Poems. Volume 1. George Meredith

      Lips and limbs, and eyes and ringlets,

      Swaying, praying to one prayer,

      Like a lyre, swept by a spirit,

      In the still, enraptur’d air.

      Like a lyre in some far valley,

      Uttering ravishments divine!

      All its strings to viewless fingers

      Yearning, modulations fine!

      Yearning with melodious fervour!

      Like a beauteous maiden flower,

      When the young beloved three paces

      Hovers from the bridal bower.

      Throbbing thro’ the dawning stillness!

      As a heart within a breast,

      When the young beloved is stepping

      Radiant to the nuptial nest.

      O for Daphne! gentle Daphne

      Ever warmer by degrees

      Whispers full of hopes and visions

      Throng her ears like honey bees!

      Never yet was lonely blossom

      Woo’d with such delicious voice!

      Never since hath mortal maiden

      Dwelt on such celestial choice!

      Love-suffused she quivers, falters—

      Falters, sighs, but never speaks,

      All her rosy blood up-gushing

      Overflows her ripe young cheeks.

      Blushing, sweet with virgin blushes,

      All her loveliness a-flame,

      Stands she in the orient waters,

      Stricken o’er with speechless shame!

      Ah! but lovelier, ever lovelier,

      As more deep the colour glows,

      And the honey-laden lily

      Changes to the fragrant rose.

      While the god with meek embraces,

      Whispering all his sacred charms,

      Softly folds her, gently holds her,

      In his white encircling arms!

      But, O Dian! veil not wholly

      Thy pale crescent from the morn!

      Vanish not, O virgin goddess,

      With that look of pallid scorn!

      Still thy pure protecting influence

      Shed from those fair watchful eyes!—

      Lo! her angry orb has vanished,

      And the bright sun thrones the skies!

      Voicelessly the forest Virgin

      Vanished! but one look she gave—

      Keen as Niobean arrow

      Thro’ the maiden’s heart it drave.

      Thus toward that throning bosom

      Where all earth is warmed,—each spot

      Nourished with autumnal blessings—

      Icy chill was Daphne caught.

      Icy chill! but swift revulsion

      All her gentler self renewed,

      Even as icy Winter quickens

      With bud-opening warmth imbued.

      Even as a torpid brooklet,

      That to the night-gleaming moon

      Flashed in turn the frozen glances,

      Melts upon the breast of noon.

      But no more—O never, never,

      Turns she to that bosom bright,

      Swiftly all her senses counsel,

      All her nerves are strung to flight.

      O’er the brows of radiant Pindus

      Rolls a shadow dark and cold,

      And a sound of lamentation

      Issues from its mournful fold.

      Voice of the far-sighted Muses!

      Cry of keen foreboding song!

      Every cleft of startled Tempe

      Tingles with it sharp and long.

      Over bourn and bosk and dingle,

      Over rivers, over rills,

      Runs the sad subservient Echo

      Toward the dim blue distant hills!

      And another and another!

      ’Tis a cry more wild than all;

      And the hills with muffled voices

      Answer ‘Daphne!’ to the call.

      And another and another!

      ’Tis a cry so wildly sweet,

      That her charmed heart turns rebel

      To the instinct of her feet;

      And she pauses for an instant;

      But his arms have scarcely slid

      Round her waist in cestian girdles,

      And his low voluptuous lid

      Lifted pleading, and the honey

      Of his mouth for hers athirst,

      Ruby glistening, raised for moisture—

      Like a bud that waits to burst

      In the sweet espousing showers—

      And his tongue has scarce begun

      With its inarticulate burthen,

      And the clouds scarce show the sun

      As it pierces thro’ a crevice

      Of the mass that closed it o’er,

      When again the horror flashes—

      And she turns to flight once more!

      And again o’er radiant Pindus

      Rolls the shadow dark and cold,

      And the sound of lamentation

      Issues from its sable fold!

      And again the light winds chide her

      As she darts from his embrace—

      And again the far-voiced echoes

      Speak their tidings of the chase.

      Loudly now as swiftly, swiftly,

      O’er the glimmering sands she speeds;

      Wildly now as in the furzes

      From the piercing spikes she bleeds.

      Deeply and with direful anguish,

      As above each crimson drop

      Passion checks the god Apollo,

      And love bids him weep and stop.—

      He above each drop of crimson

      Shadowing—like the laurel leaf

      That above himself will shadow—

      Sheds a fadeless look of grief.

      Then with love’s remorseful discord,

      With