Poems, with The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Wilde Oscar

like a star

         Hung in the silver silence of the night,

         Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might

      Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!

      Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?

         In amorous Sidon was thy temple built

            Over the light and laughter of the sea

         Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,

            Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry,

      All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;

      Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned,

         And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss

      Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned

         From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles!

      No! thou art Helen, and none other one!

         It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died,

            And Memnôn’s manhood was untimely spent;

         It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried

      With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,

            In the last year of thy beleaguerment;

      Ay! even now the glory of thy fame

         Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,

         Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well

      Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.

      Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land

         Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,

            Where never mower rose at break of day

         But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,

      And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand

            Till summer’s red had changed to withered grey?

      Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream

         Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,

         The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam

      From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?

      Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill

         With one who is forgotten utterly,

            That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;

         Hidden away that never mightst thou see

      The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine

            To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;

      Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening,

         But only Love’s intolerable pain,

         Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,

      Only the bitterness of child-bearing.

      The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death

         Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,

            While yet I know the summer of my days;

         For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath

      To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,

            So bowed am I before thy mystery;

      So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,

         That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,

         Yet care I not what ruin time may bring

      If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.

      Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,

         But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,

            Who flies before the north wind and the night,

         So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,

      Back to the tower of thine old delight,

            And the red lips of young Euphorion;

      Nor shall I ever see thy face again,

         But in this poisonous garden-close must stay,

         Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,

      Till all my loveless life shall pass away.

      O Helen!  Helen! Helen! yet a while,

         Yet for a little while, O, tarry here,

            Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!

         For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile

      Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,

            Seeing I know no other god but thee:

      No other god save him, before whose feet

         In nets of gold the tired planets move,

         The incarnate spirit of spiritual love

      Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.

      Thou wert not born as common women are!

         But, girt with silver splendour of the foam,

            Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!

         And at thy coming some immortal star,

      Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies,

            And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.

      Thou shalt not die: no asps of Egypt creep

         Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;

         No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,

      Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.

      Lily of love, pure and inviolate!

         Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!

            Thou hast come down our darkness to illume:

      For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,

         Wearied with waiting for the World’s Desire,

            Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom,

      Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne

         For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,

      Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,

         And the white glory of thy loveliness.

      THE BURDEN OF ITYS

      This English Thames is holier far than Rome,

         Those harebells like a sudden flush of sea

      Breaking across the woodland, with the foam

         Of meadow-sweet and white anemone

      To fleck their blue waves, – God is likelier there

      Than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear!

      Those violet-gleaming butterflies that take

         Yon creamy lily for their pavilion

      Are monsignores, and where the rushes shake

         A lazy pike lies basking in the sun,

      His eyes half shut, – he is some mitred old

      Bishop in partibus! look at those gaudy scales all green and gold.

      The wind the restless prisoner of the trees

         Does well for Palæstrina,