Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ANGEL OF GOD IN THE GARDEN OF DAME PHANTASY, by THEOPHILE JULIUS HENRY MARZIALS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ANGEL OF GOD IN THE GARDEN OF DAME PHANTASY, by                    
First Line: Dame fancy's garden hath a deep bocage
Last Line: The simples of her art will make them live alway
Alternate Author Name(s): Marzials, Theo; Marzials, Theophile Jules Henri
Subject(s): Angels; Gardens & Gardening; Heaven; Love; Music & Musicians; Paradise


Dame Fancy's garden hath a deep bocage,
Y-pleach'd of box and yew, in such smooth wise
It rather seems some plaster'd foliage,
Round a stone gallery of quaint devise.
The gardener there hath also shown his wit
In florid arches; and the top as fit
To promenade all round, so broad is it,
And lofty eke, straight up into the skies,
And spiss with little leaves could baffle Argus-eyes.

What time had Phoebus up his brilliant car
Wheel'd to the pole, on chargers of white light,
A-nooning there the while on lands a-far
He pour'd a spilth of Godship, as no wight
Can look on for the pureness of its shine, --
I did me in that umbrage cool incline,
And never thought nor cank'ring care was mine,
But just to sleep as long as well I might,
And to some Sylvan God anon my dreams indite.

I' the boughs around, with many pretty calls,
The birds were rhyming sonnets in love-chasse,
O'er multitudinous melodious falls
Around a fountain-base, where, wrought in brass,
A satyr held a plump wood-nymph at bay,
A-spiritling up the water every-way,
Right up pellucid, on me as I lay,
In rainbow mist, that on the green fresh grass
Did sprinkle little drops, twinkling like beads of glass.

And eke the sward was so thick set, and trim
With tender herbage, more as velouet
It seemed, -- smooth, to quite the basin-brim,
Where sylphs at the twelve cornices were set,
And quick within, a-flashing fro and to,
The crimson fishes swam, and the moss grew
With shining bubbles bright be-gemm'd, that thro'
The ripple-rings broke up, and half in fret,
Half laughter, like coy nymphs, their rims with kisses wet.

I' the gentle draughts flavour'd with flowers of clove,
And full-blown roses; lost in listening
To the sweet birds a-piping from the grove,
And the fresh trickle of the fountain-spring.
I slumber'd on, and let my fancies clear
To run where'er they listed, till mine ear
Was struck by melody so sudden sheer
That up I started, mad with marvelling,
To learn from whence it came, and question on the thing.

For such a music I had never heard;
It was so passing pure, and rich withal
As never yet was pipe or treble bird,
Nor gay, nor certes melancholial,
But sooner like a wight with a bird's soul,
Whose pleasure of itself is so sure whole
It hardly knows the virtues to condole
Or grieve -- yet hearts with feeling so to thrall,
As myriad nightingales trilling one madrigal.

And spying through a pleached arch of yews
Down the long terrace, set with citron-trees
Of fruited fragrance, pied with all quaint hues
Of flowers, and bosquets slumberous with bees
And flies a-shimmering in the burning noon,
Round every shrub, to every fancy hewn,
Or fowl, or cone, or griffin, -- lo! the tune
Came from an angel thrumming at his ease,
And gliding down the sward as on the zephyr-breeze.

But could I you depaint the light that slid
From fair his body, I had might of song
Like Orpheus, to bedazzle you unchid
To very blindness; for the walks along
That angel's glory flooded, crystal-pure,
A-rapturing every sense, I you assure,
With beauty, eyes and ears, as could endure
No mortal wight, yet in my brains among
Some cordial dropt from heaven and made them counter-strong.

So I could watch him, tall as a tall stem,
With golden head thin-circled with a ring
Of metal bright as is no diamond gem,
Nor gold, nor yet white flame; and either wing
Just trembling softly through a crowd of eyes,
Like to a peacock's -- gorgeous with dyes
Of green and gules all blending; and like-wise
His garment quaint was work'd with flower and ring,
On broad silk stripes like jewels burst in blossoming.

And 'mid his thick locks rilling from his head,
Crisp as gold wires of gold-craft, fine and small,
Around the auriole, or white or red,
Roses were strung, and most ambrosial
The fan-winds piped, as closely to his back
His pinions shut in time; till from the track
The air came trembling with low music, slack
Where the soft rustle of his silken pall
The hem bestift with emeralds on the sward let fall.

But of his beauty, I can scarce essay
To picture the white ivory and vermeil
Of curved his lips and cheeks; or waved the ray
Like down of rushes, each his eyebrows, pale
On broad his forehead, with the rings of gold
Circling a-down them; or i' the loosen'd fold
His creamy throat a mystery to behold,
With veins of violets and rose; a tale
In each of beauty -- yet to tell 'twould scarce avail!

Or eke the marvellous expression
Of calm his eyes of grey, most tranquil hue,
That from the lash-fringe never brimm'd but on
Gazed with a great still light, a-shining blue,
As from a very furnace of pure thought,
Where God had piled the fuel on, y-wrought
With trusting as with incense-savour: taught
Of Gabriel himself, so shrill and true
His voice from his round mouth, like flutes, rich rushed through.

His mandoline he lean'd against his thigh,
With outstretched arm, and with a flexile wrist
He scraped a gaudy quill he'd found thereby
Along the silver twinkling strings, till whist
Each bird in piety, and from their bed
The flower-stalks curtsied, and the peacocks spread
Their plumes a-sparkling in the light he shed
Around him, and I hearing hardly wist
If it was man or angel in me that did list.

At th' arbour entrance did he take his stand,
Where thick and tall the stocks and lupins grew,
In time to the swift scudding of his hand
The turnsols nodded round him in a row
As straight as a device up-till his waist,
And rush'd the runs and quavers in such haste
Of little sharp glib notes, in heavenly taste
So florid -- craving grace to word it so,
My ears seem'd dazzled quick as eyes with lightning-blow.

Then 'gan he sing of heaven and heaven's love,
So every word or note a picture was
Most perfect, how the angel-saints above
In that bright garden circling cycles pass
Of bliss and tranquil blessing and long days
In cool sequester'd grots, or clear the rays
Of God himself, flooding huge crowds that raise
Majestic music in his great high mass
With lutes and clarinets and clashing cymbal brass.

Of calm clear dawns he sang, and evens eke,
When jocund bands go forth to trim the stars
Jingling in tune to psalms of those that seek
The purest soul-balms from the nenuphars
And lotus off the lakes of crystal light,
Or thyme-beds up the mountain-slopes bedight
With vapours soft as fruit-blooms, to the sight
Stretching for myriad miles, and far, most far,
Flutt'ring with winged forms, fair as but angels are.

Or of the constant hearts that watch the door
Where the souls enter, shading their strange eyes
Against the brilliant beauties that so pour
Around them, lost in wonder, dazzling-wise.
Or calm the saints that wait, and watch, and pray,
With hungry brimming eyes for far away
Some lover lost in lechery, and gainsay
And spurn the pressing of such companies
Would turn or ease their thoughts with tender pleasantries.

Or of the chamber of the blessed mother,
With windows open, and the breath of clove
And sunlight drifting in, as each to other
The maidens tell sweet tales, and the time goes
From age to age; and still they work and spin
Soft garments for the limbo, and whose sin
Was not their own, and ever mingling in
The music of some minstrel angel flows,
Who stands without, breast-high, 'mid the tall garden-rows.

Of quiet orchard-closes fresh with spring,
The grass thick set with yellow crocuses,
And all the bared boughs white with blossoming,
And rich young green a-rustling in the trees,
Of which fond angel-lovers in the shade
Sit with their arms on either's shoulders laid,
Their heads upon their hands; and man by maid
Read from one scroll unfolded on their knees,
And flooding in one time their thoughts with poesies.

Or when the ripe fruits rattle from the boughs,
Peaches and sweetings, and the leaves grow red,
And the torn rushes with the water-soughs
Go floating by where fruit's ingarnered
To fill the press with luscious pulp and scent
Of pines and cloves. The pious now intent
On sweet full-sugar'd wines for sacrament,
Against the autumn feastings, when each head
Is pamper'd round with trails of briony berries red.

Or of the rood-lofts of the still chapelles,
Where, lofty 'mid the steeple's oriel eaves,
The thrushes building 'mid the chiming bells,
Carol clear songs; and far below the sheaves
Are garner'd in on fields of stubble gold,
I' the golden sun, to where the set-cloud fold
Is pierced with rays along the purple wold, --
While ever rustle on the ivy leaves,
Stark to the yellow light the sunken sun still gives

Against the oriel frame-work, as one plays
Beside her gilt-piped organ, 'long the keys,
In many runs and florid notes, and lays
Her head on one slim shoulder, and the breeze
Of evening whispers in her crisp gold hair,

Where marygolds are threaded; and most fair
Her tap'ring fingers wander here and there,
While all entranced at such sweet harmonies
A lover blows the wind-pipes, clinging to her knees.

Or of the crafty in the cool work-rooms,
Broid'ring fair cloths and costly tapestries,
Minding the shuttle in the chuckling looms;
Or picturing missals with quaint phantasies,
And tales of holy writ, in trick and verse
So musical, that should a wight rehearse
With lips polluted, must bring direst curse;
For they are pure as the soft scents that rise
From those slight flowers that fade, if only suck'd by flies.

And many loving ways did he repeat
In words and music so devotional,
That all my soul seem'd rushing head to feet,
And feet to head, and every vein (how small,
No matter) in my body rang with pain,
From sheer excess of pleasure, to contain
Were past my strength -- tho' ever had I fain
Drink in with ears, into my very all,
Such healing sweeps of song, like balms ambrosial.

And feel some great God's presence most divine
A-rushing through this dross of me, a wight,
Till well-nigh brent this weak body of mine,
And let my soul run up to heaven's height,
A-drowning me the while in mandragore,
Till I nor knew nor heard, nor could restore
To any sense the power to question, or
Examine into aught but the strange sight
Of song that in my soul flooded like Phoebus' light.

And when at last that angel's voice did cease,
As with his thumb he set to tune the strings,
And all the world once more could breathe at ease,
I stept forth, heartful of great questionings,
And said, with low and meet obeisance:
"I crave the grace of your most high puissance,
That I may ask if to your ears perchance
The name of Lady Fancy, on the wings
Of fame, was ever borne 'mid other mortal things.

"For I avow, with all due deference,
I honour'd am, tho' still her humblest swain,
To sing her praises, and with no pretence
Pay her such humble homage can remain,
When minstrels, painters, jewellers, and also
All craftsmen, who of any culture know
Her tranquil influence, have striven to show
Her virtues; nor have ever brought in vain
Their arts at her fair feet, her cognisance to gain.

"Withal as she is one who in good cause
Has work'd so nobly, and with such keen sense
Of God's great goodness, -- eke and ever draws
Some farther use from his munificence,
Showing his might immense in every tit,
However small it seems to our small wit.
I crave that I might read of that fair writ
Whence come your songs, most gracious sir, and hence,
In serving Phantasy, to God give preference."

To me the angel, with a tender look:
"Fond man, on this request to lay such stress!
For know one line y-writ in God's great book
But just to see, at your own littleness
'Twould be to perish, -- all to atoms brent,
As spirit in thin flame to nothing spent,
Nor smoke, nor aught of which acknowledgment
Could ever be; for if you know the less
Of heaven's beauty, 'tis to your own happiness.

"For poesy, as known to ye blind men,
Is perfect heaven; but to us who see,
'Tis God himself, whose mightiness we ken
From line to line, to all eternity
A-following his finger on the page
Where all his beauty is y-writ, and rage,
As mortals do, to reach the culminage
Of his immeasured superiority,
To which we can but strain in flights of phantasy.

"Now of that heaven which we surely know,
And ye but dream of -- 'tis the rose of love,
The greatest gift that God doth but bestow
In part to mortals, up their souls to move
To heaven, where the whole will surely be;
So as we dream God's beauty, so do ye
Dream heaven's love, that God on every tree,
Or flower, or cloud, or midge, has written so,
That learning ye might live, longing to further know.

"For eke in every form, and breath, and shade,
A lesson of God's love is to be found;
In every tit that he has plann'd or made,
I' the meteor in the sky, or deepest sound
Down in the earth its entrails 'tis y-writ.
But man, so blinded by his own conceit,
Must needs some paltry mortal counterfeit
Go grovelling at, intent upon the ground,
Whence back to his dull head his empty thoughts rebound."

Whereon, as if the more to demonstrate
His words, he moved around his peacock-quill,
That with his hand such flashing did create
Of light, and eke so luminously fill
My poor weak eyes with glory, that there fell
As if a wimple from them, and most well
I saw the earth, fair as incredible,
Or through a crystal ball, where light did still,
Like crystal liquified by some great wizard's will.

For love was written each and everywhere,
Within, without that carven bocage pale;
In tiny wordings bright beyond compare,
E'en twinkling nights, when winter frosts unveil
Their white stars from all mist, and still above
The heavens loom, so dark and still, yet move
'T seemeth with myriad tremblings -- so with love,
That garden breathed out gold, and glow'd vermeil
From every flower before -- no matter how so pale.

And eke each herb and shrub -- the crimson rose
With pure soft silver letters was be-cinct;
The lily-heads, spotless as virgin snows,
Were blazon'd forth with red; and interlink'd
Along the chalices, with flaming gold,
Were tinkling anagrams and rhymes enscroll'd
'Mid mazy borders; maddening to behold,
From sheer pleasaunce; tho' yet my eyelids blink'd
At such conceits and words, and all so pretty prink'd.

The fountain on the sward in crystal drops
Did tinkle out into an alphabet
Of letters like clear jewels; and the tops
Of the bocage, with the soft spray be-wet,
Twinkled with little gems like jingling bells;
While from the sylvans in quick ritournels
The thrushes timed their quavers and sharp trills
In beats of love, as bill to bill they met,
And read and told the tales on every leaf were set.

And eke from every daisy on the sward,
And every herb, or blade, or gaudy bed
A vapour pure as incense curl'd and soar'd
To heaven, above the highest poplar head,
In sweet straight spiralings, a-breathing prayer,
Religious, I trow, beyond compare,
And to the sight as most astounding fair
As saintly to the sense -- as when right said
Your soul in still chapelle with Christ hath communed.

I trow I was so lost in marvelling
At this strange portent, more as one distraught
I ran about without the arbour-ring
From flower to flower; yet, nathless, learning naught
Of what was there portray'd -- but reading one,
Then th' other, ere the first was scarce begun;
Then to a third, and, ere that third was done,
Unto a fourth, for the depicturing wrought
On each was of such beauty, 't seem'd it stopt my thought,

As pleasure caught my breath; and so my brain
Went gasping, as it were, at each new trick
Of verse and wanton fancy; till contain
Myself to one alone, were as if thick
In one small plum, I found the savouries
Of citrons, peaches, and ripe strawberries,
And wine, and honey of Hymettus' bees,
And to the palate all things choleric,
Till like at one small read my brain grew surfeit-sick.
Yet eke so good found this new nourishment,
Must tamper with it in extravagance
Of perfect plenty, as a toper spent
With costly piments, still at his mischance
Goes tippling on, and flings away the draught
Ere yet the bubbles from the brim be quafft,
And shouts for more to fling away, berafft
Of reason, in the sheer extravagance
Of pleasure, and so I with drunken looks askance

From every petal took a beauty drop,
Like luscious liquor, till my silly head
With pictury, and rhyme, and thought, and trope,
And music, was brimful replenished,
That surfeit labour thence could but accrue
From such variety of meats, tho' few
And choice, and chosen with attention due
To the digesting, might have strengthened
My brain, till never yet was sage so lettered.

This silly conduct when the angel saw,
Y-seated on the fountain-brim, intent
Upon the twittering sweeps his quill did draw,
A tuning on his tight-strung instrument --
"O foolish man," quoth he, "who losest all
In trying to appease irrational
Thy weak desires, to rue and bitter gall
Turning what God to thy salvation sent,
Thro' mad abuse, but to a well-timed chastisement.

"Nay, sooner choose, poor wight, some bud or rose,
Or larkspur, yonder where so much is writ
Of beauty and divinement; for who knows
The best knows most; -- and to your benefit
Study it deeply, and the greater gain
Of wit will come, as you the more contain
Yourself unto one knowledge, tho' most fain
To sluggard-man to thus neglect his wit,
And show instead some pompous empty counterfeit."

At these harsh words, come from so gentle source,
I stood contrite enow; and, thus dismiss,
And of my folly thinking have recourse,
I pluck't one tall, white, spotless fleur-de-lis,
That from its spindle straight bow'd t'wards the east,
Letter'd and scroll'd with arabesques, at least
A thousand, wrought in gold, and inter-tress'd
With purple-blues thro' the interstices,
With bold initials girt with tender imageries.

Whereon I found y-writ the blessed love
Of triply bless'd that maid immaculate,
Who, in her pretty parlour, sweet with clove,
And fresh carnations in a red jar set
Beside the window, where, in a gilt cage,
Two doves were billing, fain received the gage
Of the Great Paraclete, reading her page
Of daily prayer, as at her desk she sat
With one tall lily from her hand a-standing straight.

Around her virgin garment white and sweet
Folded in great stiff folds, and by the door
A peacock strutted, and a-down the street
The people flock'd to mass, and, arching o'er
From house to house, were stately balconies
In florid styles, set with great jars and trees
Of bushy green, thick with ripe oranges,
And tapestries the ledges hung before,
And knights there courted dames that stately satins wore.

And eke how like sunlight and rings of gold
She circled was by Saint Conception,
A-bending meekly as her did enfold
The great God's presence, that so mighty shone,
The passers in the streets must shade their eyes,
The while a saint attendant in gay guise
Knelt in the close without, adoring wise,
Light on the borders, where vermilion
And gold the tiny tulips trembled every one.

And as I fain would have re-read the rhymes,
Their jingling trick and minstrelsy to know
To my heart's core, quick clatter'd out the chimes
From pointed the mid palace tower; and lo!
The lily, and the angel, and the light
All vanish'd like a vision; and my sight
Bedazed and dazzled groped as in black night,
And found me still along the fountain-flow,
Cadenced in slumbery music, trickling soft and slow.

But i' the clear sweep above of the great sky,
Melting from saffron pale to violet,
Sweet Hesperus like a jewel twinkled high
In calm still light, against the which close set
The bosquet trees stood outlined black and square
As eke the statues by the terrace stair
All open to the twilight, where in pair
The fireflies glimmer'd faintly, and, just wet,
The air was sweet with lush heart's-ease and mignonette.

And down the terrace came the sweeps of lutes,
And whispering, and soft footfalls rustling by,
And trailing robes, and clarinets, and flutes,
As soft as could be heard, and minstrelsy
Most meetly as Dame Phantasy doth chuse
On summer even's, when it is her use
To pass to this bocage, and 'mid the yews
Spend a calm hour in goodly company
Of such fair knights and ladies love her courtesy.

So I up-rose and hurried, still intent
On my strange dreams, to meet her in the way,
A-gathering such posies as I went
Had figured there; for, ere they quite decay,
Methought, I'll bring them to Dame Phantasy
Herself, whose knowledge keen may there descry
Some traces of the tricks and pictury
I fancied were y-writ; and if she may,
The simples of her art will make them live alway





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