Theodore Watts-Dunton: Poet, Novelist, Critic. Douglas James

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      ’Twas Fitz, ‘Old Fitz,’ whose knowledge, farther going

      Than lore of Omar, ‘Wisdom’s starry Cham,’

      Made richer still thine opulent epigram:

      Sowed seed from seed of thine immortal sowing. —

      Chorus: Omar Khayyàm!

      In this red wine, where Memory’s eyes seem glowing,

      And days when wines were bright by Ouse and Cam,

      And Norfolk’s foaming nectar glittered, showing

      What beard of gold John Barleycorn was growing,

      We drink to thee till, hark! the cock is crowing!

      Omar Khayyàm!

      Hear us, ye winds! From where the north-wind strows

      Blossoms that crown ‘the King of Wisdom’s’ tomb,

      The trees here planted bring remembered bloom,

      Dreaming in seed of Love’s ancestral rose,

      To meadows where a braver north-wind blows

      O’er greener grass, o’er hedge-rose, may, and broom,

      And all that make East England’s field-perfume

      Dearer than any fragrance Persia knows.

      Hear us, ye winds, North, East, and West, and South!

      This granite covers him whose golden mouth

      Made wiser ev’n the Word of Wisdom’s King:

      Blow softly over Omar’s Western herald

      Till roses rich of Omar’s dust shall spring

      From richer dust of Suffolk’s rare FitzGerald.

      The mightiest Titan’s stroke could not withstand

      An ebbing tide like this. These swirls denote

      How wind and tide conspire. I can but float

      To the open sea and strike no more for land.

      Farewell, brown cliffs, farewell, beloved sand

      Her feet have pressed – farewell, dear little boat

      Where Gelert, 9 calmly sitting on my coat,

      Unconscious of my peril, gazes bland!

      All dangers grip me save the deadliest, fear:

      Yet these air-pictures of the past that glide —

      These death-mirages o’er the heaving tide —

      Showing two lovers in an alcove clear,

      Will break my heart. I see them and I hear

      As there they sit at morning, side by side.

      With Raxton elms behind – in front the sea,

         Sitting in rosy light in that alcove,

         They hear the first lark rise o’er Raxton Grove;

      ‘What should I do with fame, dear heart?’ says he.

      ‘You talk of fame, poetic fame, to me

         Whose crown is not of laurel but of love—

         To me who would not give this little glove

      On this dear hand for Shakspeare’s dower in fee.

      While, rising red and kindling every billow,

         The sun’s shield shines ’neath many a golden spear,

      To lean with you against this leafy pillow,

         To murmur words of love in this loved ear—

      To feel you bending like a bending willow,

         This is to be a poet—this, my dear!’

      O God, to die and leave her – die and leave

      The heaven so lately won! – And then, to know

      What misery will be hers – what lonely woe! —

      To see the bright eyes weep, to see her grieve

      Will make me a coward as I sink, and cleave

      To life though Destiny has bid me go.

      How shall I bear the pictures that will glow

      Above the glowing billows as they heave?

      One picture fades, and now above the spray

      Another shines: ah, do I know the bowers

      Where that sweet woman stands – the woodland flowers,

      In that bright wreath of grass and new-mown hay —

      That birthday wreath I wove when earthly hours

      Wore angel-wings, – till portents brought dismay?

      Proud of her wreath as laureate of his laurel,

         She smiles on him—on him, the prouder giver,

         As there they stand beside the sunlit river

      Where petals flush with rose the grass and sorrel:

      The chirping reed-birds, in their play or quarrel,

         Make musical the stream where lilies quiver—

         Ah! suddenly he feels her slim waist shiver:

      She speaks: her lips grow grey—her lips of coral!

      ‘From out my wreath two heart-shaped seeds are swaying,

         The seeds of which that gypsy girl has spoken—

         ’Tis fairy grass, alas! the lover’s token.’

      She lifts her fingers to her forehead, saying,

         ‘Touch the twin hearts.’  Says he, ‘’Tis idle playing’:

         He touches them; they fall—fall bruised and broken.

      Shall I turn coward СКАЧАТЬ