And the painter's hand of wonder; and the marvelous fiddle-bow, And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know. For all these shall be ours and all men's; nor shall any lack a share Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair. Ah! such are the days that shall be! But what are the deeds of to-day, In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away? Why, then, and for what are we waiting? There are three words to speak: WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and weak? O why and for what are we waiting? while our brothers droop and die, And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by. How long shall they reproach us where crowd on crowd they dwell, Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the goldcrushed, hungry hell? Through squalid life they labored, in sordid grief they died, Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride. They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse; But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse? It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door For the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor. Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned discontent, We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent. Come, then, since all things call us, the living and the dead, And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed. Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest, For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best. Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail, Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail. Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know: That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and forth the Banners go. 1885. THE DAYS THAT WERE (MOTTO OF THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS) And see the ancient glimmer burn THE DAY OF DAYS 1889. EACH eve earth falleth down the dark, Gray grows the dawn while men-folk sleep, Unseen spreads on the light, Till the thrush sings to the colored things, And earth forgets the night. No otherwise wends on our Hope: Are fair lives lost, and all the cost We've toiled and failed; we spake the word; None harkened; dumb we lie; THE BURGHERS' BATTLE THICK rise the spear-shafts o'er the land That erst the harvest bore; The sword is heavy in the hand, And we return no more. The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox, And ripples in the Running Ox, And we return no more. Across our stubble acres now The teams go four and four; But out-worn elders guide the plough, And now the women heavy-eyed From gazing down the highway wide, The shadows of the fruited close There lie our dogs and dream and doze, Down from the minster tower to-day But underneath the streets are still; Back go the goodwives o'er the hill; What merchant to our gates shall come? What mayor shall rule the hall we built? Now we return no more? New houses in the streets shall rise Of other stone wrought otherwise; And crops shall cover field and hill Look up! the arrows streak the sky, The long spears lower and draw nigh, Lo from our loitering ship a new land at last to be seen; Toothed rocks down the side of the firth on the east guard a weary wide lea, And black slope the hill-sides above, striped adown with their desolate green: And a peak rises up on the west from the meeting of cloud and of sea, Foursquare from base unto point like the building of Gods that have been, The last of that waste of the mountains all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked and gray, And bright with the dawn that began just now at the ending of day. Ah! what came we forth for to see that our hearts are so hot with desire? Is it enough for our rest the sight of this desolate strand, And the mountain-waste voiceless as death but for winds that may sleep not nor tire? Why do we long to wend forth through the length and breadth of a land, Dreadful with grinding of ice, and record of scarce hidden fire, But that there 'mid the gray grassy dales sore scarred by the ruining streams Lives the tale of the Northland of old and the undying glory of dreams? O land, as some cave by the sea where the treasures of old have been laid, The sword it may be of a king whose name was the turning of fight; Or the staff of some wise of the world that many things made and unmade. Or the ring of a woman maybe whose woe is grown wealth and delight. No wheat and no wine grows above it, no orchard for blossom and shade; The few ships that sail by its blackness but deem it the mouth of a grave; Yet sure when the world shall awaken, this too shall be mighty to save. Or rather, O land, if a marvel it seemeth that men ever sought Thy wastes for a field and a garden fulfilled of all wonder and doubt, And feasted amidst of the winter when the fight of the year had been fought, Whose plunder all gathered together was little to babble about: Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land, Not for this nor for that was I wrought Amid waning of realms and of riches and death of things worshipped and sure, I abide here the spouse of a God, and I made and I make and endure." O Queen of the grief without knowledge, of the courage that may not avail, Of the longing that may not attain, of the love that shall never forget, More joy than the gladness of laughter thy voice hath amidst of its wail: More hope than of pleasure fulfilled amidst of thy blindness is set : More glorious than gaining of all, thine unfaltering hand that shall fail: For what is the mark on thy brow but the brand that thy Brynhild doth bear? Lone once, and loved and undone by a love that no ages outwear. Ah! when thy Balder comes back, and bears from the heart of the Sun, Peace and the healing of pain, and the wisdom that waiteth no more; And the lilies are laid on thy brow In that great sorrow of thy children dead That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head, Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream, And death the murmur of a restful stream, But left no stain upon those souls of thine Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine. O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one, Come thou; for sure I am enough alone That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw, And wrap me in the grief of long ago. 1891. DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT Lo, when we wade the tangled wood, For all that they be fashioned fair. But looking up, at last we see So now, amidst our day of strife, 1891. SWINBURNE LIST OF REFERENCES EDITIONS The first collected edition of Swinburne, in 12 volumes, is now being published (1904), and is issued in America by Harper & Bros. The best editions of single works are published by Chatto & Windus, London. There are many cheap American reprints of the poems, none of them complete. BIOGRAPHY See the International Encyclopædia, etc.; WRATISLAW (T.), Algernon Charles Swinburne, a Study, 1900 (English Writers of To-day); and the biographical references under Rossetti and Morris. CRITICISM ADAMS (Francis), Essays in Modernity: The Poetry and Criticism of Mr. Swinburne. AUSTIN (A.), Poetry of the Period. BUCHANAN (R.), The Fleshly School of Poetry, 1871. COURTNEY (W. L.), Studies New and Old. FORMAN (H. B.), Our Living Poets. * GOSSE (E.) in The Century Magazine, Vol. XLII, p. 101, May, 1902. HALLARD (J. H.), Gallica and other Essays. LOWELL (J. R). My Study Windows: Swinburne's Tragedies. OLIPHANT (Margaret), Victorian Age of Literature. PATMORE (C.), Principle in Art. PAYNE (W. M.), in Warner's Library of the World's Best Literature. ROSSETTI (W. M.), Swinburne's Poems and Ballads: A Criticism, 1866. SAINTSBURY (G.), Corrected Impressions. SHARP (W.), In Pall Mall Magazine, Vol. XXV, p. 25, December, 1901. * STEDMAN (E. C.), Victorian Poets. SWINBURNE, Notes on Poems and Reviews (a reply to the early criticisms of Poems and Ballads, first series), 1866. SWINBURNE, Under the Microscope (a reply to Buchanan), 1872. WOLLAEGER, Studien über Swinburne's poetischen Stil. WRATISLAW (T.), Algernon Charles Swinburne (English Writers of To-day). CHENEY (J. V.), Golden Guess. DAWSON (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. FRANKE (W.), Algernon Charles Swinburne als Dramatiker. FRISWELL (J. H.), Modern Men of Letters honestly Criticized. SARRAZIN (G.), Poètes modernes de l'Angleterre. ScUDDER (V. D.), Life of the Spirit. BIBLIOGRAPHY NICOLL (W. R.) and WISE (T. J.), in Literary Anecdotes of the Nineteenth Century. * SHEPHERD (R. H.), The Bibliography of Swinburne, |