THYRSIS°

THYRSIS°

A MONODY, TO COMMEMORATE THE AUTHOR'S FRIEND ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, WHO DIED AT FLORENCE, 1861

°1How changed is here each spot man makes or fills°! °2In the two Hinkseys° nothing keeps the same; The village street its haunted mansion lacks, °4And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name,° 5And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks— °6Are ye too changed, ye hills°? See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays! Here came I often, often, in old days— 10Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then. Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames °14The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs°? °15The Vale,° the three lone weirs,° the youthful Thames?—, This winter-eve is warm, Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring, The tender purple spray on copse and briers! °19And that sweet city with her dreaming spires,° °20She needs not June for beauty's heightening,° Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!— Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power °23Befalls me wandering through this upland dim,° °24Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour°; 25Now seldom come I, since I came with him. That single elm-tree bright Against the west—I miss it! is it gone? We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead; °30While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.° Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; And with the country-folk acquaintance made By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. °35Here, too, our shepherd-pipes° we first assay'd. Ah me! this many a year My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday! Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart Into the world and wave of men depart; °40But Thyrsis of his own will went away.° °41It irk'd° him to be here, he could not rest. He loved each simple joy the country yields, °43He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep,° For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, °45Here with the shepherds and the silly° sheep. Some life of men unblest He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head. He went; his piping took a troubled sound Of storms° that rage outside our happy ground; °50He could not wait their passing, he is dead.° So, some tempestuous morn in early June, When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er, Before the roses and the longest day— When garden-walks and all the grassy floor °55With blossoms red and white of fallen May° And chestnut-flowers are strewn— So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry, From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze: °60The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I°! Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go? °62Soon will the high Midsummer pomps° come on, Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, 65Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell, And stocks in fragrant blow; Roses that down the alleys shine afar, And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, 70And the full moon, and the white evening-star. °71He hearkens not! light comer,° he is flown! What matters it? next year he will return, And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days. With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern, 75And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways, And scent of hay new-mown. °77But Thyrsis never more we swains° shall see; °78See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,° °79And blow a strain the world at last shall heed°— °80For Time, not Corydon,° hath conquer'd thee! Alack, for Corydon no rival now!— But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, Some good survivor with his flute would go, °84Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate°; °85And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow,° And relax Pluto's brow, And make leap up with joy the beauteous head °88Of Proserpine,° among whose crowned hair Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, °90And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.° O easy access to the hearer's grace When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine! For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, °94She knew the Dorian water's gush divine,° 95She knew each lily white which Enna yields, °96Each rose with blushing face°; °97She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.° But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard! Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd; 100And we should tease her with our plaint in vain! Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill! Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? 105I know the wood which hides the daffodil, °106I know the Fyfield tree,° I know what white, what purple fritillaries The grassy harvest of the river-fields, °109Above by Ensham,° down by Sandford,° yields, 110And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries; I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?— But many a dingle on the loved hill-side, With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried 115High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, Hath since our day put by The coronals of that forgotten time; Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team, And only in the hidden brookside gleam 120Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door, Above the locks, above the boating throng, °123Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats,° Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among 125And darting swallows and light water-gnats, We track'd the shy Thames shore? Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass, Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?— 130They all are gone, and thou art gone as well! Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. I see her veil draw soft across the day, I feel her slowly chilling breath invade °135The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent° with grey; I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train;— The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, The heart less bounding at emotion new, 140And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. And long the way appears, which seem'd so short To the less practised eye of sanguine youth; And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air, The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, 145Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare! Unbreachable the fort Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall; And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, And near and real the charm of thy repose, °150And night as welcome as a friend would fall.° But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss Of quiet!—Look, adown the dusk hill-side, A troop of Oxford hunters going home, As in old days, jovial and talking, ride! °155From hunting with the Berkshire° hounds they come. Quick! let me fly, and cross Into yon farther field!—'Tis done; and see, Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify The orange and pale violet evening-sky, 160Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree! I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, The white fog creeps from bush to bush about, The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out. 165I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night, Yet, happy omen, hail! °167Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale° (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep The morningless and unawakening sleep 170Under the flowery oleanders pale), Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!— Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim, These brambles pale with mist engarlanded, That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him; °175To a boon southern country he is fled,° And now in happier air, °177Wandering with the great Mother's° train divine (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) 180Within a folding of the Apennine, Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!— Putting his sickle to the perilous grain In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, For thee the Lityerses-song again 185Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing; Sings his Sicilian fold, His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes— And how a call celestial round him rang, And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang °190And all the marvel of the golden skies.° There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here °192Sole° in these fields! yet will I not despair. Despair I will not, while I yet descry 'Neath the mild canopy of English air 195That lonely tree against the western sky. Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear, Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee °198Fields where soft sheep° from cages pull the hay, Woods with anemonies in flower till May, °200Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?° A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, °202Shy to illumin; and I seek it too.° This does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 205'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold— But the smooth-slipping weeks Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; Out of the heed of mortals he is gone, He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone; 210Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest was bound; Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour! Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest, If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, 215If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. And this rude Cumner ground, Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! 220And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, 225Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat— It fail'd, and thou wast mute! Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, 230Left human haunt, and on alone till night. Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar, 235Let in thy voice a whisper often come, To chase fatigue and fear: Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died. Roam on! The light we sought is shining still. Dost thou ask proof? our tree yet crowns the hill, 240Our scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.