The CDPD Public Domain Collection for CDTV 3/CDPDIII.bin/books/wilde/eleutheria

Text File | 1992-07-31 | 11KB | 282 lines

                                      1890
                                   ELEUTHERIA
                                 by Oscar Wilde
                SONNET TO LIBERTY

    Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes
    See nothing save their own unlovely woe,
    Whose minds know nothing, nothing care to know,-
    But that the roar of thy Democracies,
    Thy reigns of Terror, thy great Anarchies,
    Mirror my wildest passions like the sea,
    And give my rage a brother-! Liberty!
    For his sake only do thy dissonant cries
    Delight my discreet soul, else might all kings
    By bloody knout or treacherous cannonades
    Rob nations of their rights inviolate
    And I remain unmoved- and yet, and yet,
    These Christs that die upon the barricades,
    God knows it I am with them, in some things.
                   AVE IMPERATRIX

        Set in this stormy Northern sea,
          Queen of these restless fields of tide,
        England! what shall men say of thee,
          Before whose feet the worlds divide?

        The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
          Lies in the hollow of thy hand,
        And through its heart of crystal pass,
          Like shadows through a twilight land,

        The spears of crimson-suited war,
          The long white-crested waves of fight,
        And all the deadly fires which are
          The torches of the lords of Night.

        The yellow leopards, strained and lean,
          The treacherous Russian knows so well,
        With gaping blackened jaws are seen
          Leap through the hail of screaming shell.

        The strong sea-lion of England's wars
          Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,
        To battle with the storm that mars
          The star of England's chivalry.

        The brazen-throated clarion blows
          Across the Pathan's reedy fen,
        And the high steeps of Indian snows
          Shake to the tread of armed men.

        And many an Afghan chief, who lies
          Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,
        Clutches his sword in fierce surmise
          When on the mountain-side he sees

        The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes
          To tell how he hath heard afar
        The measured roll of English drums
          Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

        For southern wind and east wind meet
          Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,
        England with bare and bloody feet
          Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

        O lonely Himalayan height,
          Gray pillar of the Indian sky,
        Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight,
          Our winged dogs of Victory?

        The almond groves of Samarcand,
          Bokhara, where red lilies blow,
        And Oxus, by whose yellow sand
          The grave white-turbaned merchants go:

        And on from thence to Ispahan,
          The gilded garden of the sun,
        Whence the long dusty caravan
          Brings cedar and vermilion;

        And that dread city of Cabool
          Set at the mountain's scarped feet,
        Whose marble tanks are ever full
          With water for the noon-day heat:

        Where through the narrow straight Bazaar
          A little maid Circassian
        Is led, a present from the Czar
          Unto some old and bearded khan,-

        Here have our wild war-eagles flown,
          And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;
        But the sad dove, that sits alone
          In England- she hath no delight.

        In vain the laughing girl will lean
          To greet her love with love-lit eyes:
        Down in some treacherous black ravine,
          Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

        And many a moon and sun will see
          The lingering wistful children wait
        To climb upon their father's knee;
          And in each house made desolate

        Pale women who have lost their lord
          Will kiss the relics of the slain-
        Some tarnished epaulet- some sword-
          Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

        For not in quiet English fields
          Are these, our brothers, laid to rest.
        Where we might deck their broken shields
          With all the flowers the dead love best.

        For some are by the Delhi walls,
          And many in the Afghan land,
        And many where the Ganges falls
          Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

        And some in Russian waters lie,
          And others in the seas which are
        The portals to the East, or by
          The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

        O wandering graves! O restless sleep!
          O silence of the sunless day!
        O still ravine! O stormy deep!
          Give up your prey! Give up your prey!

        And thou whose wounds are never healed,
          Whose weary race is never won,
        O Cromwell's England! must thou yield
          For every inch of ground a son?

        Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,
          Change thy glad song to song of pain;
        Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,
          And will not yield them back again.

        Wave and wild wind and foreign shore
          Possess the flower of English land-
        Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,
          Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.

        What profit now that we have bound
          The whole round world with net of gold,
        If hidden in our heart is found
          The care that groweth never old?

        What profit that our galleys ride,
          Pine-forest-like, on every main?
        Ruin and wreck are at our side,
          Grim warders of the House of pain.

        Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet
          Where is our English chivalry?
        Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,
          And sobbing waves their threnody.

        O loved ones lying far away,
          What word of love can dead lips send!
        O wasted dust! O senseless clay!
          Is this the end! is this the end!

        Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead
          To vex their solemn slumber so:
        Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,
          Up the steep road must England go,

        Yet when this fiery web is spun,
          Her watchmen shall decry from far
        The young Republic like a sun
          Rise from these crimson seas of war.
                       TO MILTON

        Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away
          From these white cliffs, and high embattled-towers;
          This gorgeous fiery-colored world of ours
        Seems fallen into ashes dull and gray,
        And the age changed unto a mimic play,
          Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:
          For all our pomp and pageantry and powers
        We are but fit to delve the common clay,
        Seeing this little isle on which we stand,
          This England, this sea-lion of the sea,
          By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,
        Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land
          Which bare a triple empire in her hand
          When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!
                      LOUIS NAPOLEON

        Eagle of Austerlitz! where were thy wings
          When far away upon a barbarous strand,
          In fight unequal, by an obscure hand,
        Fell the last scion of thy brood of Kings!

        Poor boy! thou wilt not flaunt thy cloak of red,
          Nor ride in state through Paris in the van
          Of thy returning legions, but instead
        Thy mother France, free and republican,

        Shall on thy dead and crownless forehead place
          The better laurels of a soldier's crown,
          That not dishonored should thy soul go down
        To tell the mighty Sire of thy race

        That France hath kissed the mouth of Liberty,
          And found it sweeter than his honeyed bees,
          And that the giant wave Democracy
        Breaks on the shores where Kings lay couched at ease.
                            SONNET

        On the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria.

        Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
        Still straightened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
        And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
        Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
        For here the air is horrid with men's groans,
        The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
        Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
        From those whose children lie upon the stones?
        Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
        Curtains the land, and through the starless night
        Over Thy Cross the Crescent moon I see!
        If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
        Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
        Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
                       QUANTUM MUTATA

        There was a time in Europe long ago,
          When no man died for freedom anywhere,
          But England's lion leaping from its lair
        Laid hands on the oppressor! it was so
        While England could a great Republic show.
          Witness the men of Piedmont, chiefest care
          Of Cromwell, when with impotent despair
        The Pontiff in his painted portico
        Trembled before our stern embassadors.
          How comes it then that from such high estate
          We have thus fallen, save that Luxury
        With barren merchandise piles up the gate
        Where nobler thoughts and deeds should enter by:
          Else might we still be Milton's heritors.
                 LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES

        Albeit nurtured in democracy,
          And liking best that state republican
          Where every man is Kinglike and no man
        Is crowned above his fellows, yet I see
        Spite of this modern fret for Liberty,
          Better the rule of One, whom all obey,
          Than to let clamorous demagogues betray
        Our freedom with the kiss of anarchy.
        Wherefore I love them not whose hands profane
          Plant the red flag upon the piled-up street
          For no right cause, beneath whose ignorant reign
        Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honor, all things fade,
          Save Treason and the dagger of her trade,
          And Murder with his silent bloody feet.
                       THEORETIKOS

        This mighty empire hath but feet of clay;
          Of all its ancient chivalry and might
          Our little island is forsaken quite:
        Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay,
        And from its hills that voice hath passed away
          Which spake of Freedom: O come out of it,
          Come out of it, my Soul, thou art not fit
        For this vile traffic-house, where day by day
          Wisdom and reverence are sold at mart,
          And the rude people rage with ignorant cries
        Against an heritage of centuries.
          It mars my calm: wherefore in dreams of Art
          And loftiest culture I would stand apart,
        Neither for God, nor for His enemies.


                        THE END