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de son sentiment et de son humeur. On trouvera quelques exemples de ses sonnets à la fin de ce chapitre. Payne comme poète et écrivain avait un style clair, énergique, rapide et le don du récit. Il devient éloquent lorsqu'il plaide une cause comme dans Quia mulium amavwil.
Quoiqu'on puisse l’accuser et avec raison d’avoir parfois surchargé ses vers de vieux mots, d’avoir affecté certains maniérismes et d’avoir dérobé quelque peu l'essentiel du sujet sous des arabesques compliquées, chez lui les idées ne font point défaut.Le docteur Richard Garnett dit de lui: « Il l'emporte sur la plupart des autres par son objectivité, par son don du récit, où il montre une vigueur et une précision extraordinaires, quelquefois une rapidité essoufflée, et l'énergie impérieuse d’un homme qui est possédé lui-même de la terreur engendrée par son conte. Cette force impétueuse est particulièrement frappante dans The Rime of Redemption et dans Lauirec.»
«Il tomba rarement,sinon même jamais, dans la diffusion et l’incohérence swinburniennes?. Il pèche, en revanche par le travers opposé, par exemple, la concision qui aboutit quelquefois à l’obscurité. Dans toute sa poésie il ÿy a un sentiment de « haute sincérité, le sentiment du divin dans tous les aspects de la nature, et de temps en temps des aperçus d’une réalité mystique par delà la matière.$es sonnets,surtout ceux dans The Way of the Winepress, mettent en lumière la troi-
- sième grande qualité de sa muse, et l'essentiel de la grande
poésie : — c’est le don d’illuminer le but de l'existence et de la beauté de la vie, envisagés du plus haut essor de l’imagination philosophique.
Son talent ne tendait point à la forme classique et nue de Francis Thompson, de Robert Bridges, de Thomas Hardy et de Keats. Cette tournure d’esprit classique se montre dans ces vers de Robert Bridges.
1. The Poets and Poetry of the Century, vol. VIII, A. H. Miles, 2, Comparez In the Bay, de Swinburne.
PP Le: Ve
« The day begins to droop It’s course is done
But nothing tells the place Of the setting sun !. »
et dans ces vers de Keats :
« Three ducks in à pond A green bank beyond
The blue sky of Spring White clouds on the wing ».
et aussi :
« The last red leaf is whirled away ».
Payne excella dans les volutes de la suggestion, plutôt que dans la présentation directe de l’objet. Dans le chapitre suivant nous allons traiter de sa philosophie. Suivent quelques exemples de ses poésies en anglais et en français.
The Rime of Melisande.
« O Melisande, By Surrie strand Red Rose of Tripoli, From Paris town to Askalon, In all the lands the sun shines on, Was never maid like thee.
Blue are thine eyes As summer skies, Thy hair as ripening corn; On good and vile Thy sweet lips smile, Sans ever trace of scorn.
All hearts rejoice To hear thy voice,
1, Wünier’s Nightfall, Dr Robert Bridges,
Like linnets on the wing :
E’en Rudel right That witsome wight, Thy praise uneath might sing.
Unto this end À man might spend His life to gain thy grace; There’s none may think Of care or swink That looks upon thy face. »
The palmer sang; The ghittern’s cilang Called all the folk to hear.
« All over the World, « quoth he, » I've strayed; But never I saw so sweet a maid, « So fair and frank and dear ! »
The fair one’s fame,
Like wind-borne flame, Went spreading, place to place :
Full was the land
Of Melisande, Her goodness and her grace :
And those among
To whom fate flung The tidings of the case,
The news of her
To Rudel’s ear
Came in à little space.
In him for nought, At first, it wrought;
He took thereof scant heed.
But, oh, what à parlous thing is Love,
That whiles but couples twixt dove and dove
And whiles for a word In the distance heard,
Men's’ hearts to death bids bleed !
De Lo Pre
Now by his law The hearkened saw In Rudel’s heart so deep Sank and so wrought Within his thought, On wake and eke in sleep, That before long, None other song There sang, none other strain, Than her sweet name Whose far-flown fame Had witched him, heart and brain.
The thought of her In him did stir
At every time and place; He spoke by light And dreamed by night
Of nothing but her grace; And like à fire Was his desire
To look upon her face.
No more his rhymes,
As aforetimes, Of divers ladies were;
One only praise
Was in his lays:; None other maid might share
His minstrelsy
With her whom he Held only worth and fair.
All Europe rang
With what he sang
In praise of Melisande
From hall to court
Flew his report
In every Chrisom land,
Till oversea
It won where she Abode by Surrie strand.
Jeha Payne
And she, for kind
And mild of mind She was as sweet of show
And keen of wit,
-By word of writ, Gave him full fain to know
That all above
She held his love
And service evenso.
Now in those days That prince of praise, Who fall by Antioch’s wall, Kaiser and Knight, That Redbeard hight, A new crusade let call And Paynim-free Christ’s sanctuary
To make, bade Christians all.
His standard raised, Wheron there blazed The cross, all thither ran Whoso delayed From the crusade
Must bear the dastard’s ban :
From France to Greece, There was no peace For any Chrisom man.
Now, to Rudel When it befell To hear his lady’s word, Joy in his spight Was at its height And longing in him stirred Her face to see And know if she Were even as he heard,
So, by the sign To Palestine
That every Christian bade, Though from the quest He right of rest
Had earned by service made, Occasion yet His mind was set
To take by the Crusade.
And oversea to Tripoli To Tripoli, Seekings his lady bright, Fare, there, if well She willed, to dwell, Undistant from her sight, So, of her grace, He whiles her face Might see and be her knight
And if in her His sight should stir
No love, no kindness wake, He might, at least, Yet faring East,
Arms for the Cross uptake And at Christ’s call, By Zion wall,
Die fighting for her sake.
So for good gold His land he sold And for his lady dear Gifts with the price, Of rare device, He bought and travelling-gear.
His wede he shed And donned instead À palmer’s hat and gown;
Then, taking horse, Came, in due course Of time, to Marseilles town.
There, for his need, A ship of speed He hired à caravel, With arms and crew And all things due For travel furnished well.
So, on the main Lauching, Sardaine And Corsica between He passed and through Th’untroubled blue Drove of the Sea Tyrrhene.
Then faring free, To Sicily He came, with wind in poop, And lest some thief From out the Riff, Some corsair on them swoop
And ship and crew
And him thereto Bear off to slavery,
Ran through the gates
Of Reggio Straits Into the Ionian Sea.
Thence breezes fleet Bore them to Crete, Where for fresh meat and drink, Some little tide They did abide, To ease them of their swink.
Then, in fair weather, Loosing their tether, After a resting-while,
CHATAg LE
They Eastward bent Their course, intent Of making Cyprus Isle.
But scarce from sight Sank Ida’ height When all the sky turned black And thence there blew A wind undue, That turned them from their track.
So, many à day And night, astray They drove before the blast Till, tempest-ragged, The torn sails flagged Upon the stricken . mast.
The heavens scowled, :
The tempest howled Athwart the sails and ‘ropes; And never sight of Of bay or bight There offered to their hopes.
Until, one morn, With day new-born, Down sudden dropped the storm; The eloud-veil drew From off heaven'’s blue And forth the sun shone warm
À dead calm held The seas enspelled;
Of breezes breath was none; They, whose need late For cold w:5 great,
Now sweltered; in the sun.
And to and fro They drifted slow Till hope within them died,
And still their eyes But seas and skies On every hand espied.
Nor provened more There was in store, To stay the failing breath; And eke Rudel By fever fell Was stricken unto ‘leath
So drifted they From day to day, Whilst ail of life despaired; Till as upon The prow, anon, The captain Eastward stared,
The man cried out, ’Twixt hope and doubt, Misdeeming of his eyes; For o’er the brine He saw a line O shores and hills arise.
From the sea’s face, It rose apace, like visions in à dream; And on its marge, Where light lay large, He saw spires flash and gleam.
Roofs rose and towers And domes, like flowers Of gold, against the sky; Upon that sight, So glad and bright, À man might look and die.
« The saints I thank ! »
The captain sank, Thus crying, on his knee; « Iknow that land, That silver strand, Fringed with the date-palm tree.
« I know the port with the white-walled town
« And the creek where the golden sands slope down, « To meet the mounting sea;
«I know the beach with the babbling rill :
« The gray old castle upon the hill
« And the tower I know, with the standard still « That beareth the lilies three;
« The spires and the pinnacled palaces
« I know and the domes. It is, i6 is « The land of Tripoli! »
Their hopes leapt up at the heartening word; There was never à man so weak that heard
But sprang to the sheets again :
The sail rose up on the swaying mast :
It was land, it was blesséd land, at last :
Forgotten were all their fears and fain They would have cheered; but their throats were dry And the shout came out like à broken sigh
Or the wail of à soul in pain.
The town lay silent; beneath the skies
It slept in the dawning glow; There was never a sign for the straining eyes. But « Up with the flag ! » the captain cries;
« Twill waken the folk, I trow. »
So up, with à shout and the halyards’ creak, The black ball ran to the topmost peak And the banner of France at the main broke out And hung in the calm, as if in doubt
Of welcoming, ay or no.
At the sight and the sound the town awoke :
Away on the ramparts the sackbuts spoke;
The drums beat à point of war; The trumpest thundered over the sea And forth of the battlements sweet to see, There broke and blossomed the Lilies Three, Paled with the crosses four, The crosses four and the triple star, The flag of the Paynim feared afar, The banner of Raymond, Lord of Bar And Count of the Surrie shore.
Then heaven took pity ari sent à breeze; A light air wrinkled the crest of the seas And made the taunt, tropes sing; The canvas fluttered, the sea slid by; The land grew nigher and ever nigh; And wearily into the little port The ‘carvel crawled, like a hart amort Or a bird with à broken wing.
The count’s folk haïled as the ship drew nigh, Loud calling frem the quay;
« Ho ! ye of the carvel ! » was the cry:
« Why come ye hither to Tripoli?
« Whence, whence and whither, and what bear ye Withal for lading, say !
« From France », the captain, « we come », replied. « Long, long have we tossed on the angry tide, « Have toiled and travelled it far and wide, Driven of the winds astray.
« Nor stuffs nor jewels we bear for freight; « Yet that, which is more of worth and rate In wise men’s eyes than they, « We bring nought else than à minstrel wight, « Whose like is none in the sheer sun’s sight, « To wit, Sir Geoffry, of Rudel hight, « Baron and Prince of Blay
« The sweetest singer in all the land, « For love of the Lady Melisande, « His last hath he looked on the fair French strand
« And launched on the surging spray; « He hath given himself to the salt sea’s guile, « Hath wended and wearied him many a mile « So but he might see her sweet eyes smile « And kiss her dainty hand, « So but he might hear her welcome say
« And louting low in her presence, pray For favour on his suit.
« But sick alas ! is the bard to death :
« There’s little left in his breast of breath; « The death swoon holds him mute.
« He’Il never again the folk rejoice « With ditties dearer than gems of choice; « He’ll never again uplift his voice « Or sing to the laughing lute. »
All rent that heard
The captain’s word,
With cries of grief the air; For known was Rudel of every man That numbered his name of the Chrisom elan; And straight to the palace one there ran,
As if the news to bear.
Nor was it long Ere through the throng That lined the harbours marge, Thrusting athwart The inner port, There showed à stately barge.
Hung were its sides, within, without, With purple and cramoisie all about :
A dozen steersmen, all about Six upon either side, Swayed as with stalwart strikes and strong, They drove the ponderous barge along The slow resurgent tide.
But none on the barge or the crew might look; For lo ! at the stern, in the curtained nook,
Like à pictured saint in à pious book, Under the awning’s shade, With eyes of azure and hair of flame And forehead flushed with a rosy shame, A lily of light in à golden frame, There sat à shining maïd.
Her hair was gold
As the corn-crowned wold, Her eyes as à summer $ea; Since God in Heaven set day and night Was never à maid so sweet of sight,
So fair of face as she.
Men looked on her face and bent the knee; They gazed in her melting eyes of blue; They noted her princely port and knew
The flower of Christiantie,
The loveliest lady whom ever upon The sunbeams burned and the moonlight shone, À brighter of blee than any star And whiter of wit than lilies are The Lady Melisande of Bar, The rose of Tripoli.
The bark lay low, The barge slid slow; And upon the deck stepped that lady light; She took her way Where Rudel lay And feeling, bent o’er the dying knight.
The death swoon held His sense inspelled ; But syne on his brow her lips she prest; And with the bliss Of that her kiss, The breath came back to his bated breast.
He opened his eyes : by Our Lady’s grace, Life flickered up for a moment’s space :
He opened his eyes on his lady’s face And met her look of love.
He felt him pillowed upon her breast
And thought him already at rest, at rest,
Encompanied round of the ransomed blest, In Paradise above.
He gave God thanks for the gotten goal;
Nought more to wish for; life made whole,
Love’s blisses over the sated soul Full-flowing, tide on tide !
He had lighted at last on the golden shore;
He had entered in at the Heavenly Door;
There was nothing on earth to live for more; And so in Heaven he died.
Under à monument sweet to see
In the Templar’s chapel at Tripoli,
They laid him with mourning and melody, As one of hight estate;
To rest they laid him on royal wise,
Bewept of the tears of his lady’s eyes :
And there, till the day of the Great Assize,
When God all peoples, both small and great,
Shall çall to reckoning up, — await, Geoffrey of Rudel lies.
There sleeps he, freed From all life’s need, From all its cares and charms :
Solved is his soul Of joy and dole, Of gladnesses and harms.
Men hold him mad; But his hope he had; For he died in his lady’s arms.
Songs of the Morrow (De Profundis).
(Carol of Cadence. p. 255.)
Out of the Depths have we sighed to Thee.
Cried to Thee Conjured to Thee, bidden Thee bend to us.
Lend to us Help with Thy nod As of old time to Thy haltest Thy maimest O’er the wild waters, Thou hastest and camest Walking dry shod.
Called Thee to come to us.
Yet wast Thou dumb to us Cold as à clod.
Silence wherever we sought and supineness !
Token was none of for our sense of Divineness
None but Thy rod.
Our nights and our days
Still the fiesce floods of Thy malisons hast Thou unchaïned on us
Never the soft falling showers of Thy favour have rained on us
Where is Thy grace of whose glories our fathers have told us?
Where is Thy righteousness’ sun, that should wrap us and hold us Warm with Thy rays ?
Where is Thy tender compassion, Thy pitiful dealing ?
Where are Thy kindnesses loving, Thy waters of healing God of our praise?
See our sad souls, how they turn to Thee Burn to Thee Flamelike in prayer Wilt Thou not look through life’s night on us Light on us Making our care?
Why hast Thou hidden Thy face from Thy creatures ?
Le poète parle de la futilité des découvertes de la science, et dit que tous nos efforts ont un seul but, celui de trouver Dieu. Quoique les hommes soient d’avis qu'ils ont affaire à
un Dieu avare, qui permet à ses créatures de frapper inutilement à la porte du ciel, le poète sait que Dieu n’est point la volonté, incarnée, insensible ! mais comme un père qui laisse guérir à l'expérience ses enfants des espérances infructueuses, il laisse montrer au temps,
« How idle law is, how futile ambition Leaves him alone to discover how vain is thought making And from his heaven-scaling dreams, to reality waking Work his own cure.
So when time humbleness taught hath us Brought hath us Wisdom and grace When, in our hearts, what he teacheth us Preacheth us Pride shall efface 1 When our void hopes and our visions fantastic forswearing Us at Thy feet shall we, Lord, of life’s frenzy despairing Cast and abase All that we sought have, and followed, for folly confessing Looking for nought but to find us at last in Thy blessing Shelter and place ‘ Then shalt Thou shine on us, Mild and divine on us, Bending Thy face.
Then shall Thine arms everlasting enfold us enwinding Then shall we nestle again in Thy bosom rest finding In Thine embrace.
Then shall Thy mercies o’erflood us, within and without us Shedding, or e’er we go back to the darknessabout us Peace for à space ».
Fin d'Amour
(Carol and Cadence. p. 200)
Nous allions dans les bois assombris par le soir. Les feux du jour mourant doraient le taillis noir; Des étoiles en haut déjà se laissaient voir
Nous suivions sans causer le sombre carrefour A nous dire plus rien n’ayant; car notre amour Etait hélas ! à fin venu, comme le jour.
La nuit planaït sur nous, comme un vautour qui suit Sa proie, mais avant qu'elle au ciel ne se fît Dans nos âmes en peine il faisait noire nuit
Nous sortimes du bois pour marcher dans la plaine Sur les blés mûrissants, comme une antique reine La lumière mourait, languissante et sereine.
Une caille clamait sa plainte continue Puis, soudain, comme un flot déversé de la nue L'’obscurité tomba; la nuit était venue.
La caille interrompit sa monotone gamme L'ombre avait du couchant, oblitéré la flamme Vide partout et vide éternel dans mon âme
Par les grands prés, semés de chênes séculaires Nous suivions mornement, les sentiers solitaires Tout embaumés de foin, jusqu'à ce que les terres
S’abaissant, laissaient voir à travers le ruisseau Le beffroi féodal, qui se mirait dans l’eau, Sentinelle veillant sur l’endormi hameau.
Silence et nuit partout, rien que le couler lent - S’entendait de la vague. Eclose à l'occident Une étoile tremblait mélancoliquement
Nous arrêtant au point où les prés à la route Cèdent du bourg, parmi le blanc bétail en broute, Qui nous considérait de son doux air de doute.
Les yeux rivés aux yeux, nous nous envisageâmes En ce suprême instant, le secret de nos âmes Comme pour pénétrer; puis nous nous séparâmes.
En silence : à quoi bon parler? c'était la fin Sans baiser, sans adieu, sans serrement de main Nous allâmes chacun son lugubre chemin.
Puis, « Pourquoi me dis-je » parler d’éternité « Et dire que la mort n’est rien qu’une cité « D’attente d’où le corps renaît ressuscité
« À cette renaissance où trouver qui se fie.
« Puisque l’amour, principe et base de la vie « De toute chose humaine, est la plus tôt finie ?
« Si nous devons survivre à la tombe inhumaine « Pourquoi du saint amour, que toute vie amène « Ne reste t'il hélas rien si ce n’est la haine?
Ballade à Villon.
(4 Stances)
(Exotica, Poetical works, vol : 11. p. 209).
(Deuxième stance et l’envoi)
Or maître aimé, si du sublime faîte
Du ciel de l’art, où tu t’es établi
Ton doux regard sur mon œuvre s'arrête Pardonne-moi de n’avoir point suffi
De tout mon cœur et de tout mon envi
A retresser l’étincelante maille
De ton beau vers qui chante et pleure et raille En transvasant dans mon grossier flacon Ton noble vin j'ai dû vaille que vaille Crier salut à l’écolier Villon. -
Prince d’iceulx, qui n’a ni sous ni maille Dieu fasse que ton doux esprit tressaille D’aise en entendant célébrer ton nom
Et même de ma voix de faible taille.
Ballades aux Critiques
(3 stances)
(Exotica, Poetical works, p. 210.
(Troisième stance et l’envoi
Leconte de Lisle me dit,
« Courage ! sois opiniâtre »
Banville est là qui me sourit Stéphane de devant son âtre Villiers m’exhortent de combattre Viennent les coups, viennent les cris Vienne le trait acariâtre
J’ai mes fidèles de Paris
Prince de l’art de tout rabattre Ce n’est pas pour vous que j'écris Ainsi que Villon pour m'’ébattre J’ai mes fidèles de Paris
Quia Multum amavit
(London City Poems. Poetical works. Vol. 11, p. 19). (Morceau choisi)
Just a drowned woman, with death-draggled hair And wan eyes all astare The weary limbs composed in ghastly rest The hands together prest Tight holding something that the flood has spared Not even the rough workhouse folk have dared To separate from her wholly, but untied Gently the knotted hands and laid it by her side
I tell you this poor woman you despise From whom you turn your eyes Loved with an ardour side by side with which Our lives so seeming rich
