Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XV
Thus it began with laughter. But anon
The ox--eyed queen, who had resumed by rote
The tale of her perfections one by one,
Turned by some ominous chance towards the spot
Where we two stood. ``And take good note,'' said she,
``All here is honest beauty, flesh and blood,
As any in the world. Yet, if there be
A doubt between you, let me make it good.
Which of you two will honour me so near
As to prove the truth?'' My cheeks in spite of me
Flamed in the dark, and I was seized with fear
And a wild doubt lest mine the choice should be.
The little woman on the chair began
To shout aloud and bid me play the man.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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To One In A Garden
If I were other than, alas, I am,
A soul in strife, whom banded foemen vex,
If toil were folly and good deeds a sham,
And hydra wrong had shed its serpent necks,
And life's dark problems could no more perplex,
How sweet it were, forgotten of all blame,
In that far garden which your summer decks
To dream with you that grief was but a name.
--Ay, dream! For waking which of us were wise
To spell grief's epitaph? Some tears must be
Even in the herald hour of your sunrise.
And in the night? Ah, child, what misery,
Think you, awaits us when life's flood--gates strain
To the full deluge of the descending rain?
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XXXIII
Such was the legend. I had read it through
Twice ere I thought of thinking what it meant.
And as I turned with a sigh because I knew
That I alone perhaps of all who went
Homewards that night should bid good--night to none,
From a side door thrust open on the street
And calling as she passed in petulant tone
To one within who seemed to rouse her heat,
``Ah, mauvais plaisant!'' ere she slammed it to,
Out stepped my little woman of the Fair.
Her face was altered, but its form and hue,
If I had doubted in the moonlight there,
Was marked for me by that unaltered sign,
The little scar, its beauty's underline.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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God Is My Witness
God knows, 'twas not with a fore--reasoned plan
I left the easeful dwellings of my peace,
And sought this combat with ungodly Man,
And ceaseless still through years that do not cease
Have warred with Powers and Principalities.
My natural soul, e'er yet these strifes began,
Was as a sister diligent to please
And loving all, and most the human clan.
God knows it. And he knows how the world's tear
Touched me. And He is witness of my wrath,
How it was kindled against murderers
Who slew for gold, and how upon their path
I met them. Since which day the World in arms
Strikes at my life with angers and alarms.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet XXIX
He bore her to his home 'twixt life and death,
By mute connivance of the slumbering streets,
Bore her redeemed to a new world of breath
And peace divine, belike the Paraclete's.
There lay she in his hands for many days
Speechless, unasking,--only in her soul
The wonder grew at love's mysterious ways
Which had outwitted grief and proved her fool.
Ay, fool in sooth, unblest by her own will,
Yet now by chiding of love's guidance blest,
Who, sparing all, of all now found her fill,
And lost to love was now of love the guest.
Dreaming she lay, with visions in her eyes
Of a new world where women all were wise.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XVI
Gods, what a moral! Yet in vain I jest.
The France which has been, and shall be again,
Is the most serious, and perhaps the best,
Of all the nations which have power with men.
France only of the nations has this plain
Thought in the world, to scorn hypocrisy,
And by this token she shall purge the stain
Of her sins yet, though these as scarlet be.
Let her put off her folly! 'Tis a cloak
Which hides her virtue. Let her foremost stand,
The champion of all necks which feel the yoke,
As once she stood sublime in every land.
Let her forgo her Tonquins, and make good
Her boast to man, of man's high brotherhood!
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXVIII
Yet it is pitiful how friendships die,
Spite of our oaths eternal and high vows.
Some fall through blight of tongues wagged secretly,
Some through strifes loud in empty honour's house.
Some vanish with fame got too glorious,
And rapt to heaven in fiery chariots fly;
And some are drowned in sloth and the carouse
Of wedded joys and long love's tyranny.
O ye, who with high--hearted valliance
Deem truth eternal and youth's dreams divine,
Keep ye from love and fame and the mischance
Of other worship than the Muses nine.
So haply shall you tread life's latest strand
With a true brother still, and hand in hand.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: XC
THE PRIDE OF UNBELIEF
When I complained that I had lost my hope
Of life eternal with the eternal God;
When I refused to read my horoscope
In the unchanging stars, or claim abode
With powers and dominations, but, poor clod,
Clung to the earth and grovelled in my tears,
Because I soon must lie beneath the sod
And close the little number of my years,--
Then I was told that pride had barred the way,
And raised this foul rebellion in my head.
Yet, strange rebellion! I, but yesterday,
Was God's own son in His own likeness bred.
And thrice strange pride! who thus am cast away
And go forth lost and disinherited.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XVIII
Alas, poor Queen of Beauty! In my heart
I could weep for you and your sad graceless doom.
You stand at my life's threshold in the part
Of king's chief jester in the ante--room,
And none more near the throne. You made us sport
According to your folly, and passed on,
And now you live with pension in Love's Court,
And privilege to jest and wear the crown.
Yes, I could weep for you. Your part it was
To strike the cymbals on a night sublime
For Love's first bridal dance. Alas, alas!
Time, the avenger of our manhood's prime,
Is gathering all life courtiers to his cell,
And you among the rest. So fare you well.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXIII
So I, I am ashamed of my old life,
Here in this saintly presence of days gone,
Ashamed of my weak heart's unmeaning strife,
Its loves, its lusts, its battles lost and won,
And its long search of pleasure 'neath the sun,
And its scant courage to endure the knife,
And its vain longing for good deeds undone,
Ending in bitter words with railing rife.
I am unworthy, yet am comforted,
As one who driving o'er long trackless roads
Of brake and rock and briar with footsore steed
And springless chariot, searching for vain gods,
Finds the high--road before him, where at ease
The old world plods the rut of centuries.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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