Eugene Lee-Hamilton

1845-1907

 

I regret to say that I don't know too much about this poet. He was a late Victorian and some of this age is evident in his poetry. I understand that he was an invalid and was bedridden for the greater part of his life. This too may evidence itself in his poetry.

This first, my favourite, is a reflection on mortality.

 

Wood Song

When we are gone, love,

Gone as the breeze,

Woods will be sweet, love,

Even as these.

Sunflecks will dance, love,

Even as now,

Here on the moss,love,

Under the bough.

Others unborn, love,

Maybe will sit

Here in the wood, love,

Leafily lit;

Hearking as now. love,

Treble of birds;

Breathing as we, love,

Wondering words.

Others will sigh, love,

Even as we:

'Only a day, love,'

Murmurs the bee.

 

In reading this next poem, recall that the poet was 'shackled' to his bed.

The Eagles of Tiberius

They say at Capri that Tiberius bound
      His slaves to eagles, ere he had them flung
      In the abysses, from the rocks that hung
Beetling above the sea and the sea's sound.

Slowly the eagle, struggling round and round
      With the gagged slave that from his talons swung,
      Sank through the air, to which he fiercely clung,
Until the sea caught both, and both were drowned.

O Eagle of the Spirit, hold thy own;
      Work thy great wings, and grapple to the sky;
Let not this shackled body drag thee down.

Into that stagnant sea where by-and-by,
      The ethereal and the clayey both must drown,
Bound by a link that neither can untie!

 

The Death of Puck

    i

I fear that Puck is dead, — it is so long
   Since men last saw him;— dead with all the rest
   Of that sweet elfin crew that made their nest
In hollow nuts, where hazels sing their song;
Dead and for ever, like the antique throng
   The elves replaced: the Dryad that you guess'd
   Behind the leaves; the Naiad weed-bedress'd
The leaf-ear'd Faun that loved to lead you wrong.

Tell me, thou hopping Robin, hast thou met
   A little man, no bigger than thyself,
Whom they call Puck, where woodland bells are wet?
   Tell me, thou Wood-Mouse, hast thou seen an elf
Whom they call Puck, and is he seated yet,
   Capp'd with a snail-shell, on his mushroom shelf?

    ii

The Robin gave three hops, and chirp'd, and said:
  'Yes, I knew Puck, and loved him; though I trow
   He mimick'd oft my whistle, chuckling low;
Yes I knew cousin Puck; but he is dead
We found him lying on his mushroom bed —
   The Wren and I,— half covr'd up with snow,
   As we were hopping where the berries grow,
We think he died of cold. Ay, Puck is fled.'

And then the Wood-Mouse said: 'We made the Mole
   Dig him a little grave beneath the moss,
And four big Dormice placed him in the hole.
   The Squirrel made with sticks a little cross;
Puck was a Christian elf, and had a soul;
   And all we velvet jackets mourn his loss.

 

Among the Firs

And what a charm is in the rich hot scent
Of old fir forests heated by the sun,
Where drops of resin down the rough bark run,
And needle litter breathes its wonderment.

The old fir forest heated by the sun,
Their thought shall linger like the lingering scent,
Their beauty haunt us, and a wonderment
Of moss, of fern, of cones, of rills that run.

The needle litter breathes a wonderment;
The crimson crans are sparkling in the sun;
From tree to tree the scampering squirrels run;
The hum of insects blends with heat and scent.

The drops of resin down the rough bark run;
And riper, ever riper, grows the scent;
But eve has come, to end the wonderment,
And slowly up the tree trunk climbs the sun.

 

Idle Charon

The shores of Styx are lone for evermore,
   And not one shadowy form upon the steep
   Looms through the dusk, as far as eyes can sweep
To call the ferry over as of yore;
But tintless rushes, all about the shore,
   Have hemm'd the old boat in, where, lock'd in sleep,
   Hoar-bearded Charon lies; while pale weeds creep
With tightening grasp all round the unused oar.

For in the world of Life strange rumours run
   That now the Soul departs not with the breath,
But that the Body and Soul are one;
   And in the loved one's mouth, now, after death,
The widow puts no obol, nor the son,
   To pay the ferry in the world beneath.

 

What the Sonnet is

Fourteen small broider'd berries on the hem
   Of Circe's mantle, each of magic gold;
   Fourteen of lone Calypso's tears that roll'd
Into the sea, for pearls to come to them;
Fourteen clear signs of omen in the gem
   With which Medea human fate foretold;
   Fourteen small drops, which Faustus, growing old,
Craved of the fiend, to water Life's dry stem.
It is to the pure white diamond Dante brought
   To Beatrice; the sapphire Laura wore
When Petrarch cut it sparkling out of thought;
   The ruby Shakespeare hew'd from his heart's core;
The dark deep emerald that Rossetti wrought
   For his own soul, to wear for evermore.

 

Sunken Gold

In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships;
   And gold doubloons, that from the drowned hand fell,
   Lie nestled in the ocean-flower's bell
With love's old gifts, once kissed by long-drowned lips;
And round some wrought gold cup the sea-grass whips,
   And hides lost pearls, near pearls still in their shell,
   Where sea-weed forests fill each ocean dell
And seek dim sunlight with their restless tips.
So lie the wasted gifts, the long-lost hopes
   Beneath the now hushed surface of myself,
In lonelier depths than where the diver gropes;
   They lie deep, deep; but I at times behold
In doubtful glimpses, on some reefy shelf
The gleam of irrecoverable gold.

 

Noon's Dream-Song

The day is long; the worn Noon dreams.
He shifts in vain, to ease his pain,
And through what seems, he hears a song:

A forest song, whose high note seems
To tell of pain, endured in vain,
And fills his dreams with things lost long.

A dead love seems to thrill that song;
Hope nursed in vain, years passed in pain,
Leaves fallen long, a tide that dreams.

Then, as he dreams, the shades grow long;
And, in his pain, he moans in vain,
While fades the song of what but seems.