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In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word

Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.


Of such is the kingdom of heaven.

No glory that ever was shed
From the crowning star of the seven

That crown the north world 'a head,

No word that ever was spoken

Of human or godlike tongue, Gave ever such godlike token

Since human harps were strung.

No sign that ever was given

To faithful or faithless eyes Showed ever beyond clouds riven

So clear a Paradise.

Earth's creeds may be seventy times seven
And blood have defiled each creed:

If of such be the kingdom of heaven,
It must be heaven indeed.


All the bells of heaven may ring,
All the birds of heaven may sing,
All the wells on earth may spring,
All the winds on earth may bring

All sweet sounds together;
Sweeter far than all things heard,
Hand of harper, tone of bird,
Sound of woods at sun dawn stirr'd,
Welling water's winsome word,

Wind in warm wan weather,

One thing yet there is, that none
Hearing ere its chime be done
Knows not well the sweetest one
Heard of man beneath the sun,

Hoped in heaven hereafter;
Soft and strong and loud and light,
Very sound of very light
Heard from morning's rosiest height.
When the soul of all delight

Kills a child's clear laughter.

Golden bells of welcome roll'd
Never forth such notes, nor told

* h'envoi. or "the despatch," was the name for-
merly given to the closing lines of a ballade.!
containing an address to some prince, or I
poet's patron; see The Compleynt of Chaucer
to his Purae, p. 62. In modern imitations,
this address can he only a formula and Is
frequently omitted, the envoi being merely a
summary, or an appended stanza completing
the metrical scheme.

Hours so blithe in tones so bold,
As the radiant mouth of gold

Here that rings forth heaven.
If the golden-crested wren
Were a nightingale—why, then
Something seen and heard of men
Might be half as sweet as when
Laughs a child of seven.


A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.

Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.

Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.


The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feetf

A rose in June's most honied heat,
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.

Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen complete
Since mother's hands first clasped and shod
The little feet.


The little hands that never sought
Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands,
What gift has death, God's servant, brought
The little hands!

We ask: but love's self silent stands,
Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought
To search where death's dim heaven expands.

Ere this, perchance, though love knew nought,
[•'lowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands,
Where hands of guiding angels caught
The little hands.

j * From A Century of Roundel*. Of the poem
here given in part there are seven sections,
each In the form of a roundel with regularly
recurring refrain. The last throe sections,
however, vary in length of line, and heinp of
a personal nature detract from the universal
I appeal of the first four.


The little eyes that never knew
Light other than of dawning skies,
What new life now lights up anew
The little eyes!

Who knows but on their sleep may rise
Such light as never heaven let through
To lighten earth from Paradise?

No storm, we know, may change the blue
Soft heaven that haply death descries;
No tears, like these in ours, bedew
The little eyes.


Prelude. Tristram And Iseult

Love, that is first and last of all things made,
The light that has the living world for shade,
The spirit that for temporal veil has on
The souls of all men woven in unison,
One fiery raiment with all lives inwrought
And lights of sunny and starry deed and

And alway through new act and passion new Shines the divine same body and beauty through,

The body spiritual of fire and light
That is to worldly noon as noon to night; 10
Love, that is flesh upon the spirit of man
And spirit within the flesh whence breath be-

Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime;
Love, that is blood within the veins of time;
That wrought the whole world without stroke of

Shaping the breadth of sea, the length of land, And with the pulse and motion of his breath Through the great heart of the earth strikes life and death,

The sweet twain chords that make the sweet tune live

Through day and night of things alternative, 20 Through silence and through sound of stress and strife,

t In the long lyrical epic thus named. Swinburne tells again the story of Tristram and Iseult, which shares with that of Siegfried and Brunhild the distinction of being one of the greatest love stories of the world. "The world of Swinburne," says Professor Woodberry, "Is well symbolized by that Zodiac of the burning signs of love that he named In the prelude to Tristram of Lyonemc,—the signs of Helen, Hero, Alcyone. Iseult. Rosamond, Dido. Juliet, Cleopatra, Francesca, Thlsbe, Angelica. Guenevere: under the hoavens of these starry names the poet moves In his place apart and sees bis visions of woe and wrath and weaves his dream of the loves and the fates of men."

And ebb and flow of dying death and life; Love, that sounds loud or light in all men's ears,

Whence all men's eyes take fire from sparks of tears,

That binds on all men's feet or chains or wings; Love, that is root and fruit of terrene things; Love, that the whole world's waters shall not drown,

The whole world's fiery forces not burn down; Love, that what time his own hands guard his head

The whole world's wrath and strength shall not strike dead; 30 Love, that if once his own hands make his grave The whole world's pity and sorrow shall not save;

Love, that for very life shall not be sold,
Nor bought nor bound with iron nor with gold;
So strong that heaven, could love bid heaven

Would turn to fruitless and unflowering hell;
So sweet that hell, to hell could love be given,
Would turn to splendid and sonorous heaven;
Love that is fire within thee and light above,
And lives by grace of nothing but of love; *0
Through many and lovely thoughts and much

Led these twain to the life of tears and fire; Through many and lovely days and much delight

Led these twain to the lifeless life of night.

Yea, but what then! albeit all this were thus,
And soul smote soul and left it ruinous,
And love led love as eyeless men lead men,
Through chance by chance to deathward—Ah,
what then?

Hath love not likewise led them further yet,
Out through the years where memories rise and

set, 50 Some large as suns, some moon-like warm ami


Some starry-sighted, some through clouds that sail

Seen as red flame through spectral float of fume,

Each with the blush of its own special bloom
On the fair face of its own coloured light,
Distinguishable in all the host of night,
Divisible from all the radiant rest
And separable in splendour? Hath the best
Light of love's all, of all that burn and move,
A better heaven than heaven is? Hath not
love 60
Made for all these their sweet particular air
To shine in, their own beams and names to bear,
Their ways to wander and their wards to keep,

Till story and song and glory and all things sleep?

Hath he not plucked from death of lovers dead
Their musical soft memories, and kept red
The rose of their remembrance in men's eyes,
The sunsets of their stories in his skies,
The blush of their dead blood in lips that speak
Of their dead lives, and in the listener's cheek
That trembles with the kindling pity lit "1
In gracious hearts for some sweet fever-fit,
A fiery pity enkindled of pure thought
By tales that make their honey out of nought,
The faithless faith that lives without belief
Its light life through, the griefless ghost of
grief f

Yea, as warm night refashions the sere blood
In storm-struck petal or in sun-struck bud,
With tender hours and tempering dew to cure
The hunger and thirst of day's distemperahire
And ravin of the dry discolouring hours, 81
Hath he not bid relume their flameless flowers
With summer fire and heat of lamping song
And bid the short-lived things, long dead, live

And thought remake their wan funereal fames,
And the sweet shining signs of women's names,
That mark the months out and the weeks anew
He moves in changeless change of seasons

To fill the days up of his dateless year,
Flame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere?
For first of all the sphery signs whereby 91
Love severs light from darkness, and most high,
In the white front of January there glows
The rose-red sign of Helen like a rose:'
And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterless
Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitter-

A storm-star that the seafarers of love
Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of,
Shoots keen through February's grey frost and

The lamp-like star of Hero for a lamp; 100
The star that Marlowe2 sang into our skies
With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes;
And in clear March across the rough blue sea
The signal sapphire of Alcyone^
Makes bright the blown brows of the wind-foot

And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tear
Full ere it fall, the fair next sign in sight
Burns opal-wise with April-coloured light
When air is quick with song and rain and flame,
My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath
name 110

1 Homer: The Iliad.

2 In hi* Hero and Lcander.

3 Ovid's Metamorphoses, xl.

Iseult,4 a light of blossom and beam and shower,

My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower;

Next like a pale and burning pearl beyond The rose-white sphere of flower-named Rosamond5

Signs the sweet head of Maytime; and for June Flares like an angered and storm-reddening moon

Her signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyre
Shadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire;0
Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-

A star south-risen that first to music shone, 1-0
The keen girl-star of golden Juliet' bears
Light northward to the month whose forehead

Her name for flower upon it, and his trees
Mix their deep English song with Veronese;
And like an awful sovereign chrysolite
Burning, the supreme fire that blinds the night,
The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars,
A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of

The light of Cleopatra8 fills and burns

The hollow of heaven whence ardent August

yearns; 130 And fixed and shining as the sister-shed Sweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead,» The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured


That through September sees the saddening year

As love sees change through sorrow, hath to name

Francesca's; and the star that watches flame
The embers of the harvest overgone
Is Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon,1"
Set in the golden girdle of sweet signs
A blood-bright ruby; last save one light shines
An eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras, 141
The star that made men mad, Angelica's;11
And latest named and lordliest, with a sound

< Her story has been told by Malory. Tennyson

(Idylls of the King. "The Last Tournament"),

Arnold, Wagner, etc. 5 The "Fair Rosamond" of Henry II. See Scott's

The Talisman and Woodstock. a Virgil: Aeneid, Iv.

< Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet.

8 Shakespeare: Antony and Cleopatra.

v Alluding to the story that after I'haethon's fatal fall with the chariot of the sun, his sisters, the Ileliades, mourned for him until they were changed Into poplars and their tears into amber. The story of Paolo and Francesca is immortalized in Dante's Inferno.

10 Chaucer: Legend of Good Women (see p. CO).

11 Boiardo: Orlando Innamnrato; Ariosto: Orlando

Furioso. Angelica's coquetrv drove Orlando mad.

Of swords ami harps in heaven that ring it round,

Last love light and last love-song of the year's, (i learns like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.12 These are the signs wherethrough the year sees move,

I'ull of the sun, the sun-god which is love,
A fiery body blood-red from the heart
Outward, with fire-white wings made wide apart,
That close not and unclose not, but upright 151
Steered without wind by their own light anil

Sweep through the flameless fire of air that rings

From heaven to heaven with thunder of wheels and wings

And antiphones of motion-moulded rhyme Through spaces out of space aud timeless time. So shine above dead chance and conquered change

The sphered sipis, and leave without their range

Doubt and desire, and hope with fear for wife, Pale pains, ami pleasures long worn out of life. Yea, even the shadows of them spiritless, 161 Through the dim door of sleep that seem to press,

Forms without form, a piteous people and blind,

Men and no men, whose lamentable kind
The shadow of death and shadow of life compel ^
Through semblances of heaven and false-faced

Through dreams of light and dreams of darkness tost

On waves innavigable, are these so lost? Shapes that wax pale and shift in swift strange wise,

Void faces with unspeculative eyes, 170 Dim things that gaze and glare, dead mouths that move,

Featureless heads discrowned of hate and love, Mockeries and masks of motion and mute breath,

Leavings of life, the superflux of death—
If these things and no more than these things be
Left when man ends or changes, who can see?
Or who can say with what more subtle sense
Their subtler natures taste in air less dense
A life less thick and palpable than ours,
Warmed with faint fires and sweetened with
dead flowers 180
And measured by low music? how time fares
In that wan time-forgotten world of theirs,
Their pale poor world too deep for sun or stnr
To live in, where the eyes of Helen arc,

12 Cf. Mallory, Tennyson, etc.

And hers1" who made as Clod's own eyes to shine

The eyes that met them of the Florentine,
Wherein the godhead thence transfigured lit
All time for all men with the shadow of it;
Ah, and these too felt on them as God's grace
The pity and glory of this man's breathing

face; 190
Kor these too, these ray lovers, these my twain,
Saw Dinte,11 saw God visible by pain,
With lips that thundered and with feet that


Before men's eyes incognisable God;
Saw love anil wrath and light and night and fire
hive with one life and at one mouth respire,
And in one golden sound their whole soul heard
Sounding, one sweet immitigable word.

They have the night, who had like us the day;*

We, whom day binds, shall have the night as they. 200 We, from the fetters of the light unbound. Healed of our wound of living, shall sleep sound.

All gifts but one the jealous God may keep From our soul's longing, one he cannot—sleep. This, though he grudge all other grace to prayer.

This grace his closed hand cannot choose but spare.

This, though his ear be sealed to all that live,
Be it lightly given or lothly, God must give.
We, as the men whose name on earth is none,
We too shall surely pass out of the sun; 210
Out of the sound and eyeless light of things,
Wide as the stretch of life's time-wandering

Wide as the naked world and shadowless.
And long lived as the world's own weariness.
Us too, when all the fires of time are cold,
The heights shall hide us and the depths shall

Us too. when all the tears of time arc dry,
The night shall lighten from her tearless eye.
Blind is the day and eyeless all its light,
But the large unbewildered eye of night 220
Hath sense and speculation; and the sheer
Limitless length of lifeless life and clear,
The timeless space wherein the brief worlds

i.i Dante's Beatrice. M Inferno, v. 7.

* In this passage, with Its rapt contemplation and solemn music. Swinburne has surely attained to that "hlch seriousness" which Matthew Arnold regarded as the mark of the greatest poetry. A portion of it reads not unlike an expansion of I'araJlae Lo*1, Hook II, lines U!>. 150.

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Clothed with light life ami fruitful with light love,

With hopes that threaten, ami with fears that cease,

Past fear and hope, hath in it only peace. Yet of these lives inlaid with hopes and fears,

Spun fine as fire and jewelled thick with tears, These lives made out of loves that long since were,

Lives wrought as ours of earth and burning air, 230 Fugitive flame, and water of secret springs, And clothed with joys and sorrows as with wings.

Some yet are good, if aught be good, to save Some while from washing wreck and wrecking wave.

Was such not theirs, the twain I take, and give
Out of my life to make their dead life live
Some days of mine, and blow my living breath
Between dead lips forgotten even of death!
So many and many ere me have given my twain
Love and live song and honey-hearted pain, 240
Whose root is sweetness and whose fruit is

So many and with such joy have tracked their feet,

What should I do to follow} yet I too,
I have the heart to follow, many or few
Be the feet gone before me; for the way,
Rose-red with remnant roses of the day
Westward, and eastward white with stars that

Between the green and foam is fair to take

Kor any sail the sea-wind steers for me

From morning into morning, sea to sea. -»0

WALTER PATER (1839-1894)


As Florian Deleal walked, one hot afternoon, he overtook by the wayside a poor aged man, and, as he seemed weary with the road, helped him on with the burden which he carried, a certain distance. And as the man told his story, it chanced that he named the place, a little place in the neighbourhood of a great city, where Florian had passed his earliest years, J but which he had never since seen, and, the

* When originally published In 1878 this essay I was denominated an "Imaginary Portrait." | though tt is doubtless In some measure autobiographical. As an account of the development of an extremely sensitive ami impressionable youth, it holds a unique place in our literature. On Pater's philosophy ami style.: see Hii'j. Lit., p. 382.

story told,1 went forward on his journey comforted. And that night, like a reward for his pity, a dream of that place came to Florian, u dream which did for him the office of the finer sort of memory, bringing its object to mind with a great clearness, yet, as sometimes happens in dreams, raised a little above itself, ami above ordinary retrospect. The true aspect of the place, especially of the house there in which he had lived as a child, the fashion of its doors, its hearths, its windows, the very scent upon the air of it, was with him in sleep for a season; only, with tints more musically- blent on wall and floor, and some finer light and shadow running in and out along its curves ami angles, and with all its little carvings daintier. Ho awoke with a sigh at the thought of almost thirty years which lay between him and that place, yet with a flutter of pleasure still within him at the fair light, as if it were a smile, upon it. And it happened that this accident of his dream was just the thing needed for the beginning of a certain design he then had in view, the noting, namely, of-some things in the story of his spirit—in that process of brain-building by which we are, each one of us, what we are. With the image of the place so clear and favourable upon him, he fell to thinking of himself therein, and how his thoughts had grown up to him. In that half-spiritualised house he could watch the better, over again, the gradual expansion of the soul which had come to be there—of which indeed, through the law which makes the material objects about them so large an element in children's lives, it had actually become a part; inward and outward being woven through and through each other into one inextricable texture—half, tint and trace and accident of homely colour and form, from the wood and the bricks; half, merc^ soul-stuff, floated thither from who knows how far. In the house and garden of his dream he saw a child moving, and could divide the main streams at least of the winds that had played on him, and study so the first stage in that mental journey.

The old home, as when Florian talked of it afterwards he always called it, (as all children do, who can recollect a change of home, soon enough but not too soon to mark a period in their lives) really was an old house; and an clement of French descent in its inmates—

i Pater's fondness for participles partakes rather more of Latin than of English style. Note, too. the difficulty of resuming. In the close of this sentence, the grammatical subject of the beginning.

- harmoniously

pure, unmixed

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