The Age of a Dream

IMAGERIES of dreams reveal a gracious age:

Black armour, falling lace, and altar lights at morn.

The courtesy of saints, their gentleness and scorn,

Lights on an earth more fair, than shone from Plato's page:

The courtesy of knights, fair calm and sacred rage:

The courtesy of love, sorrow for love's sake borne.

Vanished, those high conceits! Desolate and forlorn,

We hunger against hope for the lost heritage.

Gone now, the cavern work! Ruined, the golden shrine!

No more the glorious organs pour their voice divine;

No more the frankincense drifts through the Holy Place:

Now from the broken tower, what solemn bell still tolls,

Mourning what piteous death? Answer, O saddened souls!

Who mourn the death of beauty and the death of grace.

Lionel Johnson

By the Statue of King Charles at Charing Cross

To William Watson

SOMBRE and rich, the skies,

Great glooms, and starry plains;

Gently the night wind sighs;

Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings

Around me: and around

The saddest of all kings,

Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides

Hard by his own Whitehall.

Only the night wind glides:

No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone too, his Court: and yet,

The stars his courtiers are:

Stars in their stations set;

And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone,

The fair and fatal King:

Dark night is all his own,

That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate:

The stars, or those sad eyes?

Which are more still and great:

Those brows, or the dark skies?

Although his whole heart yearn

In passionate tragedy,

Never was face so stern

with sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death

By beauty made amends:

The passing of his breath

Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless? Nay:

Through death, life grew sublime.

Speak after sentence? Yea:

And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head

Bare to the stars of doom;

He triumphs now, the dead,

Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints,

Vexed in the world's employ:

His soul was of the saints;

And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe!

Men hunger for thy grace:

And through the night I go,

loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps,

When all the cries are still,

The stars and heavenly deeps

Work out a perfect will.

Lionel Johnson

Dead

To Olivier Georges Destrée

IN Merioneth, over the sad moor

Drives the rain, the cold wind blows:

Past the ruinous church door,

The poor procession without music goes.

Lonely she wandered out her hour, and died.

Now the mournful curlew cries

Over her, laid down beside

Death's lonely people: lightly down she lies.

In Merioneth, the wind lives and wails,

On from hill to lonely hill:

Down the loud, triumphant gales,

A spirit cries Be strong! and cries Be still!

Lionel Johnson

Oxford

To Arthur Galton

OVER, the four long years! And now there rings

One voice of freedom and regret: Farewell!

Now old remembrance sorrows, and now sings:

But song from sorrow, now, I cannot tell.

City of weathered cloister and worn court;

Gray city of strong towers and clustering spires:

Where art's fresh loveliness would first resort;

Where lingering art kindled her latest fires.

Where on all hands, wondrous with ancient grace,

Grace touched with age, rise works of goodliest men:

Next Wykeham's art obtain their spendid place

The zeal of Inigo, the strength of Wren.

Where at each coign of every antique street,

A memory hath taken root in stone:

There, Raleigh shone; there, toil'd Franciscan feet;

There, Johnson flinch'd not, but endured alone.

There, Shelley dream'd his white Platonic dreams;

There, classic Landor throve on Roman thought;

There, Addison pursued his quiet themes;

There, smiled Erasmus, and there, Colet taught.

And there, O memory more sweet than all!

Lived he, whose eyes keep yet our passing light;

Whose crystal lips Athenian speech recall;

Who wears Rome's purple with least pride, most right.

That is the Oxford, strong to charm us yet:

Eternal in her beauty and her past.

What, though her soul be vexed? She can forget

Cares of an hour: only the great things last.

Only the gracious air, only the charm,

And ancient might of true hamanities:

These, nor assault of man, nor time, can harm;

Not these, nor Oxford with her memories.

Together have we walked with willing feet

Gardens of plenteous trees, bowering soft lawn:

Hills whither Arnold wandered; and all sweet

June meadows, from the troubling world withdrawn:

Chapels of cedarn fragrance, and rich gloom

Poured from empurpled panes on either hand:

Cool pavements, carved with legends of the tomb;

Grave haunts, where we might dream, and understand.

Over, the four long years! and unknown powers

Call to us, going forth upon our way:

Ah! turn we, and look back upon the towers,

That rose above our lives, and cheered the day.

Proud and serene, against the sky, they gleam:

Proud and secure, upon the earth, they stand:

Our city hat the air of a pure dream,

And hers indeed is an Hesperian land.

Think of her so! the wonderful, the fair,

The immemorial, and the ever young:

The city, sweet with our forefathers' care;

The city, where the Muses all have sung.

Ill times may be; she hath no thought of time:

She reigns beside the waters yet in pride.

Rude voices cry: but in her ears the chime

Of full, sad bells brings back her old springtide.

Like to a queen in pride of place, she wears

The splendour of a crown in Radcliffe's dome.

Well fare she, well! As perfect beauty fares;

And those high places, that are beauty's home.

Lionel Johnson

The Precept of Silence

I KNOW you: solitary griefs

Desolate passions, aching hours!

I know you: tremulous beliefs,

Agonized hopes, and ashen flowers!

The winds are sometimes sad to me,

The starry spaces, full of fear;

Mine is the sorrow on the sea,

And mine the sigh of places drear.

Some players upon plaintive strings

Publish their wistfulness abroad;

I have not spoken of these things,

Save to one man, and unto God.

Lionel Johnson

Bagley Wood

THE night is full of stars, full of magnificence:

Nightingales hold the wood, and fragrance loads the dark.

Behold, what fires august, what lights eternal! Hark,

What passionate music poured in passionate love's defence!

Breathe but the wafting wind's nocturnal frankincense!

Only to feel this night's great heart, only to mark

The splendours and the glooms, brings back the patriarch,

Who on Chaldean wastes found God through reverence.

Could we but live at will upon this perfect height,

Could we but always keep the passion of this peace,

Could we but face unshamed the look of this pure light,

Could we but win earth's heart, and give desire release:

Then were we all divine, and then were ours by right

These stars, these nightingales, these scents: then shame would cease.

Lionel Johnson

The Dark Angel

DARK Angel, with thine aching lust

To rid the world of penitence:

Malicious Angel, who still dost

My soul such subtile violence!

Because of thee, no thought, no thing,

Abides for me undesecrate:

Dark Angel, ever on the wing,

Who never reachest me too late!

When music sounds, then changest thou

Its silvery to a sultry fire:

Nor will thine envious heart allow

Delight untortured by desire.

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn,

To Furies, O mine Enemy!

And all the things of beauty burn

With flames of evil ecstasy.

Because of thee, the land of dreams

Becomes a gathering place of fears:

Until tormented slumber seems

One vehemence of useless tears.

When sunlight glows upon the flowers,

Or ripples down the dancing sea:

Thou, with thy troop of passionate powers,

Beleaguerest, bewilderest, me.

Within the breath of autumn woods,

Within the winter silences:

Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods,

O Master of impieties!

The ardour of red flame is thine,

And thine the steely soul of ice:

Thou poisonest the fair design

Of nature, with unfair device.

Apples of ashes, golden bright;

Waters of bitterness, how sweet!

O banquet of a foul delight,

Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete!

Thou art the whisper in the gloom,

The hinting tone, the haunting laugh:

Thou art the adorner of my tomb,

The minstrel of mine epitaph.

I fight thee, in the Holy Name!

Yet, what thou dost, is what God saith:

Tempter! should I escape thy flame,

Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death:

The second Death, that never dies,

That cannot die, when time is dead:

Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries,

Eternally uncomforted.

Dark Angel, with thine aching lust!

Of two defeats, of two despairs:

Less dread, a change to drifting dust,

Than thine eternity of cares.

Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so,

Dark Angel! triumph over me:

Lonely, unto the Lone I go;

Divine, to the Divinity.

Lionel Johnson

July

To More Adey

SUMMER lightning, and rich rain:

Roses perfume the hot air.

All the breathless night is faint,

All the flowery night is fair.

Philomel her joy or plaint

Sings, and sings, and sings again.

What comes now? The earth awaits

What fierce wonder from the skies?

Thunder, trampling through the night?

Morning, with illustrious eyes?

Morning, from the springs of light:

Thunder, round Heaven's opening gates.

Lionel Johnson