Arthur Christopher Benson
A. C. Benson.
Arthur Christopher Benson, conocido como A. C. Benson, (24 de abril de 1862 – 17 de junio de 1925) fue un ensayista y poeta inglés y el vigesimoctavo director del Magdalene College de Cambridge.
Arthur Christopher Benson nació el 24 de abril de 1862. Fue uno de los seis hijos de Edward White Benson (arzobispo de Canterbury, 1882-1896) y su esposa Mary, hermana del filósofo Henry Sidgwick. Entre sus hermanos se encontraban Robert Hugh Benson y E. F. Benson. La familia de Benson fue excepcionalmente culta y dotada, pero su historia fue algo trágica. Un hijo y una hija murieron jóvenes, y otra hija, así como el propio Arthur, sufrieron mucho debido a su condición mental que probablemente era una psicosis maníaco-depresiva, que habían heredado de su padre. Ninguno de los niños se casó nunca. Arthur era homosexual, aunque sus diarios sugieren que tenía escasas o nulas relaciones sexuales.
A pesar de su enfermedad, Arthur fue un distinguido académico y un autor prolífico. Fue educado en el Colegio Eton y el Kings College de Cambridge. De 1885 a 1903, impartió clases en Eton y regresó a Cambridge a dar una conferencia de literatura inglesa para el Magdalene College. De 1915 a 1925, fue director en este último. A partir de 1906, fue el gobernador de la Escuela Gresham.
Un miembro de la Royal Society of Literature fundó en 1916 la Medalla Benson, que se concedería en el «respeto a obras meritorias en la poesía, ficción, historia y bellas letras».
Falleció el 17 de junio de 1925 y está enterrado en el cementerio de la Parroquia de la Ascensión en Cambridge.
Obras
Sus poemas y volúmenes de ensayos, tales como From a College Window, fueron famosos en su época; y permanece como uno de los diarios más largos jamás escritos, con alrededor de cuatro millones de palabras. Hoy es más recordado por ser el autor de la letra de la canción patriótica inglesa «Land of Hope and Glory», cuya música compuso Edward Elgar, y por ser el hermano del novelista E. F. Benson.
Sombras
Shadows
El alma imperiosa que no se dobla ante la voluntad de ningún hombre,
Que toma por derecho propio el servicio de su clase,
Flota en el aire libre, intocable, ilimitado.
Golpea lo que oye, esclaviza, caprichoso todavía.
Pero cuando se precipita sobre la tierra,
Rápida, rápidamente las visiones vacilan: su ala valiente
Ya no lo sostiene; y esa repentina cosa sombría
Acecha desde la oscuridad, y lo envuelve.
Entonces puedes ver el cernícalo que se cierne golpeado
Sobre el risco, en lento circular, piñones tiesos
Cayendo en la luz solar a través del viento.
Y mientras lucha por aferrarse a las rocas.
Su sombra huye a través de la caliza blanca
Y lo enfrenta, arrodillándose a sus pies.
DESIDERATO
Oh, lost and unforgotten friend,
Whose presence change and chance deny;
If angels turn your soft proud eye
To lines your cynic playmate penned,
Look on them, as you looked on me,
When both were young; when, as we went
Through crowds or forest ferns, you leant
On him who loved your staff to be;
And slouch your lazy length again
On cushions fit for aching brow
(Yours always ached, you know), and now
As dainty languishing as then,
Give them but one fastidious look,
And if you see a trace of him
Who humoured you in every whim,
Seek for his heart within his book:
For though there be enough to mark
The man's divergence from the boy,
Yet shines my faith without alloy
For him who led me through that park;
And though a stranger throw aside
Such grains of common sentiment,
Yet let your haughty head be bent
To take the jetsom of the tide;
Because this brackish turbid sea
Throws toward thee things that pleased of yore,
And though it wash thy feet no more,
Its murmurs mean: "I yearn for thee."
The world may like, for all I care,
The gentler voice, the cooler head,
That bows a rival to despair,
And cheaply compliments the dead;
That smiles at all that's coarse and rash,
Yet wins the trophies of the fight,
Unscathed, in honour's wreck and crash,
Heartless, but always in the right;.
Thanked for good counsel by the judge
Who tramples on the bleeding brave,
Thanked too by him who will not budge
From claims thrice hallowed by the grave.
Thanked, and self-pleased: ay, let him wear
What to that noble breast was due;
And I, dear passionate Teucer, dare
Go through the homeless world with you.
MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH
You promise heavens free from strife,
Pure truth, and perfect change of will;
But sweet, sweet is this human life,
So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;
Your chilly stars I can forego,
This warm kind world is all I know.
You say there is no substance here,
One great reality above:
Back from that void I shrink in fear,
And child-like hide myself in love:
Show me what angels feel. Till then,
I cling, a mere weak man, to men.
You bid me lift my mean desires
From faltering lips and fitful veins
To sexless souls, ideal quires,
Unwearied voices, wordless strains:
My mind with fonder welcome owns
One dear dead friend's remembered tones.
Forsooth the present we must give
To that which cannot pass away;
All beauteous things for which we live
By laws of time and space decay.
But oh, the very reason why
I clasp them, is because they die.
HERACLITUS
They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
IOLE
I will not leave the smouldering pyre:
Enough remains to light again:
But who am I to dare desire
A place beside the king of men?
So burnt my dear Ochalian town;
And I an outcast gazed and groaned.
But, when my father's roof fell down,
For all that wrong sweet love atoned.
He led me trembling to the ship,
He seemed at least to love me then;
He soothed, he clasped me lip to lip:
How strange, to wed the king of men.
I linger, orphan, widow, slave,
I lived when sire and brethren died;
Oh, had I shared my mother's grave, .
Or clomb unto the hero's side!
That comrade old hath made his moan;
The centaur cowers within his den:
And I abide to guard alone
The ashes of the king of men.
Alone, beneath the night divine—
Alone, another weeps elsewhere:
Her love for him is unlike mine,
Her wail she will not let me share.
STESICHORUS
Queen of the Argives, (thus the poet spake,)
Great lady Helen, thou hast made me wise;
Veiled is the world, but all the soul awake,
Purged by thine anger, clearer far than eyes.
Peep is the darkness; for my bride is hidden,
Crown of my glory, guerdon of my song:
Preod is the vision; thou art here unbidden,
Mute and reproachful, since I did thee wrong.
Sweetest of wanderers, grievest thou for friends
Tricked by a phantom, cheated to the grave?
Woe worth the God, the mocking God, that sends
Lies to the pious, furies to the brave.
Pardon our falsehood: thou wert far away,
Gathering the lotus down the Egypt-water,
Wifely and duteous, hearing not the fray,
Taking no stain from all those years of slaughter:
Guiltless, yet mournful. Tell the poets truths;
Tell them real beauty leadeth not to strife;
Weep for the slain, those many blooming youths:
Tears such as thine might bring them back to life.
Dear, gentle lady, if the web's unthreaded,
Slander and fable fairly rent in twain,
Then, by the days when thou wert loved and wedded,
Give me, I pray, my bride's glad smile again.
The lord, who leads the Spartan host,
Stands with a little maid,
To greet a stranger from the coast
Who comes to seek his aid.
What brings the guest? a disk of brass
With curious lines engraven:
What mean the lines? stream, road, and pass,
Forest, and town, and haven.
"Lo, here Choaspes' lilied field:
Lo, here the Hermian plain:
What need we save the Doric shield
To stop the Persian's reign?
Or shall barbarians drink their nil
Upon the slopes of Tmolus?
Or trowsered robbers spoil at will
The bounties of Pactolus?
Salt lakes, burnt uplands, lie between;
The distant king moves slow;
He starts, ere Smyrna's vines are green,
Comes, when their juices flow.
Waves bright with morning smoothe thy course,
Swift row the Samian galleys;
Unconquered Colophon sounds to horse
Up the broad eastern valleys.
Is not Apollo's call enough,
The god of every Greek?
Then take our gold, and household stuff;
Claim what thou wilt, but speak."
He falters; for the waves he fears,
The roads he cannot measure;
But rates full high the gleam of spears
And dreams of yellow treasure.
He listens; he is yielding now;
Outspoke the fearless child:
"Oh, father, come away, lest thou
Be by this man beguiled."
Her lowly judgement barred the plea,
So low, it could not reach her.
The man knows more of land and sea,
But she's the truer teacher.
I mind the day, when thou didst cheat
Those rival dames with answer meet;
When, toiling at the loom,
Unblest with bracelet, ring, or chain,
Thou alone didst dare disdain
To toil in tiring-room.
Merely thou saidst: "At set of sun
My humble taskwork will be done;
And through the twilight street
Come back to view my jewels, when
Pattering through the throng of men
Go merry schoolboys' feet."
CAIUS GRACCHUS
They came, and sneered: for thou didst stand!
The web well finished up, one hand
Laid on my yielding shoulder:
The sternest stripling in the land
Grasped the other, boldly scanned
Their faces, and grew bolder:
And said: "Fair ladies, by your leave
I would exhort you spin and weave
Some frugal homely cloth.
I warn you, when I lead the tribes
Law shall strip you; threats nor bribes
Shall blunt the just man's wrath."
How strongly, gravely did he speak!
I shivered, hid my tingling cheek
Behind thy marble face;
And prayed the gods to be like him,
Firm in temper, lithe of limb,
Right worthy of our race.
Oh, mother, didst thou bear me brave?
Or was I weak, till, from the grave
So early hollowed out,
Tiberius sought me yesternight,
Blood upon his mantle white,
A vision clear of doubt?
What can I fear, oh mother, now?
His dead cold hand is on my brow;
Rest thou thereon thy lips:
His voice is in the night-wind's breath,
"Do as I did," still he saith;
With blood his finger drips.
ASTEROPE
Child of the summer cloud, upon thy birth,—
And thou art often born to die again,—
Follow loud groans, that shake the darkening earth,
And break the troublous sleep of guilty men.
Thou leapest from the thinner streams of air
To crags where vapours cling, where ocean frets;
No cave so deep, so cold, but thou art there,
Wrath in thy smile, and beauty in thy threats.
The molten sands beneath thy burning feet
Run, as thou runnest, into tubes of glass;
Old towers and trees, that proudly stood to meet
The whirlwind, let their fair invader pass.
The lone ship warring on the Indian sea
Bursts into splinters at thy sudden stroke;
Siberian mines fired long ago by thee
Still waste in helpless flame and barren smoke.
Such is thy dreadful pastime, Angel-queen,
When swooping headlong from the Armament
Thou spreadest fear along the village green,
Fear of the day when gravestones shall be rent.
And we that fear remember not, that thou,
Slewest the Theban maid, who vainly strove
To rival Juno, when the lover's vow
Was kept in wedlock by unwilling Jove.
And we forget, that when Oileus went
From the wronged virgin and the ruined fane,
When storms were howling round "Repent, Repent,"
Thy holy arrow pierced the spoiler's brain.
To perish all the proud! but chiefly he,
Who at the tramp of steeds and cymbal-beat
Proclaimed, "I thunder! Why not worship me?"
And thou didst slay him for his counterfeit.
A DIRGE
Naiad, hid beneath the bank
By the willowy river-side,
Where Narcissus gently sank,
Where unmarried Echo died,
Unto thy serene repose
Waft the stricken Anterôs.
Where the tranquil swan is borne,
Imaged in a watery glass,
Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn
Stoop to catch the boats that pass,
Where the earliest orchis grows,
Bury thou fair Anterôs.
Glide we by, with prow and oar:
Ripple shadows off the wave,
And reflected on the shore,
Haply play about the grave.
Folds of summer-light enclose
All that once was Anterôs.
On a flickering wave we gaze,
Not upon his answering eyes:
Flower and bird we scarce can praise,
Having lost his sweet replies:
Cold and mute the river flows
With our tears for Anterôs.
AN INVOCATION
I never prayed for Dryads, to haunt the woods again;
More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst-
ing men,
Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we
could fulfil,
Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill;
Were such beloved forerunners one summer day
restored,
Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard.
Oh dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I
Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie;
Where trees from distant forests, whose names were
strange to thee,
Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach
to be,
And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath
made more fair,
Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant
hair.
Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing
looks
To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern
books,
And wonder at the daring of poets later born,
Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is
to morn;
And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater
strength of soul,
Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the
goal.
As when ancestoral portraits look gravely from the walls
Uplift youthful baron who treads their echoing
halls;
And whilst he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled
heir
Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast
to share;
So from Ægean laurels that hide thine ancient urn
I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn.
Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee:
Ah, leave that simple honey, and take thy food from
me.
My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer,
haste;
There's fruitage in my garden, that I would have thee
taste.
Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd,
speak:
Two minds shall flow together, the English and the
Greek.
ACADEMUS
Perhaps there's neither tear nor smile,
When once beyond the grave.
Woe's me: but let me live meanwhile
Amongst the bright and brave;
My summers lapse away beneath
Their cool Athenian shade:
And I a string for myrtle-wreath,
A whetstone unto blade;
I cheer the games I cannot play;
As stands a crippled squire
To watch his master through the fray,
Uplifted by desire.
I roam, where little pleasures fall,
As morn to morn succeeds,
To melt, or ere the sweetness pall,
Like glittering manna-beads.
The wishes dawning in the eyes,
The softly murmured thanks;
The zeal of those that miss the prize
On clamorous river-banks;
The quenchless hope, the honest choice,
The self-reliant pride,
The music of the pleading voice
That will not be denied;
The wonder flushing in the cheek,
The questions many a score,
When I grow eloquent, and speak
Of England, and of war—
Oh, better than the world of dress
And pompous dining, out,
Better than simpering and finesse
Is all this stir and rout.
I'll borrow life, and not grow old;
And nightingales and trees
Shall keep me, though the veins be cold,
As young as Sophocles.
And when I may no longer live,
They'll say, who know the truth,
He gave whatever he had to give
To freedom and to youth.
PROSPERO
Farewell, my airy pursuivants, farewell.
We part to-day, and I resign
This lonely island, and this rocky cell,
And all that hath been mine.
"Ah, whither go we? Why not follow thee,
Our human king, across the wave,
The man that rescued us from rifted tree,
Bleak marsh, and howling cave."
Oh no. The wand I wielded then is buried,
Broken, and buried in the sand.
Oh no. By mortal hands I must be ferried
Unto the Tuscan strand.
You came to cheer my exile, and to lift
The weight of silence off my lips:
With you I ruled the clouds, and ocean-drift,
Meteors, and wandering ships.
Your fancies glinting on my central mind
Fell off in beams of many hues,
Soft lambent light. Yet, severed from mankind,
Not light, but heat, I lose.
I go, before my heart be chilled. Behold,
The bark that bears me waves her flag,
To chide my loitering. Back to your mountain-hold,
And flee the tyrant hag.
Away. I hear your little voices sinking
Into the wood-notes of the breeze:
I hear you say: "Enough, enough of thinking;
Love lies beyond the seas."
AMATURUS
Somewhere beneath the sun,
These quivering heart-strings prove it,
Somewhere there must be one
Made for this soul, to move it;
Some one that hides her sweetness
From neighbours whom she slights,
Nor can attain completeness,
Nor give her heart its rights;
Some one whom I could court
With no great change of manner,
Still holding reason's fort,
Though waving fancy's banner;
A lady, not so queenly
As to disdain my hand,
Yet born to smile serenely
Like those that rule the land;
Noble, but not too proud;
With soft hair simply folded,
And bright face crescent-browed,
And throat by Muses moulded;
And eyelids lightly falling
On little glistening seas,
Deep-calm, when gales are brawling,
Though stirred by every breeze:
Swift voice, like flight of dove
Through minster arches floating,
With sudden turns, when love
Gets overnear to doting;
Keen lips, that shape soft sayings
Like crystals of the snow,
With pretty half-betrayings
Of things one may not know;
Fair hand, whose touches thrill,
Like golden rod of wonder,
Which Hermes wields at will
Spirit and flesh to sunder;
Light foot, to press the stirrup
In fearlessness and glee,
Or dance, till finches chirrup,
And stars sink to the sea.
Forth, Love, and find this maid,
Wherever she be hidden:
Speak, Love, be not afraid,
But plead as thou art bidden;
And say, that he who taught thee
His yearning want and pain,
Too dearly, dearly bought thee
To part with thee in vain.
MORTEM, QUAE VIOLAT SUAVI A PELLIT AMOR
The plunging rocks, whose ravenous throats
The sea in wrath and mockery fills,
The smoke, that up the valley floats,
The girlhood of the growing hills;
The thunderings from the miners' ledge,
The wild assaults on nature's hoard,
The peak, that stormward bares an edge
Ground sharp in days when Titans warred;
Grim heights, by wandering clouds embraced
Where lightning's ministers conspire,
Grey glens, with tarn and streamlet laced,
Stark forgeries of primeval fire;
These scenes may gladden many a mind
Awhile from homelier thoughts released,
And here my fellow-men may find
A Sabbath and a vision-feast.
I bless them in the good they feel;
And yet I bless them with a sigh:
On me this grandeur stamps the seal
Of tyrannous mortality.
The pitiless mountain stands so sure,
The human breast so weakly heaves;
That brains decay, while rocks endure,
At this the insatiate spirit grieves.
But hither, oh ideal bride!
For whom this heart in silence aches,
Love is unwearied as the tide,
Love is perennial as the lakes;
Come thou. The spiky crags will seem
One harvest of one heavenly year,
And fear of death, like childish dream,
Will pass and flee, when thou art here.
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