The Triumph of Music, and Other Lyrics. Cawein Madison Julius

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      I had flung in my song the emotion

      Triumphant of heart and of soul,

      And I recked not the passionate ocean

      That rolled to abysses of dole,

      To infinite torture and dole.

      So I sang and I harped till all weary

      I sunk on the red of that robe,

      Crouched down at his feet on the satin,

      While he slumbered with eyelashes teary

      Fringed dark o'er each eye-ball's dark globe.

      Then I wondered and said, "It is dreary

      To see him so still on this robe."

      And I sobbed and I sobbed, "Is he living,

      Or have I but slain with my song!"

      And it seemed that a demon was striving

      To strangle my heart with a thong,

      With terror and sorrow of wrong.

      And I rent the wild harp in my madness,

      From his ashen brows furrowed the hair;

      Soft wafted dark curls from pale temples —

      They rustled with death – and the sadness

      Of his face so hopelessly fair!

      How I wailed to the stars of the heaven

      How they scoffed at and answered my grief

      In letters of flame, "Unforgiven!

      Thou deathless, whose voice is a thief,

      Forever and ever grief!"

      So I wept on the instrument broken,

      The instrument sweet of his death,

      The dagger that stabbed not to kill him,

      The dagger of song which had spoken,

      And ravished away his life's breath.

      So I wept, and my curls thick and golden

      Stormed entangled and showered 'mid his;

      My arms around him were enfolden,

      My lips clave to his with a kiss,

      With the life and the love of a kiss.

      When the season was dry and the sun was hot

      And the hornet sucked gaunt on the apricot,

      And the ripe peach dropped to its seed a-rot,

      With a lean red wasp that stung and clung;

      When the hollyhocks, ranked in the garden-plot,

      More seed-pods had than blossoms, I wot,

      A weariness weighed on the tongue,

      That the drought of the season begot.

      When the black grape bulged with the juice that burst

      Through its thick blue skin that was cracked with thirst,

      And the round gold pippins, the summer had nursed,

      In the yellowing leaves o' the orchards hung;

      When the reapers, their lips with whistling pursed,

      To their sun-tanned brows in the corn were immersed,

      A lightness came over the tongue,

      And one sung as much as one durst.

      When the skies of December gray dripped and dripped,

      And icicles eaves of the big barn tipped,

      And loud hens flew over the snow or slipped,

      And the north wind hooted and bit and stung,

      And the ears of the milkmaid, Miriam, nipped,

      And the chappy cheeks of the farm boy whipped,

      A goddess unloosened the tongue,

      And one's mouth with wild honey was lipped.

      The dim verbena drugs the dusk

      With heavy lemon odors rare;

      Wan heliotropes Arabian musk

      Exhale into the dreamy air;

      A sad wind with long wooing husk

      Swoons in the roses there.

      The jasmine at thy casement flings

      Star-censers oozing rich perfumes;

      The clematis, long petaled, swings

      Deep clusters of dark purple blooms;

      With flowers like moons or sylphide wings

      Magnolias light the glooms.

      Awake, awake from sleep!

      Thy balmy hair,

      Unbounden deep on deep,

      Than blossoms fair,

      Who sweetest fragrance weep,

      Will fill the night with prayer.

      Awake, awake from sleep!

      And dreaming here it seems to me

      Some dryad's bosoms grow confessed

      Nude in the dark magnolia tree,

      That rustles with the murmurous West, —

      Or is it but a dream of thee

      That thy white beauty guessed?

      In southern heavens above are rolled

      A million feverish gems, which burst

      From night's deep ebon caskets old,

      With inner fires that seem to thirst;

      Tall oleanders to their gold

      Drift buds where dews are nursed.

      Unseal, unseal thine eyes,

      Where long her rod

      Queen Mab sways o'er their skies

      In realms of Nod!

      Confessed, such majesties

      Will fill the night with God.

      Unseal, unseal thine eyes!

      Haunter of green intricacies,

      Where the sunlight's amber laces

      Deeps of darkest violet;

      Where the ugly Satyr chases

      Shining Dryads, fair as Graces,

      Whose lithe limbs with dew are wet;

      Piper in hid mountain places,

      Where the blue-eyed Oread braces

      Winds which in her sweet cheeks set

      Of Aurora rosy traces,

      Whiles the Faun from myrtle mazes

      Watcheth with an eye of jet:

      What art thou and these dim races,

      Thou, O Pan! of many faces,

      Who art ruler yet?

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