Poems, with The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Wilde Oscar

the day, till marked with wounds of flame

      The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.

      The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,

         And in the orchards every twining spray

         Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:

      But when I knew that far away at Rome

         In evil bonds a second Peter lay,

         I wept to see the land so very fair.

Turin.

      SAN MINIATO

         See, I have climbed the mountain side

         Up to this holy house of God,

         Where once that Angel-Painter trod

      Who saw the heavens opened wide,

         And throned upon the crescent moon

         The Virginal white Queen of Grace, —

         Mary! could I but see thy face

      Death could not come at all too soon.

         O crowned by God with thorns and pain!

         Mother of Christ!  O mystic wife!

         My heart is weary of this life

      And over-sad to sing again.

         O crowned by God with love and flame!

         O crowned by Christ the Holy One!

         O listen ere the searching sun

      Show to the world my sin and shame.

      AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA

      Was this His coming!  I had hoped to see

         A scene of wondrous glory, as was told

         Of some great God who in a rain of gold

      Broke open bars and fell on Danae:

      Or a dread vision as when Semele

         Sickening for love and unappeased desire

         Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire

      Caught her brown limbs and slew her utterly:

      With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,

         And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand

         Before this supreme mystery of Love:

      Some kneeling girl with passionless pale face,

         An angel with a lily in his hand,

Florence.

      ITALIA

      Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen

         Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride

         From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!

      Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen

      Because rich gold in every town is seen,

         And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride

         Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride

      Beneath one flag of red and white and green.

      O Fair and Strong!  O Strong and Fair in vain!

         Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town

         Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!

      Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?

         Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,

         And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.

Venice.

      SONNET

WRITTEN IN HOLY WEEK AT GENOA

      I wandered through Scoglietto’s far retreat,

         The oranges on each o’erhanging spray

         Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;

      Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet

      Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet

         Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:

         And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay

      Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.

      Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,

         ‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,

         O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’

      Ah, God!  Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours

         Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,

         The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.

      ROME UNVISITED

I

      The corn has turned from grey to red,

         Since first my spirit wandered forth

         From the drear cities of the north,

      And to Italia’s mountains fled.

      And here I set my face towards home,

         For all my pilgrimage is done,

         Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun

      Marshals the way to Holy Rome.

      O Blessed Lady, who dost hold

         Upon the seven hills thy reign!

         O Mother without blot or stain,

      Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!

      O Roma, Roma, at thy feet

         I lay this barren gift of song!

         For, ah! the way is steep and long

      That leads unto thy sacred street.

II

      And yet what joy it were for me

         To turn my feet unto the south,

         And journeying towards the Tiber mouth

      To kneel again at Fiesole!

      And wandering through the tangled pines

         That break the gold of Arno’s stream,

         To see the purple mist and gleam

      Of morning on the Apennines

      By many a vineyard-hidden home,

         Orchard and olive-garden grey,

         Till from the drear Campagna’s way

      The seven hills bear up the dome!

III

      A pilgrim from the northern seas —

         What joy for me to seek alone

         The wondrous temple and the throne

      Of him who holds the awful keys!

      When, bright with purple and with gold

         Come priest and holy cardinal,

         And borne above the heads of all

      The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.

      O joy to see before I die

         The only God-anointed king,

         And hear the silver trumpets ring

      A triumph as he passes by!

      Or at the brazen-pillared shrine