

And in my rapture at this vision's scope I saw no end or bourn to what things mean, So praised Pythagoras and once more raised By this said rapture to the house of Dream, Beheld Fenice as a lotus-flower Drift through the purple of the wedded sea And grow a wraith and then a dark-eyed she, And knew her name was "All-forgetfulness,"

And hailed her: "Princess of the Opiates,"

And guessed her evil and her good thereby.

And then a maid of nine "Pavia" hight, Pa.s.sed with a laugh that was all mystery, And when I turned to her She reached me one clear chalice of white wine, Pressed from the recent grapes that yet were hung Adown her shoulders, and were bound Right cunningly about her elfish brows; So hale a draught, the life of every grape Lurked without ferment in the amber cloud.

And memory, this wine was, of all good.

And more I might have seen: Firenza, Goito, Or that proudest gate, Ligurian Genoa, Cornelia of Colombo of far sight, That, man and seer in one, had well been twain, And each a glory to his hills and sea; And past her a great band Bright garlanded or rich with purple skeins, And crimson mantles and queynt fineries That tarnished held but so the more Of dim allurement in their half-shown folds: So swept my vision o'er their filmy ranks, Then rose some opaque cloud, Whose name I have not yet discerned, And music as I heard it one clear night Within our earthly night's own mirroring, _Cioe_,--San Pietro by Adige,[11]

Where altar candles blazed out as dim stars, And all the gloom was soft, and shadowy forms Made and sang G.o.d, within the far-off choir.

And in a clear s.p.a.ce high behind Them and the tabernacle of that place, Two tapers shew the master of the keys As some white power pouring forth itself.

And all the church rang low and murmured Thus in my dream of forms the music swayed.

And I was lost in it and only woke When something like a ma.s.s bell rang, and then That white-foot wind, pale Dawn's annunciatrice.

Me bore to earth again, but some strange peace I had not known so well before this swevyn Clung round my head and made me hate earth less.

[Footnote 11: For notes on this poem see end of volume--A Vision of Italy.]

In the Old Age of the Soul

I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me Some strange old l.u.s.t for deeds.

As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning, So to my soul grown old-- Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray, Grown old with many a hither-coming and hence-going-- Till now they send him dreams and no more deed; So doth he flame again with might for action, Forgetful of the council of the elders, Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle, Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.

Alba Belingalis

Phoebus shineth ere his splendour flieth Aurora drives faint light athwart the land And the drowsy watcher crieth, "ARISE."

_Ref_

O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth It pa.s.seth vigil and the shadows cleareth.

They be careless of the gates, delaying, Whom the ambush glides to hinder, Whom I warn and cry to, praying, "ARISE."

_Ref_

O'er cliff and ocean the white dawn appeareth It pa.s.seth vigil and the shadows cleareth.

Forth from out Arcturus, North Wind bloweth The stars of heaven sheathe their glory And sun-driven forth-goeth Settentrion.

_Ref._

O'er sea mist, and mountain is the dawn display'd It pa.s.seth watch and maketh night afraid.

From a tenth-century MS.

From Syria

The song of Peire Bremon "Lo Tort" that he made for his Lady in Provenca: he being in Syria a crusader.

In April when I see all through Mead and garden new flowers blow, And streams with ice-bands broken flow, Eke hear the birds their singing do; When spring's gra.s.s-perfume floateth by Then 'tis sweet song and birdlet's cry Do make mine old joy come anew.

Such time was wont my thought of old To wander in the ways of love.

Burnishing arms and clang thereof, And honour-services manifold Be now my need. Whoso combine Such works, love is his bread and wine, Wherefore should his fight the more be bold.

Song bear I, who tears should bring Sith ire of love mak'th me annoy, With song think I to make me joy.

Yet ne'er have I heard said this thing: "He sings who sorrow's guise should wear."

Natheless I will not despair That sometime I'll have cause to sing.

I should not to despair give way That some while I'll my lady see.

I trust well He that lowered me Hath power again to make me gay.

But if e'er I come to my Love's land And turn again to Syrian strand, G.o.d keep me there for a fool, alway!

G.o.d for a miracle well should Hold my coming from her away, And hold me in His grace alway That I left her, for holy-rood.

An I lose her, no joy for me, Pardi, hath the wide world in fee.

Nor could He mend it, if He would.

Well did she know sweet wiles to take My heart, when thence I took my way.

'Thout sighing, pa.s.s I ne'er a day For that sweet semblance she did make To me, saying all in sorrow: "Sweet friend, and what of me to-morrow?"

"Love mine, why wilt me so forsake?"

ENVOI

Beyond sea be thou sped, my song, And, by G.o.d, to my Lady say That in desirous, grief-filled way My nights and my days are full long.

And command thou William the Long-Seer To tell thee to my Lady dear, That comfort be her thoughts among.

The only bit of Peire Bremon's work that has come down to us, and through its being printed with the songs of Giraut of Bornelh he is like to lose credit for even this.--E.P.