AT TIBER MOUTH
The low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds, Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads; And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath, As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death.
We came to the silent city, in the glare of the noontide heat, When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street; No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound, But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground.
There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that sleep, Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep; And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears, By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years.
Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the breeze, Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas, For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay, And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away.
But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore, So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more; And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead, They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head.
But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will, And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still.
How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength and far From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star, They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over the sea, But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies, And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o'er us dies; We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hand to save Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have; And yet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent, Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went?
They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name that thrills, And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost-like over their hills.
So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past, For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last.
And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines, Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a flitting of silver lines.
And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood Where I think in the years forgotten an altar of Faunus stood; From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in the sun.
And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow, And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow; Far up from their wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass, The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass.
And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers, While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours; From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue Like sunbeams chained for a banner the thread-like gossamers flew.
And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was young With the gladness of years unspent and the sorrow of life unsung.
So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way, Where the sails of the fishermen folk came homeward over the bay; For a cloud grew over the forest and darkened the sea-god's shrine, And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line.
But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores, And shone on our boat's red bulwarks and the golden blades of the oars, And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a twilight sea, From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be.
ROME, 1881.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
"It is fair to accept the statement of his [Wilde's] own ground, in his preface to the decorative verse of his friend Rennell Rodd, though one doubts whether Gautier would not have dubbed the twain _joints brodeurs_, rather than _jeunes guerriers, du drapeau romantique_. The apostles of our Lord were filled, like them, with a 'passionate ambition to go forth into far and fair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for the world.' But not until many centuries had passed were their texts illuminated to the extent displayed by Mr. Rodd and his printer, with their resources of India-paper, apple-green tissue, vellum, and all the rarities desired by those who die of a rose in aromatic pain. Yet the verse of _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ is not so effeminate as one would suppose."
E.C. STEDMAN
_Victorian Poets_. (1889,) pp. 467-8.
I
1. ROSE LEAF / AND APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / PHILADELPHIA / J.M. STODDART & CO. / 1882.
12mo. Vellum. Pp. 115. Interleaved with green tissue throughout, and printed in brown ink on thin handmade parchment paper on one side of the leaf.
2. ROSE LEAF / AND / APPLE LEAF / BY / RENNELL RODD / WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY / OSCAR WILDE. (SEAL DEVICE IN RED.) / J.M. STODDART & CO./ 1882.
12mo. Cloth. Pp. 115. Printed in black ink on cream laid book paper, without interleaving of tissue.
This edition must have been re-imposed as it is here printed on both sides of the leaf.
3. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF / L'ENVOI / BY / OSCAR WILDE / LONDON / PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION / MDCCCCIIII.
12mo. Wrappers. Pp. 32 (including half-title and blanks). 200 numbered copies issued.
4. ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI BY WILDE.
Sq. 16mo. Printed in _The Bibelot_ for July, 1905. Pp. 221-237.
5. LECTURE ON THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE: ROSE LEAF AND APPLE LEAF: L'ENVOI BY OSCAR WILDE. PORTLAND, MAINE, THOMAS B. MOSHER. MDCCCCV.
Small quarto (5-1/8 x 7). Pp. x: 1-42. 50 copies on Japan vellum, with portrait of Wilde as frontispiece.
II
In taking an assignment of copyright from the surviving member of the firm of J.M. Stoddart & Co. it has been thought desirable to ascertain how _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ came into existence in the peculiar _format_ which has long since set it apart as one of the choicest specimens of applied aesthetics in book-making that America has to offer the collector. Under date of August 17, 1905, Mr. Stoddart wrote as follows:
"I gladly furnish you with such information regarding this book as my memory of a quarter of a century permits.
The paper used in the _edition de luxe_ was a remainder which we found in the possession of a Philadelphia paper dealer, (Charles Megargee, if I remember correctly), and was made at the famous Rittenhouse Mill on the Wissahickon, (near Philadelphia and said to be the first paper mill in America), for the (new) Government of the United States at the time of the first issue of bonds or paper money. It therefore has a historical interest as well as a unique character.
I think this edition was not over 250 copies and price $1.75, but Brentano sold many of these for $3.00 and more, after having secured Wilde's autograph on the cover. This edition is now certainly out of print and so far as I know impossible to procure anywhere. I have heard of copies changing hands at $5.00.
The cheaper edition was issued at $1.00 but comparatively few sold as I was interested in greater matters and transferred the stock to J.B.
Lippincott & Co., where the lot was consumed in their fire.
I think the whole credit for the green leaves, and the general oddity of the make-up of the book belongs to our office altho' Wilde may have been consulted. Of course you recognize the reproduction of his seal."
All the circumstances connected with the publication of _Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf_ are confessedly not entirely clear to us. It is undoubtedly true, as stated in the _N.Y Tribune_, (November 25, 1882,) that "Mr.
Rennell Rodd, the young English poet whose verses were brought out here in apple-green and rose-red under the enthusiastic auspices of Mr. Oscar Wilde, has altered in his faith. He now disclaims any connection with the aesthetic school, and lets it be known that he had nothing to do with the amazing dress in which his verses appeared. He intends to publish a new volume." This "newsy" note was based on a briefer one made just two weeks earlier in _The Academy_, (London, November 11, 1882,) viz.: "We understand that Mr. Rennell Rodd has a new volume of poems in the press. He is anxious to disclaim any connection with the "aesthetic"
school, with which he has been identified."
It may here be said that Mr. Rodd's first impressions were somewhat different from what the above implies. In a letter dated October 6, 1882, he wrote the American publisher:
"I had not till lately seen the little edition,--which is charming. I have seen no _edition de luxe_ in England to compare with it.... I have to thank you for the great care and delicacy with which this little book has been published."
What undoubtedly precipitated the trouble was not the _format_, "amazing" though it may have seemed to the nameless scribe of the _Tribune_, but the proposal by the Stoddart firm to bring out an English edition. This could not be done, as Mr. Rodd pointed out, because the poems had already been published in London, and as he held the copyright, they could not be reissued save with his consent.
Furthermore: "Since I have read the introduction I am not over pleased at the way in which I find myself identified with much that I have no sympathy with." Last of all, probably first of all, "there is one thing in it that has annoyed me excessively, and had I had a proof I should not have allowed it to stand. The dedication is too effusive. I have written to Mr. Wilde on this score, but if he does not write to you, I must ask you as a personal favour to see to it. I want to have it removed from all copies that go out for the future."
Unfortunately Mr. Rodd's request could not well be complied with: the book had been published, and as it turned out no other edition was ever called for by a more or less undiscerning public.
A few other facts are in evidence. The original title of the work as published by Rodd through David Bogue, London, 1881, was _Songs in the South_ and the dedication read "To My Father." It is conjectured that the dedication in the American edition was either based on, or copied from an inscription written by the author in the copy Wilde brought over with him. It read as follows: _To Oscar Wilde--/ "Hearts Brother"--/ These few songs and many songs to come_." It may have been "too effusive." It is seldom, indeed, that we have the time and the place and the loved one all together! It is not denied that this inscription _was_ written by Mr. Rodd, however effusive, and somehow, after the lapse of years one wishes he had not so completely discountenanced the kindly offices of one who later on fell into such desperate extremes. It is quite likely that the evident editing bestowed upon the poems by Wilde may have added to the displeasure of the poet. If so, we cannot, after an acquaintance with the original London text of 1881 agree with him.
Two poems, "Lucciole" and "Maidenhair," omitted by Wilde attest to his critical acumen, and nine additional poems derived, we may suppose from manuscript sources, do not lessen our respect for his supervising care.
The introduction itself was without question a matter of the greatest regret to Mr. Rodd. It credited him "with much that annoys me excessively." It is conceded however, that "it has been kindly meant"--but if a second edition should be in request--it must be "with no introduction"--there were available other poems that could be made to take its place.
Admitting that Wilde went beyond the spirit, if not the letter of his friend's intent, it is a relief to find Rodd's admission that "where a thing has been kindly meant, one cannot find fault.--On reflection I see how foolish it was to make no reservations and restrictions of any kind--For that very reason I have no excuse to make any complaint." But still harping on the supposedly bad effects of Wilde's _L'Envoi_: "It did not occur to me at the time that I should be so completely identified with a lot of opinions with which I have no sympathy whatever." With this disclaimer our quotations from the Rodd letters come to an end.