by (Edward) Robert Bulwer-Lytton (1831 - 1891), as Owen Meredith
Because she hath the sweetest eyes
Language: English
Because she hath the sweetest eyes, The bluest, truest, -- and more wise Than woodland violets wild in wood To make wholesome the earth, and good Because she hath such glad gold hair That nothing in the laughing air Of the lusty May, at morn, When all that's bright and glad is born, Ever was so glad and bright; And, therewith, a hand more white And warm than is the warmèd coat Of whiteness round a meek dove's throat, Yet withal so calm, so pure, No ill passion may endure That serenest hand's chaste touch; And because my love is such That I do not dare to speak Of the changes on her cheek, Which the sunrise and sunset Of her luminous thoughts beget, Nor of her rose-sweet mouth, that is Too sweet to kiss, or not to kiss, 'Tis aye so sweet and savorous; And because (to comfort us For what throbbings of sweet pain Come, and go, and come again, Till the wishful sense be full, Gazing on aught so beautiful) Such innocent wise ways she knoweth, And so good is all she doeth, -- All she is, -- so simple, fair, Joyous, just, and debonair, That there is none so ignorant Of worship, nor with soul so scant Of visitations from above, But, seeing her, he needs must love, And purely love, her, -- and for this, Love better everything that is; -- 2. Therefore now, my Songs, will I That ye into her presence hie, Flying over land and sea, Many an one, that sever me From the sweet thing that hath the sleeping Joy of my shut heart in keeping. But, that when ye hence be gone Into the bounteous region Of that bright land over sea Wherein so many sweet things be, Where my Lady aye doth dwell, Ye her dwelling dear may tell, Nor its special sweetness miss In midst of many sweetnesses; Yet awhile, my Songs, delay Till I have told ye, as I may, All the fairness of the place That is familiar with the grace And glory of my Lady's face. 3. And (so shall ye know that she Dwelleth in loftier light than we, As intimate with skyey things As are creatures that have wings) Being come to mountains seven, Note that one that's nighest heaven: Thereon lieth against the sun A place of pleasaunce, all o'er-run With whisperous shade, and blossoming Of divers trees, wherein do sing The little birds, and all together, All day long in happy weather. And well I ween that since the birth Of Adam's firstborn, not on earth Hath ever been such sweet singing Of bird on bough, as here doth bring Into a large and leafy ease His sense that strayeth among the trees, Where mingled is full many a note Of golden-finch and speckle-throat. Even the hoarse-chested starling Here, where creepeth never a snarling Gust to vex bis heart, all day Learneth a more melodious lay Than that whereby this bird is known, Which, otherwhere, with chiding tone, What time the fretful Spring doth heave The frozen North, to winds, that grieve Round about the grave of March, He chaunteth from the cloudy larch: The linnet loud, and throstle eke, And the blackbird of golden beak, With perpetual madrigals Do melodize the warm green walls Of those blossom-crownèd groves, In whose cool hearts the cooing doves Make murmurings innumerable, Of sound as sweet as when a well With noise of bubbled water leapeth At a green couch where Silence sleepeth: Nor less, the long-voiced nightingale Doth, deep down in bloomy vale Delicious, pour at full noonlight The song he hath rehearsed o'er-night; And many other birds be there Of most sweet voice, and plumage rare, And names that I not know. Of trees That spring therein such plenty is That I to tell them over all Encumber'd am. Both maple tall There showeth his silver-mottled bark; And beeches, colour'd like the dark Red wine o' the South; and laurels green, Sunny and smooth, that make rich screen Round mossy places, where all day Red squirrels and gray conies play, Munching brown nuts and such wild fare As tumbleth from the branches there. And, for moisture of sweet showers, All the grass is thick with flowers; Primrose pure, that cometh alone; Daisies quaint, with savour none, But golden eyes of great delight, That all men love, they be so bright; And, cold in grassy cloister set, Many a maiden violet; The bramble flower, the scarlet hepe, Hangeth above in sunny sleep; And all around be knots and rows Of tufted thyme, and lips of cows; Whose sweet savour goeth about The jocund bowers, in and out, And dieth over all the place; So that there is not any space Of sun or shade, but haunted is With ghosts of many sweetnesses. There, dreading no intrusive stroke Of lifted axe, the lusty oak Broad his branches brown doth fling, And reigneth, "every inch a king:" Him also of that other kind In great plenty shall ye find, That while the great year goeth around Sheddeth never his leaves to ground, But in himself his summer hath, And oweth not, nor borroweth, As (though but rare) there be some wise Good men, that to themselves suffice; But in northern land we see Full few, and they but stunted be, Of this goodly kind of tree. The ever-trembling birch, through all Her hoary lights ethereal, Doth twinkle there, twixt green and gray; And of fruit-trees is great array: The apple and the pear tree both, Smother'd o'er in creamy froth Of bubbled blossoms; the green fig, With leathern leaves, and horny twig, And gluey globes; the juniper, That smelleth sweet in midsummer; Nor peach-tree, there, nor apricot, Needeth either nail or knot; Nor there from churlish weathers wince The orange, lemon, plum, and quince; But under these, by grassy slopes, Hangeth the vine her leafy ropes; Wild Proteus she, o' the wanton wood, That ever shifteth her merry mood, And, aye in luxury of change, Loveth to revel, and dance, and range, In leaves, not hers, she fleeteth through, Hiding her large grape-bunches blue; And here, o'er haunts he maketh brown With droppings from his scented crown, Standeth the stately sycamore, Lifting airy terrace o'er Airy terrace ; -- such of yore Dusky masons, deftly skill'd Mighty stones to pile and build, Up-hung in sumptuous Babylon, For silken kings at set of sun To dally with dark girls; but these Are humm'd about by honey bees, And cicale all day long Creek the chamber'd shades among. Far away, down hills that seem Liquid (for the light doth stream Through and through them) like that vail Of lucid mist Morn spreadeth pale O'er Summer's sallow forehead, found Somewhere asleep on upland ground Under the shade of heavy woods, Imaginary multitudes Of melancholy olives waste Their wanness, smiling half elfaced In a smooth sea of slumbrous glory; But high on inland promontory Blandly the broad-headed pine, Basking in the blue divine, Drowseth, drench'd with sunny sky: And, while the blue needle-fly Nimbly pricketh in and out The leaf-broider'd lawns about, (As busy she as highborn dame In shining silk, at tambour frame), The pomegranate, flowering flame, Burneth lone in cool retreats, Hidden from those gorgeous heats Where summer smouldereth into sweets. Now, when ye have this goodly wood All roamèd through, in gamesome mood, At morning tide, and thereon spent Large wealth of love and wonderment, In honour due of such full cheer And lustihood as laugheth here The well-bower'd grass about, That windeth in, and windeth out, Under those bright ribandings The red-budded bramble flings From branch to branch, still straying on Softly, ye shall be ware anon Of a fair garden, glad and great, Where my Lady, in high state Of beauty, doth twixt eve and noon, Under a spiritual moon, Visit full oft her vassal flowers In silent and sweet-scented hours, When quiet vast is everywhere, About the blue benignant air And the cool grass, a deep immense Gladness, an undisturbèd sense Of goodness in the gather'd calm Of old green woodlands bathed in balm, And bounteous silence. . . . O my love, How softly do the sweet hours move About thy peaceful perfectness! O hasten, little Songs! O press To meet my Lady, ye that be Her children, if she knew! . . . But she Still lingereth, and the silver dawn Is silent on the unfooted lawn. Here all day doth couch and sport Trim Flora, with her florid court: Roses that be illuminèd With royal colour rich and red; Some, with bosoms open wide, Where the brown bee, undenied, Drinketh deep of honey drops; Others, whose enamell'd knops Prettily do peep between Their balf-bursten cradles green; Lordly lilies, pale and proud; And of all flowers a great crowd; Whose rare-colour'd kirtles show More hues than of the rainy bow. In sweet warmth and lucid air Nod they all and whisper, where Lightly along each leafy lane Zephyrus, with his tripping train, Cometh at cool of even hour To greet in all her pomp and power Queen Flora, when in mansions damp Of the dim moss his spousal lamp Aloof the enamour'd glow-worm doth Softly kindle; while the moth Flitteth; and, at elfin rites, Sprucely dance the little Sprites Under the young moon all alone, Round about King Oberon. But ye this pleasaunce fair shall reach Ere yet from off the slanted peach The drops of silver dew be slipp'd, Or night-born buds be open-lipp'd. There shall ye find, in lustrous shade Of laurels cool, an old well-head That whelmeth up from under-ground, And falleth with a tinkling sound In a broad basin, builded there, All rose-porphyry, smooth and fair. The water is ever fresh and new, As that Narcissus gazed into, When, for love of his sweet self, He fainted from the flowery shelf, Leaving Echo all that pain; So that now there doth remain Of him that was so fair and sweet Only in some green retreat A purple flower seldom found, And of her a hollow sound In hollow places. There shall ye Pause as ye pass, and sing . . "To thee, Water, our Master bade us say Glad be thy heart, and pure alway; May thy full urn never fail; Thee nor sun nor frost assail, Nor wild winter's wind molest thee; Never newt nor eft infest thee; Taint nor trouble touch thee never; Heaven above thee smile for ever; Earth around thee ever bear Beauteous buds and blossoms rare; Far from thee be all foul things, Slaves to thee be all sweet springs, Because thou, of thy kindness, hast Shown, in blissful summers past, To fondest eyes have ever been, Sweetest face was ever seen: Therefore be blest for evermore." But if, my Songs, ye would explore This pleasaunce all, there be therein Delights so many, day would win His under-goal ere ye were forth Of your much musing on the worth That is therein, and wondrous grace: Therefore, ere the sun down-pace, Must ye onward, where is spread A fair terrace; and overhead Thick trellis of the trembling vine, That with leaves doth loop and twine Aery easements, whence the glance Of whoso there, as in a trance, Walketh about the whisperous shade Under that vaulted verdure laid, Seeth far down, and far away, Tower'd cities, throng'd and gay, Blowing woodlands, bright blue streams Sparkling outward, yellow gleams Of wavèd corn, and sun-burnt swells Of pasture, soothed with sounds of bells Sprinkled in air, of various tone, From little hill-side chapels lone, And peaceful flocks that stray and pass Down endless lengths of lowland grass. And, certes, I will boldly say Of this fair place, let mock who may, That of joy the quintessence Hath never slept about the sense Of mortal man that is to die With fullness sweet as that which I Deep in my solaced heart have known, Whilhom walking, not alone, Here in summer morns and eves, When shadowy showers of flittering leaves Fell, shaken thick from many a rout Of little birds that fast flew out Above us; interruption sweet To converse, felt the more complete For the interposèd pauses Born of all such innocent causes. 4. High on the happy lawn above Standeth the dwelling of my love. Fair white all the mansion seemeth, Save where in green shadow dreameth The broad blossom-buttress'd roof, Or where the many-colour'd woof Of honeysuckle and creeping flowers, Visibly from vernal showers Winning length, hath broider'd all With braided buds the southern wall. Therein many windows be; And every window fair to see, O'er-canopied with hangings bright, For shelter fresh from summer light. And underneath, in urns and pots, Sweet-smelling basil, and red knots Of roses ripe; for every casement Is balconied about at basement, A space where three or four may sit At interchange of song or wit, In the low amber evening hours, Overlooking lawns and flowers. 5. In the hall, which is beneath, A fountain springeth and echoeth, Blown by a sad-looking Nymph, Ravisht from her native lymph And mossy grot, in days of old; And in marble mute and cold Here for ever must she dwell Uncompanion'd, by the spell Of a stern old sculptor caught; For, aye since then, the hand that wrought This stony charm her limbs upon May not undo it. Years are gone, And still about her doth she stare, Amazed however she came there. 6. But ye, since ye be free to rove This mansion through, to floors above Up the majestic marble stair Pass with still steps, unseen, to where Soon shall ye find, in sequel long, Twelve great chambers: some be hung With arras quaint, that doth portray Hounds that hold the hart at bay In good green wood, and hunters bold, And dames aclad in green and gold; And evermore their horns be wound, And evermore there cometh no sound: Others in glowing fresco tell Great Caesar's tale, and how he fell Pierced through and through; with many a story Of ancient kings that be in glory, And high-renownèd heroes old; Sir Tristram, with his harp of gold, That rashly drain'd the philtre brew'd By the witch Queen for fair Isoud; Roland in Roncevallès slain; And bold Sir Ogier the Dane, Huon of Bordeaux, love's true star; Saladin with his scimitar; The Red-beard Kaiser, sleeping still Hid in the heart of Salzburg Hill; David that danceth round the ark; And Charlemagne; ye there may mark. 7. But, o my Songs, more softly now, More softly move! Breathe low, breathe low! For, by my heart's most tender fear, I know that ye must now be near The place where, nesting meek and warm, Rosy cheek on snowy arm, With loos'd hair and lidded eye Dreaming doth my Lady lie: And all around the restful air Is silent, sweet, and pure, as where Fond hands some holy taper trim, Peaceful in sacred precincts dim. Now, that my spirit, though far away From her loved beauty, night and day Ever in unreleasèd pine Seeking, on many a musèd line, To flow toward her, purely may Her pureness praise, -- humbly I pray Of all good things that wait upon The mind that maketh devotion To what is fair (since such do lean O'er mortal spirits oft unseen Out of the deep and starry night, Or steal on beams of morning light, Or breath of buds, or sound of song Remember'd, to keep safe from wrong, And wretchedness, and self-mistrust, Whatever warreth in this dust Against oblivion), that their grace May from my spirit purge and chase All that is in it not sweet and pure; So may I look with insight sure Into myself, and favour find To make a mirror within my mind, Whereon, unsoil'd of any taint Of sinful thought, my most sweet saint Her fairness may from far let fall In a deep peace perpetual. 8. The memory of her is mellow light In darkness, mingling something bright With all things; like a summer night. 9. The presence of her is young sunrise, That gladdeneth, and, in wondrous wise, Glorifieth, the earth and skies: 10. Her spirit is tender and bright as dew Of May-morn fresh, when stars be few: Her heart is harmless, simple, and true, 11. And blithe, and sweet, as bird in bower, That singeth alone from hour to hour: Her face is fair as April flower: 12. Her voice is fresh as bubbling bound Of silver stream, in land new found, That maketh ever a pleasant sound 13. To the soul of a thirsty traveller: Her laugh is light as grasshopper: Her breath is sweet as midsummer: 14. Her hair is a marvellous living thing With a will of its own: the little locks fling Showers of brown gold, gambolling 15. Over the ever-fleeting shade About her shoulder and sweet throat stray'd, With delicate odours underlaid: 16. Like calm midsummer cloud, nor less Clothed with sweet light and silentness, She in her gracious movement is: 17. Noble withal, and free from fear As heart of eagle, and high, and near To heaven in all her ways: of cheer 18. Gentle, and meek, from harshness free As heart of dove: nor chideth she Things ill, but knoweth not that they be: 19. All clear as waters clean that run Through shadow sweet, and through sweet sun, Her pure thoughts are: scorn hath she none: 20. But in my Lady's perfect nature All is sincere, and of sweet feature. This earth hath none such other creature. 21. Rise, little Songs, on nimble wing! Arise! arise! as larks do sing Lost in that heaven of light they love, So rise, so lose yourselves above My darkness, in the perfect light Of her that is so pure and bright! Rise, little Songs! with lusty cheer Rise up to greet my Lady dear. Be bold, and say to her with pride, -- "We are the souls of loves that died; Whose sweetness is hope sorrow-fed, Whose tendernesses tears unshed; And we are essences that rise From passions burn'd in sacrifice; The youngest and bright-eyèd heirs Of blind unbeautiful despairs; Voiced resignations, once dumb wrongs." Then, if she smile on you, my Songs, Say, as I bid you, word for word, "Lady of him that is our lord, We from his heart, where we were born, Shelter'd, and shut from shame and scorn, Now at his bidding (well-a-day For him, and us!) being fled away, Never again may there abide, Never return, and, undenied, Creep in, and fold our wings, and rest At peace in our abandon'd nest. Wherefore, dear mistress, prithee take (By true love sent, for true love's sake) To thy sweet heart, and spirit pure, Us, that must else but ill endure The scorns of time, and haply fare Homeless as birds in winter are." 22. But if that, on your way to greet My gracious Lady, ye should meet Haply elsewhere with other folk Who may ask ye in scorn or joke, -- "Pray you now, little Songs, declare Who is that lady so sweet and fair, Whereof this singer that sent you sings, As certainly sweeter than all sweet things?" See that ye answer not, Songs, but deep In your secretest hearts my secret keep; Lest the world, that loveth me not, should tell The name of the Lady I love so well.
H. Willan sets stanza 21:18-34
About the headline (FAQ)
Note: the title was given as "Lines" in an 1867 edition.
Authorship:
- by (Edward) Robert Bulwer-Lytton (1831 - 1891), as Owen Meredith, title 1: "The Message", title 2: "Lines", appears in The Poems of Owen Meredith, Volume I, in 2. Book II. Absence, Leipzig: Berhard Tauchnitz, pages 71-88, first published 1869 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by (James) Healey Willan (1880 - 1968), "Dedication", stanza 21:18-34 [ voice and piano ] [sung text checked 1 time]
Researcher for this page: Sharon Krebs [Guest Editor]
This text was added to the website: 2012-12-12
Line count: 534
Word count: 3237