Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) First Line: When the twentieth century fadeth Last Line: For the distant sake of us who sleep? Subject(s): English Poetry - 19th Century; Hugo, Victor (1802-1885); Music & Musicians; Poetry & Poets; Singing & Singers; Voices; Songs | ||||||||
I. When the twentieth century fadeth As the present century nears its doom, Will the singers it remembers, Glancing back along the years of bloom, Be diviner than the singers Chanting through our century's sun and gloom? II. What strange wars and tribulations Will the far-off voices have to sing! Creeds and thrones of newer peoples: Flowers of many another laughing spring: Love with eyes the same as ever, Love the eternal century-mocking king! III. Yet though grand the future singers, Stately though their march of music, be, Our strange century hath been gladdened; Woodland green and lake and silver sea, Purple moor and breezy upland, Golden gorse-bright heather-haunted lea, IV. These have heard our century's singers. What glad faces shone beneath the light Of the passionate early morning! When the fields of Europe rang with fight All the faces of our singers Brightened into measureless delight! V. When Napoleon from the Island Passed, and let the whole world sink to sleep, Three great singers sang his passing, Half in triumph, half with eyes that weep; Byron, Shelley, Victor Hugo, Rose and sang with passion true and deep. VI. Far off, very far, it seemeth: Close beside those early singers stood Blood-smeared wild-eyed Revolution, And her spirit mingled with their mood; Now long bright decades of blossoms Hide that vision gaunt and gore-imbrued. VII. Wordsworth stands between. His mountains Hide the red and blood-streaked dawn of day. He with ever-tender passion Towards the cloud-swept valleys points the way: To his spirit Revolution Had but one pale far-off word to say. VIII. Oh those valleys and the mountains, And the lakes and sunsets calm and clear! Will they be to future singers As profoundly, passionately, dear? Will the rocks be mute for ever, Frowning from their silent towers and sheer? IX. Who will sing the Grecian blossoms As this century's Grecian spirit sang, Keats,and all our lanes and hedges To the sound of Pagan harping rang: Forth from dark-hued English waters Many a sweet-lipped white-limbed Naiad sprang! X. Grey-haired venerable Landor Full of classic passion lived and died: Strong-browed drama-moulding Browning Won our woman-poet for his bride: She too was this century's singer, Lyric soul to Sappho's soul allied. XI. If the century had been barren, Seen no may-tree blossom in its dells; Never one wild climbing rose-bush; Never any spire of fox-glove bells; Never luscious-scented gorse-brake That the air to sweet response compels; XII. If no blossom had been with us, She the flower of flowers had filled the air With an unexampled fragrance; Sovereign and sufficient, had been there; Yes, the century would have marvelled At the song-flowers one sweet heart could bear. XIII. Now the century's days are darkening: Round about her still the singers stand: One with sad eyes light-forsaken Nobly sings amid the younger band; Now no more the English meadows Lay their golden blossoms in his hand. XIV. Yet when bright and full of beauty Forth the laughing century like a bride Stepped, was any sweeter singer Found among the many at her side? He among the later chosen Stands, and every door-way opens wide. XV. All the doorways of the valleys Open of their free-will unto him: Why should any be reluctant? For a season brief his eyes are dim: But the souls of all the blossoms And of clouds and waters he can hymn. XVI. Marston, blind yet full of vision, Seeing more than soulless myriads see, Lo! I singing in the twilight Of the darkening years along with thee Bring thee greeting of the woodland And the solemn greeting of the sea. XVII. In the dawning of the era Swift-eyed, seeing, the laurelled singers rose: But the God-endowed blind singer, Pale and patient, waited for its close: Now we hold his hand, and guide him; Yet the soul-path he the blind man shows. XVIII. He the path that leaves the valley Winding upward towards the heaven of song Points out: leads us, far less clearly Seeing, the rocky ringing heights along: He can shame the mountain eagle With his soul-gaze keen and full and strong. XIX. This would make the century brighter Were no other singer left to see: Were no voices heard, nor figures Seen upon the mountains,only he: This would soothe the moaning twilight Into dawn-like rapturous melody. XX. Was there ever heard a sweeter Song than his to lull a century's close? Was there ever known a purer Love than his for violet and for rose? Were there ever greater stronger Arms wherein love's bosom might repose? XXI. Was there ever spirit nearer To the inmost sacred soul of things? Did blind Homer's soul see deeper? Did blind Milton's kingly voice that rings Through the sonnet chant more sweetly, Blind, yet listening to Love's rushing wings! XXII. Had the tender heart of poet Ever tenderer sweeter things to say To the tender heart of woman Than this blind bard singing in our day? Blind alone to what is evil, Wide-eyed as the sun to bright love's ray. XXIII. Through the sonnet-metre chanting He hath found full many a word unsaid By the elder poets waiting For his coming. Round about his bed Gleam the robes of many visions, White-winged, dark-winged, soft or sweet or dread. XXIV. Keats and Shelley and the early Singers, I born later in the day Missed the holy sound and sight of; But I meet a friend beneath the grey Evening light: a brother singer, Blind, but swift of vision even as they. XXV. Never yet the rolling waters Held more might of colour than they hold In the song of the blind poet: There the sunset breathes and burns with gold: There the beauty of all blossoms Mixes,leaf on soft leaf, fold on fold. XXVI. There the sovereign grace of woman Gleams, and fills the highways of his strain With the sunlight of her beauty, Crowned, a very queen of song, again: Death has trodden amid his roses, Yet what soft scents passing words remain! XXVII. Though his song is full of sadness And a sense of dear love dead and white, Yet the music of his measure Thrills the hearer's rapt soul with delight; Though the darkness is around him, Countless stars about his brow are bright! XXVIII. Though the darkness closes round him, Light he gives to others,and the bloom Of an infinite soul-healing Breathes on others from his passion's tomb; And he comes, and brings the morning Glancing golden-sandalled through the gloom. XXIX. All our hearts are full of pity; And the spirits of mountains and of flowers And of waves and rocking woodlands And of sunsets mix their love with ours; All the hearts of roses know him, Thrilling as his footstep nears their bowers. XXX. Much our souls would do to help him; Little may our strongest yearning reach; Though the pity never fails us, Fails the song, and weak imperfect speech; Wild our words are like the wailing Of the wind through smooth leaves of the beech. XXXI. Yet our singing, brother, take it, And the heart that finds the singing weak, Pale beside the deep emotion That like the dumb waters cannot speak, Only surge, and surge for ever, Flash, and for a moment tinge the cheek. XXXII. Lonely, many waited for thee; Blind, that thou mightest give them eyes to see: Jealous flowers and hills and rivers Left forlorn by Shelley looked to thee: All the unsung heart of Nature; Many an uncrowned lake, and tearful lea. XXXIII. For the whole of Nature never, Bridelike, conquered by a single bard, Kissed his lips and stood before him, Loosed her purple deep hair golden-starred; Still for each the blue receding Heaven-depths show some mocking gateways barred. XXXIV. Thus, though Spenser filled the Sonnet With soft fire and wreathed fair flowers around, And though Milton shook its pillars Till live thunder leapt along the ground, Something still is left for later Singers: still new harps and newer sound. XXXV. Tender buds of beauty gleaming Half-unseen beside the grassy way Waited,till the blind sweet singer, Marston, came and touched the buds, and they Sprang to sudden fragrant glory, Gold for dim pale yellow, red for grey. XXXVI. If the whole of Nature truly Were one bride for one great king of song, Would not kingly Victor Hugo With the lips that never fostered wrong, Only equal wide-eyed justice, Lure her coy reluctant feet along? XXXVII. Would not she the spirit of Nature Who was girlish, young, when Shelley came, Meet, mature, the century's singer, Hugo,touch his lips with lips of flame? Surely, white as if for bridal, Bride-pure, her our greatest heart may claim. XXXVIII. If for any single singer She, sweet Nature, like a woman stood Conquered, virginal and tearful, Merging now in passion every mood, For this singer, high-browed, lonely, Forth she came, by godlike lips subdued. XXXIX. Other singers win the kisses Of the flowers her handmaids sweet and white: Violet-lips and rose-caresses; Clasp of pliant ivy-tendrils bright; But for him her voice of ocean Sounds, and calls him towards her through the night. XL. He the giant message hearing Leaves all friends and passes forth alone, Knowing that the woman calls him, Nature, to be sharer of her throne: Through blue gulfs her whisper thrilleth, Over limitless white waters blown. XLI. He through crimson dawn returning, Kissed and held of Nature through the night, Dazzles us with kingly glances Till we shrink from their excessive light; Still the awful kiss of Nature Leaves his lips imperishably bright. XLII. Yet the age hath room for others. Midway 'tween the younger and elder band Tennyson, most English-hearted, Brow-bound with the English leaf, doth stand: And the lanes and English meadows Move and bloom and brighten at his hand. XLIII. His the message not of ocean: Not the kiss that floats across the sea: Not the lips whose breath is breezes: Not the sweet-winged spirit of night,not she: His the calm heart of the valleys, Filled with many a flower and golden tree. XLIV. His all English women's beauty In the lanes with English violets starred: But the century hath another Whom the thunder crowned and sought for bard; Whom the lightning kissed, and loved him; For whose soul the sea-wind wrestled hard. XLV. Byron! still the lonely Jura Seeks thee, widowed, weary,and her sighs Rolling through the rolling thunder Find no kindred heart nor song-replies; And the sea hath lost its comrade, On its billowy lips the laughter dies. XLVI. Yet the sea of Revolution Through a younger fiery singer thrills; And his heart hath caught the rapture Somewhat of the green far foam-flecked hills, And his soul hath laughed for gladness With the laughing clear-eyed mountain-rills. XLVII. Somewhat of the Master's mantle And of speech of his hath fallen on thee, Swinburne: somewhat of the eternal Might and wrath and rapture of the sea Through thy sea-like song hath spoken; Somewhat of the soul of all things free. XLVIII. And the heart of many a goddess Left forlorn and weary since the day When the Pagan shrines' redeemer, Keats, alas! too early, passed away, Dares to glance up, and rejoices Hearing the old note within thy lay. XLIX. Bowed and full of desolation Was full many a goddess' bright-haired head When along the viewless valleys Rang the news that bright-haired Keats was dead: Eyes long dry and tearless wept him, And for years no rose won all its red. L. But before the century fully Passed, a new and fervent singer rose, And the gods shook off their mourning; Lo! again the trembling water glows Round about the form of Venus, Wakeful after over-long repose. LI. Once again an English singer Twines about his brow the old Grecian bays, And the bright hills laugh for gladness, And his feet are swift i' the rose-hung ways Where the feet of Keats before him Dashed the dewdrops from the springing sprays. LII. Ah! we cannot name each singer. Can we name the flowers that shine along English glades and wind-kissed meadows? Can we enshrine each star within our song? League by league o'er blue sky-billows Falls the splendour of the starry throng. LIII. Yet a note of sadness mingles With our song that praises these who sing. All must pass. One century forward Just as blue shall gleam the swallow's wing O'er the deep green water flashing; Just as sweet shall be the ungrey-haired Spring! LIV. Pink the early almond-blossom Still amid the branches brown shall shine: And the bees shall hum for ever Through the ivy and round about the vine; And the blue-green feathery leafage Still shall crown the red shaft of the pine. LV. Then shall hearts alive and glowing Seek towards dead strong hearts who sing to-day. But the rose shall laugh and scatter Dewy pink-red leaves beside the way: One live flower shall have the magic All dead things and bloodless to outweigh. LVI. Nature! Yes our poets win her, Some for mistress, some for deathless bride, So it seems. Yet young and girlish She shall smile some future bard beside; Just as if no soul before him Ever sang her beauty,and, singing, died. LVII. Just as if no flower had ever Loved the sun, and withered at its might: In a hundred years shall Nature Bring the spring with sudden gleam of white Snowdrop-handmaids o'er the valleys, And the moon is new-born every night. LVIII. Every night the night's star thrilleth At the marriage-message of the sea: What grows old and grey in Nature? Nought that Nature fashions; only we: Not more snowy was the primal Than last April's dazzling chestnut tree. LIX. So, when singers are arising, Eager, young, as singers past arose, Virginal and full of sweetness Will the world's eyes meet them, and the rose. Round about each new-born poet Arms most white his virgin era throws. LX. Yet when each new bard hath kissed her, If he looks within her eyes and deep, Shall he mark a shade of sadness, 'Mid the throbs that through her bosom leap Note one single pulse that trembles For the distant sake of us who sleep? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE APOLLO TRIO by CONRAD AIKEN BAD GIRL SINGING by MARK JARMAN CHAMBER MUSIC: 4 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 5 by JAMES JOYCE CHAMBER MUSIC: 28 by JAMES JOYCE THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE IS LIKE THE SCENT OF SYRINGA by MINA LOY A GIFT OF SPRING by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |
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