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'mid the crown of the deeds thou

hast done; And the roses spring up by thy feet that

the rocks of the wilderness wore. Ah! when thy Balder comes back and

we gather the gains he hath won, Shall we not linger a little to talk of thy

sweetness of old, Yea, turn back awhile to thy travail

whence the gods stood aloof to behold ?


In that great sorrow of thy children

dead That vexed the brow, and bowed adown

the head, Whitened the hair, made life a won

drous 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.




() MUSE that swayest the sad Northern

Song, Thy right hand full of smiting and of

wrong, Thy left hand holding pity; and thy

breast Heaving with hope of that so certain

rest: Thou, with the gray eyes kind and un

afraid, The soft lips trembling not, though they

have said The doom of the World and those that

dwell therein. The lips that smile not though thy

children win The fated Love that draws the fated

Death. 0, borne adown the fresh stream of thy

breath, Let some word reach my ears and touch

my heart, That, if it may be, I may have a part

Lo, when we wade the tangled wool, In haste and hurry to be there, Nought seem its leaves and blossoms

good, For all that they be fashioned fair. But looking up, at last we see The glimmer of the open light, From o'er the place where we would be: Then grow the very brambles bright. So now, amidst our day of strife, With many a matter glad we play, When once we see the light of life Gleam through the tangle of to-day.


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The first * collected edition of Swinburne, in 12 volumes, is now being blished (1904), and is issued in America by Harper & Bros. The best itions of single works are published by Chatto & Windus, London. There e many cheap American reprints of the poems, none of them complete.


See the International Encyclopædia, etc.; Wratislaw (T.), Algernon harles Swinburne, a Study, 1900 (English Writers of To-day); and the iographical references under Rossetti and Morris.


Adams (Francis), Essays in Modernity: The Poetry and Criticism of Ir. Swinburne. AUSTIN (A.), Poetry of the Period. BUCHANAN (R.), The Fleshly School of Poetry, 1871. COURTNEY (W. L.), Studies New and Dld. FORMAN (H. B.), Our Living Poets. * GOSSE (E.) in The Century Jagazine, Vol. XLII, p. 101, May, 1902. HALLARD (J. H.), Gallica and

p sther Essays. LOWELL (J. R). My Study Windows : Swinburne’s Trasedies. 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, 1887. 55



A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER When the ranks that are thin shall be 1852


When the names that were twenty Push hard across the sand,

are ten; For the salt wind gathers breath; Shoulder and wrist and hand,

When the devil's riddle is mastered Push hard as the push of death.

And the galley-bench creaks with a

Pope, The wind is as iron that rings,

We shall see Buonaparte the bastard The foam-beads loosen and flee ;

Kick heels with his throat in a rope. It swells and welters and swings, The pulse of the tide of the sea.

While the shepherd sets wolves on his And up on the yellow cliff

sheep The long corn flickers and shakes ;

And the emperor halters his Kine,

While Shame is a watchman asleep Push, for the wind holds stiff, And the gunwale dips and rakes.

And Faith is a keeper of swine. Good hap to the fresh fierce weather,

Let the wind shake our flag like a The quiver and beat of the sea !

feather, While three men hold together

Like the plumes of the foam of the The kingdoms are less by three.


While three men hold together, Out to the sea with her there,

The kingdoms are less by three. Out with her over the sand, Let the kings keep the earth for their All the world has its burdens to bear, share !

From Cayenne to the Austrian We have done with the sharers of

whips ; land.

Forth, with the rain in our hair

And the salt sweet foam in our lips : They have tied the world in a tether,

They have bought over God with a In the teeth of the hard glad weather, fee ;

In the blown wet face of the sea ; While three men hold together,

While three men hold together, The kingdoms are less by three.

The kingdoms are less by three.

1862. We have done with the kisses that sting,

The thief's mouth red from the feast, CHORUSES FROM ATALANTA IN The blood on the hands of the king,

CALYDON And the lie at the lips of the priest.

THE YOUTH OF THE YEAR Will they tie the winds in a tether,

Put a bit in the jaws of the sea ? WHEN the hounds of spring are on While three men hold together,

winter's traces, The kingdoms are less by three. The mother of months in meadow or

plain Let our flag run out straight in the wind! Fills the shadows and windy places The old red shall be floated again With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;

nd the browu bright nightingale amor


The Mænad and the Bassarid ; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in

sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair

Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes ; The wild vine slipping down leaves

bare Her

bright breast shortening into

sighs ; The wild vine slips with the weight of

its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that

scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that



half assuaged for Itylus, or the Thracian ships and the foreign

faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. ome with bows bent and with emptying

of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light, ith a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamor of waters, and with

might; ind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, ver the splendor and speed of thy feet ; or the faint east quickens, the wan

west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet

of the night. Vhere shall we find her, how shall we

sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees, and

cling? > that man's heart were as fire and could

spring to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams

that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her Is raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; For the risen stars and the fallen cling

to her, And the southwest-wind and the west

wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that

wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes,

Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year

flushes From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut

root. And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with de


Before the beginning of years,

There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears ;

Grief, with a glass that ran ; Pleasure, with pain for leaven ;

Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from heaven,

And madness risen from hell ; Strength without hands to smite;

Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light,

And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand

Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand

From under the feet of the years ; And froth and drift of the sea ;

And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth ; And wrought with weeping and laughter

And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after

And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a

span With travail and heavy sorrow,

The holy spirit of man.


From the winds of the north and the

south hey gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth,

They filled his body with life;

Eyesight and speech they wrought

For the veils of the soul therein, A time for labor and thought,

A time to serve and to sin; They gave him light in his ways,

And love, and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days,

And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire :

With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire,

In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision;

Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision

Between a sleep and a sleep.


We have seen thee, O Love, thou art

fair ; thou art goodly, O Love ; Thy wings make light in the air as the

wings of a dove. Thy feet are as winds that divide the

stream of the sea ; Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the

garment of thee. Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a

flame of fire; Before thee the laughter, behind thee the

tears of desire ; And twain go forth beside thee, a man

with a maid ; Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom

delight makes afraid ; As the breath in the buds that stir is her

bridal breath: But Fate is the name of her ; and his

name is Death.

Pale as grass or latter flowers,
Or the wild vine's wan wet rings
Full of dew beneath the moon,
And all day the nightingale
Sleeps, and all night sings;
There in cold remote recesses
That nor alien eyes assail,
Feet, nor imminence of wings,
Nor a wind nor any tune,
Thou, O queen and holiest,
Flower the whitest of all things,
With reluctant lengthening tresses
And with sudden splendid breast
Save of maidens unbeholden,
There art wont to enter, there
Thy divine swift limbs and golden
Maiden growth of unbound hair,
Bathed in waters white,
Shine, and many a maid's by thee
In moist woodland or the hilly
Flowerless brakes where wells a bound
Out of all men's sight;
Or in lower pools that see
All their marges clothed all round
With the innumerable lily,
Whence the golden-girdled bee
Flits through fowering rush to fret
White or duskier violet,
Fair as those that in far years
With their buds left luminous
And their little leaves made wet
From the warmer dew of tears,
Mother's tears in extreme need,
Hid the limbs of Iamus,
Of thy brother's seed ;
For his heart was piteous
Toward him, even as thine heart now
Pitiful toward us;
Thine, O goddess, turning hither
A benignant blameless brow ;
Seeing enough of evil done
And lives withered as leaves wither
In the blasting of the sun ;
Seeing enough of hunters dead,
Ruin enough of all our year,
Herds and harvest slain and shed,
Herdsmen stricken many an one,
Fruits and flocks consumed together,
And great length of deadly days.
Yet with reverent lips and fear
Turn we toward thee, turn and praise
For this lightening of clear weather
And prosperities begun.
For not seldom, when all air
As bright water without breath
Shines, and when men fear not, fate
Without thunder unaware
Breaks, and brings down death.
Joy with grief ye great gous give,


O that I now, I too were
By deep wells and water-floods,
Streams of ancient hills, and where
All the wan green places bear
Blossoms cleaving to the sod,
Fruitless fruit, and grasses fair,
Or such darkest ivy-buds
As divide thy yellow hair,
Bacchus, and their leaves that nod
Round thy fawnskin brush the bare
Snow-soft shoulders of a god ;
There the year is sweet, and there
Earth is full of secret springs,
And the ferrent rose-cheeked hours,
Those that inarry dawn and noon,
There are sunless, there look pale
In dim leaves and hidden air,

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