Classic and Contemporary Poetry
GEORGE LEVISON OR, THE SCHOOLFELLOWS, by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM Poem Explanation Poet's Biography First Line: The noisy sparrows in our clematis Last Line: Supernal wisdom only knows how much. Alternate Author Name(s): Pollex, D.; Walker, Patricius Subject(s): Angels; Classmates; Death; Friendship; Funerals; Heaven; Memory; Soul; Schoolmates; Dead, The; Burials; Paradise | ||||||||
The noisy sparrows in our clematis Chatted of rain, a pensive summer dusk Shading the little lawn and garden-ground Between our threshold and the village-street; With one pure star, a lonely altar-lamp In twilight's vast cathedral. But the clouds Were gravely gathering, and a fitful breeze Flurried the window-foliage that before Hung delicately painted on the sky, And wafted, showering from their golden boss, The white-rose petals. On the garden side Our wall being low, the great Whiterose-bush lean'd A thousand tender little heads, to note The doings of the village all day long; From when the labourers, trudging to their toil In earliest sunshine, heard the outpost cocks Whistle a quaint refrain from farm to farm, Till hour of shadow, silence, and repose, The ceasing footstep, and the taper's light. Up to the churchyard rail, down to the brook, And lifted fields beyond with grove and hedge, The Rose-bush gazed; and people, as they pass'd, Aware of sweetness, look'd aloft in turn; School-children, one arm round a comrade's neck, Would point to some rich cluster, and repay A flying bloom with fairer glance of joy. In that warm twilight, certain years ago, At sunset, with the roses in a trance, And many another blossom fast asleep, One Flow'r of Flow'rs was closing like the rest. Night's herald star which look'd across the world Saw nothing prettier than our little child Saying his evening prayer at mother's knee, The white skirt folding on the naked feet, Too tender for rough ways, his eyes at rest On his mother's face, a window into heaven. Kiss'd now, and settled in his cot, he's pleased With murmuring song, until the large lids droop And do not rise, and slumber's regular breath Divides the soft round mouth. So Annie's boy And mine was laid asleep. I heard her foot Stir overhead; and hoped there would be time Before the rain to loiter half an hour, As far as to the poplars down the road, And hear the corncrakes through the meadowy vale, And watch the childhood of the virgin moon, Above that sunset and its marge of clouds A floating crescent. Sweetheart of my life! As then, so now; nay, dearer to me now, Since love, that fills the soul, expands it too, And thus it holds more love, and ever more, O sweetheart, helpmate, guardian, better self! Green be those downs and dells above the sea, Smooth-green for ever, by the plough unhurt, Nor overdrifted by their neighbouring sands, Where first I saw you; first since long before When we were children at an inland place And play'd together. I had often thought, I wonder should I know that pleasant child? Hardly, I fear'd. I knew her the first glimpse; While yet the flexile curvature of hat Kept all her face in shadow to the chin. And when a breeze to which the harebells danced Lifted the sun a moment to her eyes, The rays of recognition flew to mine Through all the dignity of womanhood. Like dear old friends we were, yet wondrous new. The others chatted; she and I not much. Hearing her ribbon whirring in the wind (No doubting hopes nor whimsies born as yet) Was pure felicity, like his who sleeps Within a sense of some unknown good-fortune, True, or of dreamland, undetermined which; My buoyant spirit tranquil in its joy As the white seamew swinging on the wave. Since, what vicissitude! We read the past Bound in a volume, catch the story up At any leaf we choose, and much forget How every blind to-morrow was evolved, How each oracular sentence shaped itself For after comprehension. Thus I mused, Then also, in that buried summer dusk, Rich heavy summer, upon autumn's verge, My wife and boy upstairs, I leaning grave Against the window; and through favourite paths Memory, as one who saunters in a wood, Found sober joy. In turn that eve itself Rises distinctly. Troops of dancing moths Brush'd the dry grass. I heard, as if from far, The tone of passing voices in the street. Announced by cheerful octaves of a horn, Those rapid wheels flew, shaking our white-rose, That link'd us with the modern Magic-Way, And all the moving million-peopled world. For every evening, done our little darg To keep the threads of life from tanglement, In happy hour came in the lottery-bag, Whose messenger had many a prize for us: The multifarious page ephemeral, The joy at times of some brave book, whereby Tht world is richer; and more special words, Conveying conjured into dots of ink Almost the voice, look, gesture that we knew, From Annie's former house, or mine, from shore Of murky Thames, or rarer from hot land Of Hindoo or Chinese, Canadian woods, Or that huge isle of kangaroos and gold, Magnetical metal,thus to the four winds One's ancient comrades scatter'd through the world. Where's Georgy now, I thought, our dread, our pride, George Levison, the sultan of the school? With Greek and Latin at those fingers' ends That swayed the winning oar and bat; a prince In pocket-money and accoutrement; A Cribb in fist, a Cicero in tongue; Already victor, when his eye should deign To fix on any summit of success. For, in his haughty careless way, he'd hint 'I've got to push my fortune, by-and-bye.' How we all worshipp'd Georgy Levison! But when I went to college he was gone, They said to travel, and he took away Mentor conjoin'd with Crichton from my hopes, No trifling blank. George had done little there, But couldwhat could he not? ...And now, perhaps, Some city, in the stranger's burial-ground, Some desert sand, or hollow under sea, Hides him without an epitaph. So men Slip under, fit to shape the world anew; And leave their tracein schoolboy memories. Then I went thinking how much changed I was Since those old school-times, not so far away, Yet now like pre-existence. Can that house, Those fields and trees, be extant anywhere? Have not all vanish'd, place, and time, and men? Or with a journey could I find them all, And myself with them, as I used to be? Sore was my battle after quitting these. No one thing fell as plann'd for; sorrows came And sat beside me; years of toil went round; And victory's self was pale and garlandless. Fog rested on my heart; till softly blew The wind that clear'd it. 'Twas a simple turn Of life,a miracle of heavenly love, For which, thank God! When Annie call'd me up, We both bent silent, looking at our boy; Kiss'd unaware (as angels, may be, kiss Good mortals) on the smoothly rounded cheek, Turn'd from the window, where a fringe of leaves, With outlines melting in the darkening blue, Waver'd and peep'd and whisper'd. Would she walk? Not yet a little were those clouds to stoop With freshness to the garden and the field. I waited by our open door; while bats Flew silently, and musk geranium-leaves Were fragrant in the twilight that had quench'd Or tamed the dazzling scarlet of their blooms. Peace, as of heaven itself, possess'd my heart. A footstep, not the light step of my wife, Disturb'd it; then, with slacker pace, a man Came up beside the porch. Accosting whom, And answering to my name: 'I fear,' he said, 'You'll hardly recollect me now; and yet We were at school together long ago. Have you forgotten Georgy Levison?'. He in the red arm-chair; I not far off, Excited, laughing, waiting for his face: The first flash of the candles told me all: Or, if not all, enough, and more. Those eyes, When they look'd up at last, were his indeed, But mesh'd in ugly network, like a snare; And though his mouth preserved the imperious curve, Evasion, vacillation, discontent, Warp'd every feature like a crooked glass. His hair hung prematurely grey and thin; From thread-bare sleeves the wither'd tremulous hands Protruded. Why paint every touch of blight? Tea came. He hurried into ceaseless talk; Glanced at the ways of many foreign towns; Knew all those men whose names are on the tongue, And set their work punctilliously; brought back Our careless years; paid Annie compliments To spare; admired the pattern of the cups; Lauded the cream,our dairy's, was it not? A country life was pleasant, certainly, If one could be content to settle down; And yet the city had advantages. He trusted, shortly, underneath his roof To practise hospitality in turn, But first to catch the roof, eh? Ha, ha, ha! That was a business topic he'd discuss With his old friend by-and-bye For me, I long'd To hide my face and groan; yet look'd at him; Opposing pain to grief, presence to thought. Later, when wine came in, and we two sat The dreary hours together, how he talk'd! His schemes of life, his schemes of work and wealth, Intentions and inventions, plots and plans, Travels and triumphs, failures, golden hopes. He was a young man stillhad just begun To see his way. I knew what he could do If once he tried in earnest. He'd return To Law, next term but one; meanwhile complete His great work, 'The philosophy of Life, Or, Man's Relation to the Universe', The matter lying ready to his hand. Forty subscribers more, two guineas each, Would make it safe to publish. All this time He fill'd his glass and emptied, and his tongue Went thick and stammering. When the wine came in (Perhaps a blame for mewho knows?) I saw The glistering eye; a thin and eager hand Made the decanter chatter on the glass Like ague. Could I stop him? So at last He wept, and moan'd he was a ruin'd man, Body and soul; then cursed his enemies By name, and promised punishment; made vaunt Of genius, learning; caught my hand again, Did I forget my friendmy dear old friend? Had I a coat to spare? He had no coat But this one on his back; not one shirtsee! 'Twas all a nightmare; all plain wretched truth. And how to play physician? Where's the strength Repairs a slow self-ruin from without? The fall'n must climb inummerable steps, With humbleness, and diligence, and pain, How help him to the first of all that steep? Midnight was past. I had proposed to find A lodging near us; for, to say the truth, I could not bid my wife, for such a guest In such a plight, prepare the little room We still call'd 'Emma's' from my sister's name. Then with a sudden mustering up of wits, And ev'n a touch of his old self, that quick Melted my heart anew, he signified His bed was waiting, he would say good-night, And begg'd me not to stir, he knew his road. But arm in arm I brought him up the Street, Among the rain-pools, and the pattering drops Drumming upon our canopy; where few Or none were out of doors; and once or twice Some casement from an upper story shed Penurious lamplight. Tediously we kept The morning meal in vain expectancy. Our box of clothes came back; the people said He paid without a word, and went his way, They knew not whither. He return'd no more. He now is dead. Through all the summer-time The touch of that unhappy visit lay, Like trace of frost on gardens, on our life. Great cities give events to every hour; Not so that ancient village, small, remote, Half-hid in boscage of a peaceful vale, With guardian hills, but welcoming the sun, And every group of seasonable stars That rise upon the circle of the year; Open to natural influences; far From jostling crowds of congregated men. That village also lies behind us now; Midst other fields abide we, other faces. Annie, my darling, we were happy there, And heaven continues happiness and hope To us and to our children. May their steps Keep the good pathway through this perilous world. That village is far-off, that year is fled. But, still, at many a meditative hour By day or night, or with memorial flash, I see the ghost of Georgy Levison; A shifting phantom,now with boyhood's face And merry curls; now haggard and forlorn, As when the candles came into the room. One sells his soul; another squanders it; The first buys up the world, the second starves. Poor George was loser palpably enough; Supernal Wisdom only knows how much. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE END OF LIFE by PHILIP JAMES BAILEY SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 6 by CONRAD AIKEN THE BOOK OF THE DEAD MAN (#19): 2. MORE ABOUT THE DEAD MAN AND WINTER by MARVIN BELL THE WORLDS IN THIS WORLD by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR A SKELETON FOR MR. PAUL IN PARADISE; AFTER ALLAN GUISINGER by NORMAN DUBIE BEAUTY & RESTRAINT by DANIEL HALPERN HOW IT WILL HAPPEN, WHEN by DORIANNE LAUX IF THIS IS PARADISE by DORIANNE LAUX |
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