i;^ii":-i:;i-v:ii:i, M«l«jj>*'" "•••J " "'■:;:!;;;Si;iii.::. Class tllC^5^6 Book ^ El ! L GoipghtN'? COPTOIGUT DEPOSrr. Xs^^ Copyright, By Thomas Y. Ckowell & Co. 1891. PHOTOGRAVURES BY A. W. ELSON & Cc, BOSTON. T. Y. CROWELL & CO., BOOKBINDERS, BOSTON. X I- CONTEI^J'TS. 5>«C i>AGi': Achilles over the Trench 591 Adeline 2'i Alexander. (Early Sonnets.) .... 28 All Things will Die 4 Amphion 118 Arrival, The. (The Day Dream.) . . 116 " Ask me no more." (Princess.). . .431 As through the land. (Princess.) . .390 Audley Court 87 Aylmer's Field 140 Ballad of Oriana, The 20 Ballads and other Poems 554 Battle of Bninanburli 589 Beggar Maid, The KiO Blackbird, The 66 Boadicea 190 Break, break, break 1.35 Bridesmaid, Tlie. (Early Sonnets.) . 30 Brook, The . . . . • 1,36 Buonaparte 20 Captain, The 126 Caress'd or Chidden. (?'.arly Sonnets.) 29 Character, xV 16 Charge of tlie Light Brigade . . . ; 170 Choric Song. (The Lotos Eaters.) ^ . 59 Circumstance . 21 City Child, The 185 Claribel 3 Columbus 579 Come down, O maid. (Princess.) . .435 Coming of Arthur, The ...... ins Come into tlie garden. (3Lnid.) . . .454 Come not when I am dead 130 Daisy, The 181 Day Dream, The 114 Death of the Old Year, The . ... 67 PAGK Dedication, A 190 Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice 672 Defence of Lucknow, Tlie 573 De Profundis 587 Deserted House, The 18 Dirge, A ly Dora 84 Dream of Fair Women, A 61 Dying Swan, The 19 Eagle, The 130 Early Sonnets 28 Edward Gray 121 Edwin 3Iorris 91 Eleanore . 25 England and America in 1782 .... 71 English Idyls 73 Enoch Arden 463 Epic, The 73 Epilogue. (Day Dream.) 118 Experiments 190 Farewell, A i-^'.i Fatima 42 Mrst Quarrel, The 552 Flower, The 184 Gardener's Daughter, The 79 Gareth and Lynette 2O8 Geraint and Enid 235 Godiva 1-13 Golden Year, The 103 Go not happy day. (:Maud.) . . . .450 Goose, The 72 Grandmotlier, The 173 Guinevere 356 Hendesyllablcs ..... Hexameters and Pentameters 192 192 iv CONTENTS. PAGE Higher Pantheism, The 188 Holy Grail, The 313 Home they brought her warrior. (Prin- cess.) 425 I come from haunts. (The Brook.) . . 136 Idyls of the King 197 If I were loved. (Early Sonnets.) . . 30 In ^lemoriam 480 In the Children's Hospital 670 In the Garden at Swainston .... 184 In the Valley of Cauteretz 183 Isabel 7 Islet, The 185 It is the Miller's Daughter 41 Juvenilia 3 Kraken, The 7 Lady Clare 124 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 53 Lady of Shalott, The 31 Lancelot and Elaine 287 Last Tournament, The 2 Late, late, so late. (Guinevere.) . . .359 L'Envoi. (Day Dream.) 117 Leonine Elegiacs 4 Letters, The 130 Lilian 7 Literary Squabbles 186 Locksley Hall 107 Lord of Burleigh, The 127 Lotos Eaters, The 58 Love and Death 20 Love and Duty ......... 101 Love that hath us. (Jliller's Daughter.) 42 Lover's Tale, The 525 Love thou thy Land 70 Lucretius 160 Madeline 11 3Iargaret 24 Mariana 8 Mariana in the South 9 Maud 440 May Queen, The 54 Merlin and Vivien 268 PAGE Mermaid, The 22 Merman, The 22 Miller's Daughter, The 39 Milton. (Alcaics.) 192 Mine be the strength. (Early Sonnets.) 28 Minnie and Winnie 186 Montenegro 588 Morte d'Arthur 74 Moral. (Day Dream.) 117 Move eastward, happy earth . . . .130 My lite is full of weary days .... 27 Northern Cobbler, The 657 Northern Farmer. (Old Style.) . . .177 Northern Farmer. (New Style.) . . .179 Nothing will die 3 Now sleeps the crimson petal. (Prin- cess.) 435 Ode on the death of the Duke of Well- ington 165 Ode sung at Opening of International Exhibition 171 Ode to memory. Addressed to . . 14 CEnone 43 Of old sat Freedom on the heights . . 68 On a mourner 68 O swallow, swallow, flying. (Princess.) 406 Our enemies have fallen. (Princess.) . 425 Palace of Art, The 48 Passing of Arthur, The 369 Pelleas and Ettarre 330 Princess, The 381 Poet, The 16 Poet's Mind, The 17 Poet's Song, The 135 Poland. (Early Sonnets.) 29 Prefatory Sonnet to the " Nineteenth Century " 688 Prologue. (Day Dream.) 114 Recollections of the Arabian Nights . 12 Requiescat 184 Revenge, The 559 Revival, The. (Day Dream.) . . . . 116 Rizpah 544 Rosalind 26 Round Table, The 208 CONTENTS. PAGE Sailor Boy, The 184 Sea Dreams 155 Sea Fairies, The 18 Sir Galahad 120 Sir John Franklin 592 Sir John Oldcastle 575 Sir Laiincelot and Queen Guinevere . 129 Sisters, The 47 Sisters, The • ... 562 Sleeping Beauty, The. (Day Dream.) . 115 Sleeping Pahice, The. (Day Dream.) . 115 Song : A spirit haunts 15 The Owl 11 To the same 12 The winds as at their hour .... 7 Spiteful Letter, The 180 St. Agnes' Eve 120 St. Simeon Stylites 94 Supposed Confessions of a Sensitive Mind 4 Sweet and Low. (Princess.) .... 398 Specimen of Translation Homer's Iliad 192 Talking Oak, The 97 Tears, idle tears. (Princess.) .... 405 The form, the form alone. (Early Son- nets.) 30 The splendor falls. (Princess.) . . .404 Third of February, The 109 Thy voice is heard. (Princess.) . . .414 Tithonus 106 To , after reading a Life and Letters 134 To , "As when with downcast eyes " 28 To ."Clearheaded friend" ... 10 PAGE To , with the following Poem . . 48 To Dante 592 To E. L., on his Travels in Greece . . 135 ToJ.M. K 28 To J. S 07 To Princess Frederica 592 To the Queen 1 To the Queen 378 To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 182 To the Rev. W. H. BiookHeld .... 588 To Victor Hugo 589 Two Voices, The 33 Ulysses 104 Victim, The 186 Village Wife, The 567 Vision of Sin, The 131 Voice and the Peak, The 188 Voyage, The 128 Voyage of Maeldune, The 583 Wages 188 Walking to the Mail 89 Wan sculptor, weepest tliou. (Early Sonnets.) .30 Welcome to Alexandra 172 Welcome to Marie Alexandrovna . . 172 What does little birdie say? . . . .160 Will 183 Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue . 122 Window, The 193 You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease . . 69 TO THE QUEEN. Revered, beloved — you that hold A nobler office upon earth Than arms, or power of brains, or birth Could give the ivarrior Icings of old, Victoria, — since your Royal grace To one of less desert allows This laurel greener from the brows Of him that utter d nothing base; And should your greatness, and the care That yohes with empire, yield you time To "tnake demand of modern rhyme If aught of ancient worth be there; Then — while a sweeter music xoalces, And thro wild March the throstle calls, Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; For tho the faults tvere thick as dust TO THE QUEEN. In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long, And leave us rulers of your hlood As nohle till the latest day ! May children of our children say, " She wrought her people lasting good; ^' Her court was pure ; her life serene; God gave her 'peace; her land reposed A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; " And statesmen at her council met Who hneio the seasons when to take Occasion hy the hand, and make The hounds of freedom wider yet " By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-hased upon her peoples will. And compass d hy the inviolate sea.'' March, 1851. JUVEI^ILIAo 3>«^C CLARIBEL. A MELODY. Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall : But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With an ancient melody Of an inward agony. Where Claribel low-lieth. II. At eve the beetle boometh Athwart the thicket lone : At noon the wild bee hummeth About the moss'd headstone ; At midnight the moon cometh And looketh down alone. Her song the lintwhite SAvelleth, The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth. The callow throstle lispeth. The slumbrous wave outwelleth. The babbling runnel crispeth. The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. NOTHING WILL DIE. When will the stream be aweary of flowing Under my eye 7 When will the wind be aweary of blowing Over the sky 1 When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting ? When will the heart be aweary of beating '^ And nature die 1 Never, oh ! never, nothing will die ; The stream flows. The wind blows. The cloud fleets. The heart beats, Nothing will die. Nothing will die ; All things will change Thro' eternity. 'Tis the world's winter; Autumn and summer Are gone long ago ; Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange. Shall make the winds blow Round and round. Thro' and tlu'o', Here and tliere. Till the air And the ground Shall be fiU'd with life anew. The world was never made ; It >vill change, but it will not fade. So let the wind range ; For even and morn Ever Avill be Thro' eternity. Nothing was born; Nothing will die ; All things will change. ALL THLXGS WILL. DLE. ALL THINGS AVILL DIE. Clearly the blue river cliimes in its flowing Under my eye ; Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing ( )ver the sky. One after another tlie wliite clouds are fleeting ; Every heart this May morning in joy- ance is beating Full merrily ; Yet all things must die. The stream will cease to flow ; The wind will cease to blow ; The clouds will cease to fleet ; The heart will cease to beat ; For all things must die. All things must die. Spring will come never more. Oh ! vanity ! Death waits at the door. See ! our friends are all forsaking The wine and the merrymaking. We are call'd — we must go. Laid low, very low, In the dark we must lie. The merry glees are still ; The voice of the bird Shall no more be heard, Nor the wind on the hill. Oh ! misery ! Hark ! death is calling "While I speak to ye, The jaw is falling, The red cheek paling, The strong limbs failing ; Ice with the warm blood mixing ; The eyeballs fixing. Nine times goes the passing bell : Ye merry souls, farewell. The old earth Had a. birth, As all men know, Long ago. And the old earth nmst die. So let the warm winds range. And the blue wave beat the shore ; For even and morn Ye will never see Thro' eternity. All things were born. Ye will come never more. For all things must die. LEONINE ELEGIACS. Low-FLOwix« guard The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where al 1 The sloping of the moon-lit sward Was damask-work, and deep inlay Of braided blooms unmown, which crept Adown to where the water slept. A goodly place, a goodly time. For it Avas in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. A motion from the river won Ridged the smooth level, bearing on My shallop thro' the star-strown calm. Until another night in night I enter'd, from the clearer light, Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome Of hollow boughs. — A goodly tinu-. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Still onward ; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake. From the green rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical. Thro' little crystal arches low Down from the central fountain's flow Fall'n silver-chiming, seemed to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 13 A. goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. xVbove thro' many a bowery turn A walk with vary-color'd shells Wandcr'd engrain'd. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn In order, eastern flowers large. Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odor in tlie golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Far oft", and where the lemon grove In closest coverture upsprung, The living airs of middle night Died round the bulbul as he sung ; Not he : but something which possess'd The darkness of the world, delight, Life, anguish, death, immortal love, Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, Apart from place, withholding time, But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : A sudden splendor from behind Flush'd all tlie leaves with rich gold- green. And, flowing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamond-plots Of dark and bright. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, Grew darker from that under-flame . So, leaping lightly from the boat. With silver anchor left afloat. In marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank, Entranced with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — A realm of pleasance, many a mound. And many a shadow-checker'd lawn Full of the city's stilly sound, And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick rosaries of scented thorn. Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time. In honor of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. With dazed visions unawares From the long alley's latticed shade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavilion of the Caliphat. Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broad-based flights of marble stairs Ran up with golden balustrade, After the fashion of the time. And humor of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright From twisted silvers look'd to shame The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd Upon the mooned domes aloof In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night new-risen, that marvellous time I To celebrate the golden prime I Of good Haroun Alraschid. I Then stole I up, and trancedly j Gazed on the Persian girl alone, j Serene with argent-lidded eyes Amorous, and lashes like to rays Of darkness, and a brow of pearl Tressed with redolent ebony, In many a dark delicious curl, Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; The sweetest lady of the time. Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Six columns, three on either side. Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive ore, from whicL i4 ODE TO MEMORY. Down-droopM, in many a floating fold, lOngarlandcd and diapcr'd With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gokl. Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd With merriment of Icingly jiride. Sole star of ail that place and time, I saw him — in his golden prime, The Good Haroun Alraschid. ODE TO MEMORY. ADDRESSED TO . Thou who stealest fire. From the fomitains of the past, To glorify the present ; oh, haste, Visit my low desire ! Strengtlien me, enlighten me ! I faint in this obscurity. Thou dewy dawn of memory. Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day ; but robed in soft- en'd light Of orient state. Whilom thou camest with the morn- ing mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn liavo kiss'd. When, she, as thou. Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, Which in wintertide shall star The black earth witli brilliance rare. Whilom thou camest with the morn- ing mist. And witli the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealtli into my open breast (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sear, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year). Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. The eddyir.'g of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence ; and the cope Of the half-attain'd futurity, ,Tho' deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless in- fancy. Small thought was there of life's dis- tress ; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful : Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. Listening the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years. strengthen me, enlighten me 1 1 faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes ! Thou comest not with showers of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory ! Thou wert not nursed by the water- fall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side. The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door. SONG. 15 And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, In every elbow and turn, The filter'd tribute of the rough wood- land, ! hither lead thy feet ! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wat- tled folds, Upon the ridged wolds, When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn. What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath alow-hung cloud. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed ; And like a bride of old In triumph led, Withmusicandsweetshowers Of festal flowers. Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal f rame-workof wrought gold; Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay. And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls Upon the storied walls ; For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, That all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artist- like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labor of thine early days : Xo matter what the sketch might be ; AYhether the high field on the bush- less Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea. Overblown with murmurs harsh. Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretcli'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity. The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling doAvn to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender : Whither in after life retired From brawling storms. From weary wind. With youthful fancy re-inspired, We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind. And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded . My friend, wdth you to live alone, Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! strengthen me, enlighten me ! 1 faint in this obscurity. Thou dewy dawn of memory. SONG. I. A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : To himself he talks ; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks ; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 16 A CHARACTER. Of the mouldering flowers : Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the oartli so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. The air is damp, and liush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave, i' the earth so chilly ; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily A CHARACTER. With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, " The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe Teach me the nothingness of things." Yet could not all creation pierce Beyond the bottom of his eye. He spake of beauty ; that the dull Saw no divinity in grass. Life in dead stones, or spirit in air ; Then looking as 'twere in a glass, He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, And said the earth was beautiful. He spake of virtue : not the gods More purely, when they wish to charm Pallas and Juno sitting by : And with a sweeping of the arm, And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, Devolved his rounded periods. Most delicately hour by horn- He canvass'd human mysteries. And trod on silk, as if the winds Blew his own praises in his eyes, And stood aloof from other minds In impotence of fancied power. With lips deprcss'd as ho were meek, Himself unto himself he sold : Upon himself himself did feed: Quiet, dispassionate, and cold. And other than his form of creed, With chisell'd features clear and sleek. THE POET. The poet in a golden clime was born, AVith golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill. He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will An open scroll. Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame : The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame. Like Indian reeds blown from his sil- ver tongue. And of so fierce a flight. From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung Filling with light And vagrant melodies the Avinds which bore I Them earthward till they lit ; j Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower. The fruitful wit Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Where'er they fell, behold, THE POET'S MIND. 11 Like to the mother plant in sem- blance, grew A flower all gold, And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling Thy winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs Avith beams, Tho' one did fling the fire. Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show'd, And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, Rare sunrise flow'd. And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burn- ing eyes Melted like snow. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn'd by those orient skies ; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame Wisdom, a name to shake All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. And when she spake, Her words did gather thunder as tliey ran. And as the lightning to the thun- der Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder, So Avas their meaning to her words. Xo sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, Ihit one poor poet's scroll, and with Ills word She shook the world. THE POET'S MIND. I. Vex not thou the poet's mind With thy shallow wit : Vex not tliou the poet's mind ; For thou canst not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river; Bright as light, and clear as wind. Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear ; All the place is holy ground ; Hollow smile and frozen sneer Come not here. Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. In 3''our eye there is death, There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants. It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning. Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder ; All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple moun- tain AVhich stands in the distance yon- der : It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, IS THE SEA-FAIRIES. And it sings a song of undying love ; And yet, the' its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it; your ears are so dull ; So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; It would shrink lo the earth if you came in. THE sp:a-fairies. Slow sail'd tlie weary mariners and saw, Betwixt the green brink and the run- ning foam. Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold ; and while they mused Whispering to each other half in fear, Shrill music reach'd them on the mid- dle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away ? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore ? Day and night to the billow the foun- tain calls : Down shower the gambolling water- falls From wandering OA'er the lea : Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery -crimson shells, And thick with white bells the clover- hill swells High over the full-toned sea : O hither, come hither and furl your sails. Come hither to me and to me : Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; Here it is only tlie mew that wails ; We will sing to you all the day : Mariner, mariner, furl yowx sails, For here are the blissful downs and dales. And merrily, merrily carol the gales, And the spangle dances in bight and bay, And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free ; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; Plither, come hither and see ; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, And sweet is the color of cove and cave, And sweet shall your welcome be : O hither, come hither, and be our lords. For merry brides are we : We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Kuns up the ridged sea. AVho can light on as happy a shore All the world o'er, all the world o'er { Whither away ? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, fly no more. THE DESERTED HOUSE. I. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide ; Careless tenants they ! II. All within is dark as night • In the windows is no light ; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before . m. Close the door, the shutters close. Or thro' the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house. Come away : no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. THE DYING SWAN. 19 The house was builded of tlie earth, And shall fall again to ground. Come away: for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell; But in a city glorious — A great and distant city — have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have staid with us 1 THE DYING SWAN. I. The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an iinier voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan, And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-wliite sky, Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; Above in the wind was the swallow, Chasing itself at its own wild will. And far thro' the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept, Shot ovei with purple, and green, and yellow. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear ; And floating about the under-sky. Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear ; But anon her awful jubilant voice. With a music strange and manifold, riow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; As when a mighty people Tejoico With shawms, and witli cymbals, and harps of gold. And tlie tumult of their acclaim is roU'd Thro' tlio open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clamber- ing weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank. And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echo- ing bank. And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among. Were flooded over with eddying song. A DIRGE. I. Now is done thy long day's work , Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk Sweep the green that folds thy grave Let them rave. Thee nor caxketh care nor slander; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; Chanteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones tlian calumny ? Let them rave. 20 LOVE AND DEATH. Thou wilt never raise tliine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, Bramble roses, faint and pale, And long purples of the dale. Let them rave. These in every shower creep Thro' the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Ivings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. Wild words wander here and there : God's great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused : But let them rave. The balm-cricket carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. LOVE AND DEATH. What time the mighty moon was gathering light Love paced the thymy plots of Para- dise, And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes; When, turning round a cassia, full in view, Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, And talking to himself, first met his sight : " You must begone," said Death, " these walks are mine." Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; Yet ere he parted snid, "This hour is thine : Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death ; The shadow passeth wlien the tree shall fall, But I shall reign forever over all." THE BALLAD OE OKIAXA. My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow. And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana. Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana : Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana ; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana. In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana. CIRCUMSTANCE. 21 She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana : She vratch^d my crest among them all, Oriana : She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oi'iana. The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana : The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana : The damned arrow glanced aside. And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen'd in its place, Oriana ; But I was down upon my face, Oriana . They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana ! How could I rise and come away, Oriana ? How could I look upon the day % They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana — They should have trod me into clay, Oriana. ( ) breaking heart that will not break, Oriana ! O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriaha ! Thou smilest, but thou dost not sp..'ak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana : What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, Oriana ? I cry aloud : none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana . Within thy heart my arrow lies, Oriana. O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! Oriana ! happy thou that liest low, Oriana ! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana. When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, 1 walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. CIRCUMSTANCE. Tw o children in two neighbor villages Playing mad pranks along the heathy- leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival ; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, Wash'd with still rains and daisy blos- somed ; Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 22 THE MERMAN. THE MERMAN. I. Who would bo A merman bold, Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold, On a throne ? I would be a merman bold, I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white sea- flower ; And holding them back by their flow- ing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly ; And then we would wander away, away To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high. Chasing each other merrily. There would be neither moon nor star ; But the wave would make music above us afar — Low thunder and light in the magic night — Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily ; They would pelt me with starry span- gles and shells. Laughing and clapping their hands between, All night, merrily, merrily: But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondinc : Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea. And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh ! what a happy life were mine Under the liollow-liung ocean green! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily. THE MERMAID. I. Wno would be A mermaid fair, Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea, In a golden curl With a comb of pearl, On a throne ? I would be a mermaid fair ; I would sing to myself the whole ot the day ; AVith a comb of jjearl I would comb my hair ; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, ** Who is it loves me 1 who loves not me ? " I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around. And I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound. Over the throne In the midst of the hall; Till that great sea-snake imder the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. ADELINE. 23 And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me. But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low- flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek. On the broad sea-wolds in the crim- son shells, Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek, And ad own the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list. Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, In the purple twilights under the sea ; But the king of them all would carry me. Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round ray silver feet silently. All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea. All looking down for the love of me. ADELINE. Mystery of mysteries, Faintly smiling Adeline, Scarce of earth nor all divine. Nor unhappy, nor at rest, But beyond expression fair With thy floating flaxen hair ; Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Wlieref ore those dim looks of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? Whence that aery bloom of thine, Like a lily which the sun Looks thro' in his sad decline, And a rose-bush leans upon, Thou that faintly smilest still, As a Naiad in a well. Looking at the set of day, Or a phantom two hours old Of a maiden past away, Ere the placid lips be cold ? Wherefore those faint smiles ot thine, Spiritual Adeline 1 What hope or fear or joy is thine ? Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? For sure thou art not all alone. Do beating hearts of salient springs Keep measure with thine own? Hast thou heard the butterflies AVhat they say betwixt their wings ? Or in stillest evenings With what voice tlie violet woos To his heart the silver dews ? Or when little airs arise, How the merry bluebell rings To the mosses underneath ? Hast thou look'd upon the breath Of the lilies at sunrise ? Wherefore that faint smile of tbine, Shadowy, dreamy Adeline '\ 24 MARGARET. Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, Some si)irit of a crimson rose In love Avitli thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs xVll niglit long on darkness blind. What aileth thee ? whom waitest thou With tljy soften'd, shadow'd brow, And those dew-lit eyes of thine, Thou faint smiler, xVdeline '<: Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies '? Doth the low-tongued Orient Wander from the side of the morn. Dripping with Sabaean spice On thy pillow, Icwly bent AVith melodious airs lovelorn, Breathing Light against thy face. While his locks a-drooping twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays, And ye talk together still, In the language wdierewith Spring- Letters cowslips on the hill ? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline. MARGARET. SWEET pale Margaret, rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower ? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower '? From the westward-winding flood. From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak. That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber roi.nd, Which the moon about her spread- eth. Moving thro' a fleecy night. You love, remaining peacefulh-. To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea. Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright : LuU'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow- light Float by you on the verge of night. III. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars ? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from tlie true heart, Even in her sight lie loved so well ? A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade. Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes. You are not less divine. But more human in your moods, , Than your twin-sister, Adeline, j Your hair is darker, and your eyes j Touch'd with a somewhat darker^ hue, ' And less aerial Iv blue. ROSALIND. 25 But ever-trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woful sympathies. sweet pale Margaret, rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak : Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : The sun is just about to set, The arching limes are tall and shady. And faint, rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leaA'y beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady. Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. ROSALIND. My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight, Stoops at all game that Aving the skies, My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon Avhither, Careless both of wind and weather, Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, Up or down the streaming wind ? The quick lark's closest-caroU'd strains, Tlie shadow rushing up the sea. The lightning flash atween the rains, The sunlight driving down the lea, The leaping stream, the verj^ wind, That Avill not stay, upon his way, To stoop the cowslip to the plains, Is not so clear and bold and free As you, my falcon Rosalind. You care not for another's pains, Because you are the soul of joy, Bright metal all without alloy. Life shoots and glances thro' youi veins, And flashes off a thousand ways, Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. Your haAvk-eyes are keen and bright, Keen with triumph, Avatching still To pierce me thro' Avith pointed light; But oftentimes they flash and glitter Like sunshine on a dancing rill. And your Avords are seeming-bitter, Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter From excess of sAAdft delight. Come down, come home, my Rosalind, My gay young haAA±, my Rosalind : Too long you keep the upper skies ; Too long you roam and Avheel at Avill ; But Ave must hood your random eyes. That care not AA'hom they kill, And your cheek, Avhose brilliant hue Is so sparkling-fresh to vicAV, Some red heath-flower in the dcAv, Touch'd AA'ith sunrise. AYe must bind And keej) you fast, my Rosalind, Fast, fast, my AAdld-eyed Rosalind, And clip your Avings, and make you love : When AA'e haA' e lured you from above. And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night. From North to South, We'll bind you fast in silken cords And kiss away the bitter words From off your rosy mouth. ELEANORE. I. Thy dark eyes open'd not. Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air. For there is nothing here. Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far oft" from human neighborhood, Thou wert born, on a summer- 26 ELEANORE. A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd "With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades : And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth, From old well-heads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple liills, And shadowM coves on a sunny shore, The choicest wealth of all the earth, Jewel or shell, or starry ore. To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. Or the yellow-banded bees, Thro' half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone. With whitest honey in fairy gar- dens cuU'd — A glorious child, dreaming alone. In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull'd. Who may minister to thee? Summer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded On golden salvers, or it may be. Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded With many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepcth over all the heaven. And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowing shore, Crimsons over an inland mere, Eleanore ! How many full-sail'd verse express, How many measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleanore "^ The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleiinore 7 Every turn and glance of thine. Every lineament divine, Eleanore, And the steady sunset glow. That stays upon thee '<■ For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single ; Like two streams of incense free From one censer in one shrine. Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as tho' They were modulated so To an unheard melody. Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; Who may express thee, Eleanore *? I stand before thee, Eleanore ; I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, To stand apart, and to adore. Gazing on thee forevermore. Serene, imperial Eleanore ! Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite. ELEANORE. 27 I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light : As tlio' a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev'n while we gaze on it. Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before ; So full, so deep, so slow. Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eletinore. As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Koof'd the world with doubt and fear. Floating thro' an evening atmosphere. Grow golden all about the sky ; In thee all passion becomes passion- less, Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness. Losing his fire and active might In a silent meditation. Falling into a still delight. And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove KoUing slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will : Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea : And the self-same influence ControUeth all the.soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand. Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; Or, in a shadowy saloon. On silken cushions half reclined ; I watch thy grace ; and in its place My heart a charm'd slumber keeps. While I muse upon thy face ; And a languid fire creeps Thro' my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly : soon From thy rose-red lips my name Floweth; and then, as in a swoon. With dinning sound my ears are rife. My tremulous tongue f altereth, I lose my color, I lose my breath, I drink tiie cup of a costly death, Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I loould be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleanore. My life is full of weary days. But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wander'd into other ways : I have not lack'd thy mild reproof. Nor golden largess of thy praise. And now shake hands across the brink Of that deep grave to which I go : Shake hands once more : I cannot sink So far — far down, but I shall know Thv voice, and answer from below. When in the darkness over me The four-handed mole shall scrape. Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree. Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape. And when the sappy field and wood Grow green beneath the showery gray. And rugged barks begin to bud, 28 EARLY SONNETS. And thro' damp holts ncw-flush'd with may, Ring sudden scritches of the jay. Then let wise Nature work her will, And on my clay her darnel grow ; Come only, when the days are still, And at my headstone whisper Ioav, And tell me if the woodhines 1)1 oav. EARLY SONNETS TO . As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood, And ebb into a former life, or seem To lapse far back in some confused dream To states of mystical similitude ; If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair. Ever the wonder waxeth more and more, So that we say, " All this hath been before. All this hath been, 1 know not when or where," So, friend, when first I look'd upon your face. Our thought gave answer each to each, so true — Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — That tho' I knew not in what time or place, Methought that I had often met with you, And either lived in either's heart and speech. u. TO J. M. Iv. My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master's feast ; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws, 1 Distill'd from some worm-canker'd t homily ; But spurred at heart with fieriest energy To cmbattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-wordod proof, hating to hark Tlie humming of the drowsy pulpit- ^ drone ; Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk I Brow-beats his desk below. T'hou I from a throne ! Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark ' Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and I mark. j III. { Mink be the strength of spirit, full and free, Like some broad river rushing down alone, With the self-same impulse wherewith he Avas thrown P'rom his loud fount upon the echoing j lea : — j Which with increasing might doth for- ! ward flee I By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle. And in the middle of the green salt sea Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. Mine be the power which ever to its sway AVill win the wise at once, and by degrees May into uncongenial spirits flow ; Ev'n as the w^arm gulf-stream of Florida Floats far away into the Northern seas The lavish growths of southern Mex- ico. IV. ALEXANDEE. Warkior of God, whose strong right arm debased The throne of Persia, when her Satrap bled At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, disgraced RARLY SONNE!- S. 29 Forever — thee (thy pathwa}- sand- erased) Gliding with equal crowns two ser- pents led Joyful to that palm-planted fountain- fed Ammonian Oasis in the waste. There in a silent shade of laurel brown Apart the Chamian Oracle divine Shelter'd his unapproached mysteries : High things were spoken there, un- handed down ; Only they saw thee from the secret shrine Returning with hot cheek and kindled eyes. V. BUONAPARTE. He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, Madman ! — to chain with chains, and bind with bands That island queen who sways the floods and lands, From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight Avoke, When from her wooden walls, — lit by sure hands, — With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke, — Peal after peal, the British battle broke. Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. AVe taught him lowlier moods, when IJlsinore Heard the war moan along the distant sea, Rocking with shatter'd spars, with sudden fires Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more We taught him : late he learned humility Perforce, like those whom Gideon scliool'd with briers. POLAND. How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, And trampled under by the last and Of men % The heart of Poland hath not ceased To quiver, tho' lier sacred blood doth drown The fields, and out of every smoulder- ing town Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- creased. Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East Transgress his ample bound to some new crown : — Cries to Thee, " Lord, how long shall these things be ? How long this icy-hearted Muscovite Oppress the region ? " Us, O Just and Good, Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three ; Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right — A matter to be wept with tears of blood ! Cakess'd or chidden by the slender hand, And singing airy trifles this or that, Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand, And run thro' every change of sharp and flat ; And Fancy came and at her pillow sat. When Sleep had bound her in his rosy band. And chased away the still-recurring gnat. And woke her with a lay from fairy land. But now they live with Beauty less and less. For Hope is other Hope and wanders far. Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds ; And Fancy watches in the wilderness. Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. 30 EARLY SONNETS. The form, the form alone is eloquent ! A nobler yearning never broke her rest Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drest, And win ail eyes with all accomplish- ment : Yet in the whirling dances as we went, My fancy made me for a moment blest To find my heart so near the beauteous breast That once had power to rob it of con- tent. A moment came the tenderness of tears, The phantom of a wish that once could move, A ghost of passion that no smiles re- store — For ah ! the slight coquette, she can- not love, And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years, She still would take the praise, and care no more. Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie ? sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past, In jjainting some dead fr:.end from memory ? Weep on : beyond his object Love can last: His object lives : more cause to weep have I: My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast, No tears of love, but tears that Love can die. 1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup, Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — Ah pity — hint it not in human tones. But breathe it into earth and close it up With secret death forever, in the pits Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones. If I were loved, as I desire to be. What is there in the great sphere of the earth. And range of evil between death and birth, That I should fear, — if I were loved by thee ? All the inner, all the outer world of pain Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, As I have heard that, somewhere in the main. Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine. 'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in- hand with thee. To wait for death — mute — careless of all ills. Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge Below us, as far on as eye could see. THE BRIDESMAID. O BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was tied, Thine eyes so wept that they could hardly see ; Thy sister smiled and said, "No tears for me ! A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride." And then, the couple standing side by side. Love lighted down between them full of glee, And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thee, "0 happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride." And all at once a pleasant truth I learn'd. THE TWO VOICES. Zl Died the sound of royal cheer ; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Caraelot : But Lancelot mused a little space ; He said, " She has a lovely face ; God in his mercy lend her grace. The Lady of Shalott." THE TWO VOICES. A STILL small voice spake unto me, '* Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be 7 " Then to the still small voice I said ; "Let me not cast in endless shade What is so wonderfully made." To which the voice did urge reply ; " To-day I saw the dragon-fly Come from the wells where he did lie. " An inner impulse rent the veil Of his old husk : from head to tail Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. "He dried his wings : like gauze they grew ; Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew A living flash of light he flew." I said, " When first the world began, Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, And in the sixth she moulded man. " She gave him mind, the lordliest Proportion, and, above the rest. Dominion in the head and breast." Thereto the silent voice replied; " Self -blinded are you by your pride : Look up thro'night : the world is wide. " This truth witliin thy mind rehearse. That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse. " Think you this mould of hopes and fears Could find no statelier than his peers In yonder hundred million spheres ? " It spake, moreover, in my mind : " Tho'thou wert scatter'd to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind." Then did my response clearer fall : "No compound of this earthly ball Is like another, all in all." To which he answer'd scoffingly ; " Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, Who'll weep for thy deficiency ? " Or will one beam be less intense. When thy peculiar difference Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? " I would have said, " Thou canst not know," But my full heart, that work'd below, Eain'd thro' my sight its overflow. Again the voice spake unto me : " Thou art so steep'd in misery, Surely 'twere better not to be. " Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, Nor any train of reason keep : Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep." I said, " The years with change ad- vance : If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance. " Some turn this sickness yet might take, Ev'n yet." But he : " What drug can make A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? " I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know That all about the thorn will blow In tufts of rosy-tinted snow ; " And men, thro' novel spheres of thought Still moving after truth long sought, Will learn new things when I am not." 34 THE TWO VOICES. "Yet," said the secret voice, "some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime. " Not less swift souls that yearn for light, Rapt after heaven's starry flight, Would sweep the tracts of day and night. " Not less the bee would range her cells, The furzy prickle fire the dells, The foxglove cluster dappled bells." I said that " all the years invent ; Each month is various to present The world with some development. " Were this not well,to bide mine hour, Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower How grows the day of human power ? " " The highest-mounted mind," he said, " Still sees the sacred morning spread The silent summit overhead. " Will thirty seasons render plain Those lonely lights that still remain, Just breaking over land and main % " Or make that morn, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town ? " Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of kno wledge,dream'd not yet. " Thou hast not gain'd a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light, Because the scale is infinite. " 'Twere better not to breathe or speak, Than cry for strength,remaining weak, And seem to find, but still to seek. " Moreover, but to seem to find Asks Avhat thou lackest, thought re- sign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind." I said, " When I am gone away, * He dared not tarry,' men will say, Doing dishonor to my clay." " This is more vile," he made reply, "To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh. Than once from dread of pain to die. " Sick art thou — a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. " Do men love thee ? Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Will vex thee lying underground ? " The memory of the wither'd leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. " Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; The right ear, that is fiU'd with dust, Hears little of the false or just." " Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, " From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! " Nay — rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm'd me in the days While still lyearn'd for human praise. "When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, Among the tents I paused and sung, The distant battle flash'd and rung. "I sung the joyful Paan clear. And, sitting, burnish'd without fear The brand, the buckler, and the spear— " Waiting to strive a happy strife. To war with falsehood to the knife. And not to lose the good of life — " Some hidden principle to move, To put together, part and prove. And mete the bounds of hate and love — THE TWO VOICES. 35 "As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about — " To search through all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe. And reach the law within the law : " At least, not rotting like a weed, But, having sown some generous seed, Fruitful of further thought and deed, "To pass when Life her light with- draws. Not void of righteous self-applause, N"or in a merely selfish cause — " In some good cause, not in mine own To perish, wept for, honor'd, known. And like a warrior overthrown ; " Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears. When soil'd with noble dust, he hears His country's war-song thrill his ears : " Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman's line is broke, And all the war is rolled in smoke." " Yea ! " said the voice, " thy dream was good. While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. " If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower. Who is it that could live an hour ? " Then comes the check, the change, the fall. Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. There is one remedy for all. "Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, Link'd month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain. " Thou hadst not between death and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. So were thy labor little-worth. " That men with knowledge merely play'd, I told thee — hardly nigher made, Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade ; " Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind. Named man, may hope some truth to find, That bears relation to the mind. " For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. " Cry, faint not : either Truth is born Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. Or in the gateways of the morn. " Cry, faint not, climb : the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope. Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. " Sometimes a little corner shines, As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag Avith belts of piues. " I will go forward, sayest thou, I shall not fail to find her now. Look up, the fold is on her brow. " If straight thy track, or if oblique, Thou^- know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike. Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; " And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, Calling thyself a little lower " Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl % There is one remedy for all." " dull, one-sided voice," said I, " Wilt thou make every thing a lie, To flatter me that I may die ? 36 THE TWO VOICES. " I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds. " I cannot hide that some have striven, Achieving cahn, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven : " Who,rowing hard against the stream, Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream ; " But heard, by secret transport led, Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, The murmur of the fountain-head — " Which did accomplish their desire. Bore and forebore, and did not tire, Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. " He heeded not reviling tones. Nor sold his heart to idle moans. The' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with stones : "But looking upward, full of grace. He pray'd, and from a happy place God's glory smote him on the face." The sullen answer slid betwixt : *' Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, The elements were kindlier mix'd." I said, " I toil beneath the curse. But, knowing not the universe, I fear to slide from bad to worse. " And that, in seeking to undo, ( )ne riddle, and to find the true, I knit a hundred others new : " Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : " For 1 go, weak from sutf ering here : Naked I go, and void of cheer : What is it that I may not fear '{ " " Consider well," the voice replied, " His face, that two hours since hath died; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? " Will he obey when one commands 1 Or answer should one press his hands ? He answers not, nor understands. " His palms are folded on his breast : There is no other thing express'd But long disquiet merged in rest, " His lips are very mild and meek : Tho' one should smite him on the cheek. And on the mouth, he will not speak, "His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss'd, taking his last embrace, Becomes dishonor to her race — " His sons grow up that bear his name. Some grow to honor, some to shame, — But he is chill to j^raise or blame, " He will not hear the north-wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave From winter rains that beat his grave, " High up the vapors fold and swim : About him broods the twilight dim : The place he knew forgetteth him," " If all be dark, vague voice," I said, " These things are wrapt in doubt and dread. Nor canst thou sliow the dead are dead. " The sap dries up : the plant declines. A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? " I found him when my years were few ; A shadow on the graves I knew, And darkness in the village yew. " From grave to grave the shadow crept : In her still place the morning wept ; Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. THE TWO VOICES. 37 " The simple senses crowned his head : • Omega ! thou art Lord/ they said, ' We find no motion in the dead.' •' Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, Should that plain fact, as taught by these. Not make him sure that he shall cease ? " Who forged that other influence, That heat of inward evidence. By which he doubts against the sense ? " He owns the fatal gift of eyes, That read his spirit blindly wise. Not simple as a thing that dies. " Here sits he shaping wings to fly : His heart forebodes a mystery : He names the name Eternity. " That tyj)e of Perfect in his mind In Nature can he nowhere find. He sows himself on every wind. " He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro' thick veils to apprehend A labor worlcing to an end. " The end and the beginning vex His reason : many things perplex, With motions, checks, and counter- checks. " He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good. He may not do the thing he would. " Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Vast images in glimmering dawn. Half shown, are broken and with- drawn. "Ah ! sure Avithin him and without, Could his dark wisdom find it out. There must be answer to his doubt. " But thou canst answer not again. AVith thine own weapon art thou slain. Or thou wilt answer but in vain. "The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. In the same circle we revolve. Assurance only breeds resolve." As when a billow, blown against, Falls back, the voice witli which I fenced A little ceased, but recommenced. " Where wert thou when thy father play'd In his free field, and pastime made, A meiTv boy in sun and shade ? " A merry boy they call'd Mm then. He sat upon the knees of men In days that never come again. ''Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert also man : " Who took a wife, who rear'd his race. Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, AYliose troubles number with his days ; " A life of nothings, nothing-wprtli, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth ! " " These words," I said, "■ are like the rest ; No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast : " But if I grant, thou mightst defend The thesis which thy words intend — That to begin implies to end ; *' Yet how should I for certain hold Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould ? " I cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. " It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round. 38 THE TWO VOICES. " As old mythologies relate, Some draught of Lethe might await The slipping thro' from state to state. "As here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then, Until they fall in trance again. " So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much, For those two likes might meet and touch. "But if I lapsed from nobler place, Some legend of a fallen race Alone might hmt of my disgrace; " Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height. Some yearning toward the lamps of night ; "Or if thro' lower lives I came — Tho' all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame — "I might forget my weaker lot ; For is not our first year forgot ? The haunts of memory echo not. " And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose Avhole years of darker mind. " Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory: "For memory dealing but with time. And he witli matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime % "Moreover, something is or seems. That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — "Of something felt, like something here ; Of something done, I know not where ; Such as no language may declare." The still voice laugh'd. "I talk," said he, " Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain is a reality." " But thou," said I, " hast missed thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck thy mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. " Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new 1 " Whatever crazy sorrow saith. No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death. " 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant. Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; More life, and fuller, that I want." I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, "Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, When meres begin to uncongeal. The sweet church bells began to peal. On to God's house the people prest : Passing the place where each must rest. Each enter'd like a w^elcome guest. One walk'd between his wife and child, With measured footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, Wearing the rose of womanhood. And in their double love secure, The little maiden walk'd demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 39 These three made unity so sweet, My frozen heart began to beat, Remembering its ancient heat. I blest them, and they wander'd on : I spoke, but answer came there none : The dull and bitter voice was gone. A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, " Be of better cheer." As from some blissful neighborhood, A notice faintly understood, "I see the end, and know the good." A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, " I may not speak of what I know." Like an ^olian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes : Such seem'd the whisper at my side : " What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? " I cried. " A hidden hope," the voice replied : So heavenly-toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a jDower Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, To feel, altho' no tongue can prove. That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love. And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. I wonder'd at the bounteous hours. The slow result of winter showers : You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I wonder'd while I paced along : The woods were fiU'd so full with song, There seem'd no room for sense of wrong ; And all so variously wrought, I marvell'd how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought ; And wherefore rather I made choice To commune with that barren voice, Than him that said, " Rejoice ! Re- joice ! " THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. I SEE the wealtliy miller yet. His double chin, his portly size. And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half-without. And full of dealings with the world ? In yonder chair I see him sit. Three fingers round the old silver cup — I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest — gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer Avarmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, That we may die the self -same day. Have I not found a happy earth ? I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine — It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine — 40 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire, "Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire : For even here, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep w^as broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin song. And oft I heard the tender dpve In firry woodlands making moan ; But ere I saw j^our eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy play'd Before I dream'd that pleasant dream — Still hither thither idW sway'd Like those long mosses in the stream. Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear The milldam rushing down with noise, And see the mmnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise. The tall flag-flowers when they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones, Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick Avith milky cones. But, Alice, what an hour was that. When after roving in the woods {'Twas April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue ; And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool. A love-song I had somewhere read. An echo from a measured strain. Beat time to nothing in ray head From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long. With weary sameness in the rhymes. The phantom of a silent song, That went and came a thousand times. Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watch'd the little circles die ; They past into the level flood. And there a vision caught my eye ; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck. As when a sunbeam wavers warm AVithin the dark and dimpled beck. For you remember, you had set. That morning, on the casement-edge A long green box of mignonette. And you were leaning from the ledge : And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright — Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love. That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispell'd the fear That I should die an early death : For love possess'd the atmosphere, And fiU'd the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy? For I was alter'd, and began To move about the house with joy. And with the certain step of man. I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill. The sleepy pool above the dam. The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor. The dark round of the dripping w'heel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. And oft in ramblings on the wold, When April nights began to blow\ And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, I saw the village lights below; I knew your taper far away, And full at heart of trembling hope, From off the wold I came, and lay Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 41 'The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill ; And "by that lamp," I thought, " she sits ! " The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleam'd to the llying moon b}^ fits. " that I were beside her now ! will she answer if I call ? would she give me \o\y for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? " 1 Sometimes I saw you sit and spin : And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within ; Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. At last you rose and moved the light. And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken'd there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day ; And so it was — half-sly, half -shy, You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire : She wish'd me happy, but she thought 1 might have look'd a little higher ; And I was young — too young to wed : " Yet must I love her for your sake ; Go fetch your Alice here," she said : Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride : But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well ; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. I watch'd the little flutterings. The doubt my mother would not see ; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me ; And turning look'd upon your face. As near this door j'ou sat apart, And rose, and, Avith a silent '^xviQQ Approaching, press'd you lieart to heart. Ah, well — but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day AYhen, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers — that I may seem. As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream. While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller's daughter And she is grown so dear, so dear. That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear : For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest : And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells— True love interprets — right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone. Like mine own life to me thou art. Where Past and Present, wound in one. 42 FA TIMA. Do make a garland for the heart : So sing that other song I made, Half-anger'd with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade I fomid the blue Forget-me-not. Love that hath ue in the net Can he pass, and we forget? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Even 60. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love? for we forget: Ah, no! no! Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms in- twine My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine ! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes forever dwell ! They have not shed a many tears. Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they slied: they had their part Of sorrow: for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type. That into stillness past again. And left a want unknown before ; Although the loss has brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss. The comfort, I have found in thee : But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind — With blessings beyond hope or thought. With blessings which no words can find. Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds ; For look, the sunset, south and north. Winds all the vale in rosy folds. And fires your narrow casement glass. Touching the sullen pool below : On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and diewless. Let us go. FATIMA. Love, Love, Love! withering might ! sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight. Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers : 1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : I roll'd among the tender flowers : I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth ; I look'd athwart the burning drouth . Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name. From my swdft blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. Love, fire ! once he drew With one long kiss my whole sou' thro' My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Before he mounts the hill, I know- He Cometh quickly : from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon. Faints like a dazzled morning moon The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire CENONE. 43 Xs pour'd upon the liills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire ; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight. My whole soul waiting silently. All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye ; I will possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face. Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. CENONE. There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges mid- way down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning : but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine. Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. "0 mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : The grasshopper is silent in the grass . The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops ; the golder* bee Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim. And I am all aweary of my life. " mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, Caves That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy- dark. And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved. Came up from reedy Simois all alone. (ENONE. " mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft : Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone : white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leop- ard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's : And his cheek brighten'd as the foam- bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk- white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. " ' My own CEnone, Beautiful-brow'd (Enone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, Avhose gleaming rind ingrav'n "For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of mar- ried brows.' " Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added ' This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Hanged in the halls of Peleus ; where- upon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due : I But light-foot Iris brought it yester- ' eve, I Delivering, tliat to me, by common I voice Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldes; \ pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' " Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth- swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel. Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. And overhead the wandering ivy and vine. This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs Witli bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. " O mother Ida, hearken ere I die On the tree-tops a crested peacock hr. And o'er him fiow'd a golden cloud. and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Tlien first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made (ENONE. 45 Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, Or labor'd mine undrainable of ore. Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' " mother Ida, liearken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, '■ Which in all action is the end of all ; Power fitted to the season ; wisdom- bred And throned of wisdom — from all neighbor crowns Alliance and Allegiance, till thy hand Pail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me. From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 'born. Should come most welcome, seeing men in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.' " Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. " ' Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. These three alone lead life to sovev eign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear ; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- quence.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Again she said ; ' I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet, indeed. If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will. Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' " Here she ceas'd, And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not. Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! 46 (ENOATE. "O mother Ida, raany-fountain'dlda, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder • from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine- bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes. The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece,' She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight for fear : But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower ; And from that time to this I am alone. And I shall be alone until I die. " Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. When I past by, a Avild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with play- ful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she ? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick- falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of Avhirling Simois. " mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut aAvay my tallest pines. My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cata- ract Foster'd the callow eaglet — from be- neath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall *lone CEnone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon -lit slips of silver cloud. Between the loud stream and the trem bling stars. " O mother, hear me j^et before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens. Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her The Abominable, that uninvited came Into the fair Pele'ian banquet-hall. And cast the golden fruit upon the board. And bred this change ; that I might speak my mind. And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and THE SISTERS. 47 " mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this ejreen hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? Seal'd it Avith kisses ? water'd it with tears ? happ}^ tears, and how unlike to these ! happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face 1 happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? death, death, death, thou ever-float- ing ploud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. And shadow all my soul that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, AVeigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. " mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shajje themselves within me, more and more. Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of* her child Ere it is born : lier child ! — a shudder comes Across me : never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! " O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomf orted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but T know That, whereso'er I am by night and day. All earth and air seem only burning fire." THE SISTERS. We were two daughters of one race : She was the fairest in the face : The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell ; Therefore revenge became me well. the Earl was fair to see ! She died : she went to burning flame : She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. The wind is howling in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late. To win his love I lay in wait : the Earl was fair to see ! I made a feast ; I bade him come ; I won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaring in turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed. Upon my lap he laid his head : the Earl was fair to see ! 1 kiss'd his eyelids into rest : His ruddy cheek upon my breast. The wind is raging in turret and tree I hated him with the hate of hell. But I loved his beauty ijassing well, O the Earl was fair to see ! 48 TO I rose up in the silent night : I made my dagger sharp and hright. The wind is raving in turret and tree. As half-asleep his breath he drew, Three times 1 stahb'd liim thro' and thro". () the Earl was fair to see ! [ curl'd and comb'd his comely head, He look'd so grand when he was dead. The wind is blowing in turret and tree. I wrapt his body in the sheet. And laid him at his mother's feet. O the Earl was fair to see ! TO . WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. I SEND you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul, A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain. That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen In all varieties of mould and mind) And KnoM'ledge for its beauty ; or if Good, Good only for its beauty, seeing not That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters That dote upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof, And never can be sunder'.d without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her thresh- old lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this AVas common clay ta'en from the com- mon earth Moulded by God, and temper'd Avith the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man. THE PALACE OF ART. I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure- house. Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, " Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well." A huge crag-platform, smooth as bur- nish'd brass I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself Li her high palace there. And " while the world runs round and round," I said, " Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stead- fast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring." To which my soul made answer readily : " Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion that is built for me. So royal-rich and wide." * * * * ^ 7^ yk ^ Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, In'each a squared law^n, wherefroni The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. And round tlie cool green courts there ran a row Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods. Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. THE PALACE OF ART. 49 And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell Across the mountain streani'd below In misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torrent-bow. And high on every peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odor steara'd From out a golden cup. So that she thought, " And who shall gaze upon My palace with miblinded eyes. While this great bow will waver in the sun. And that sweet incense rise ? " For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd. And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd. Burnt like a fringe of fire. Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced. Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches inter- laced. And tipt with frost-like spires. Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over- vaulted grateful gloom, Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass. Well-pleased, from room to room. "Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, All various, each a perfect whole From living Kature, fit for every mood And change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff'd cheek the belteu hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand. And some one pacing there alone, Who paced forever in a glimmering land, Tiit v'ith a I'^w larere. moon. One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. You seem'd to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellow- ing caves, Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain. The ragged rims of thunder brooding low. With shadow-streaks of rain. And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal hi oil, And hoary to the wind. And one a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags. And highest, snow and fire. And one, an English home — gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees. Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. 50 THE PALACE OF ART. Nor these alone, but ever}' landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there Not less than truth design'd. Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. Beneath branch-work of costly sardo- nyx Sat smiling, babe in arm. Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, Nc^:: glided organ-pipes, 'her i.air Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily ; An angel look'd at her. Or thronging all one porch of Paradise A group of Houris bow'd to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes That said, We wait for thee. Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law. Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, And many a tract of palm and rice. The throne of Indian Caraa slowly sail'd A summer fann'd with spice. Or sweet Europa's mantle blew un- clasp'd. From off her shoulder backward borne : From one hand droop'd a crocus : one hand grasp'd The mild bull's golden horn. Or else flusli'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle's down Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky Above the pillar'd town. Nor these alone : but every legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there. Not less than life, design'd. * * * * * * * * Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, ]Mj)ved of themselves, with silver sound ; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung The royal dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million wrinkles carved his skin ; A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, From cheek and throat and chin. Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately- set Many an arch high up did lift, And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift. Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd With cycles of the human tale Of this wide world, the times of every land So wrought, they will not fail. The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings ; THE PALACE OF ART. 51 Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings ; Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might en- dure, And here once more like some sick man declined. And trusted any cure. But over these she trod: and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne : She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone. And thro' the topmost Oriels' colored flame Two godlike faces gazed below ; Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Veru- lani, The first of those who know. And all those names, that in their motion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were bla- zon'd fair In diverse raiment strange : Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush'd in her temples, and her eyes. And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone. More than my soul to hear her echo'd song Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; Singing and murmuring in her feast- ful mirth, Joying to feel herself alive. Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth. Lord of the senses five : Communing with herself : " All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, 'Tis one to me." She — when young night divine Crown'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils — Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow'd moons of gems. To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, " I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter'd to the height. " all things fair to sate my various ej^es ! shapes and hues that please me well ! O silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dwell ! " God-like isolation which art mine, 1 can but count thee perfect gain. What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. " In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin. They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep." Then of the moral instinct Avould she prate And of the rising from the. dead. As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate; And at the last she said : " I take possession of man's mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl. 52 THE PALACE OF ART. I sit as God liolding no form of creed, But contemplating all." * * * * * * * * Full oft the riddle of the painful earth riash'd thro' her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And intellectual throne. And so she throve and prosper'd : so three years She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell, Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears. Struck thro' with pangs of hell. Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight The airy hand confusion wrought, AVrote, "Mene, mene," and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. Deep dread and loathing of her soli- tude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn. "What! is not this my place of strength," she said, " My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory ? " But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes ; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood. And horrible nightmares, I And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, j And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon I she came, j That stood against the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal. ; A still salt j)ool, lock'd in witi: bars of sand, Left on the shore ; that hears all night The plunging seas draw bac-kward from the land Their moon-led waters white. A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circum- stance Roll'd round by one fix'd law. Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, " No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world: One deep, deep silence all ! " She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful fihame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name ; And death and life she hated equally, And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, No comfort anywhere ; Remaining utterly confused with fears, And ever worse with growing time, LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 53 And ever unrelieved by disnical tears. And all alone in crime : Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seera'd to hear the dully sound Of human footsteps fall. As in strange lands a traveller walk- ing slow, In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea; And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " I have found A new land, but I die." She howl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die ^ " So when four years were wholly fin- ished, She threw her royal robes away. " Make me a cottage in the vale," she said, " Where I may mourn and pray. " Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly beautifully built : Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt." LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown : You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine. Too proud to care from whence 1 came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms, A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find. For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how^ I could love; And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies • A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view% She had the passions of her kind. She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear ; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, 54 THE MAY QUEEN. ?\.nd, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and liis wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind liearts are more than coronets. And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth. But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time. You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be iieavy on your hands. Are there no beggars at your gate. Nor any poor about your lands ? Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read. Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart. And let the foolish yeoman go. THE MAY QUEEN. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all tlie glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they sjiy. So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break: But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see. But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday. But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white. And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-liearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is ])reaking, mother — what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to ])e Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen j THE MAY QUEEAT. 55 For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass. And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and tlie crowfoot are over all the hill. And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'illanerrily glance and play. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May, NEW-YEAK'S EVE. If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear. For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a jnerry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's AVain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snowdroi)s come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 56 THE MAY QUEEN. Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool ( )n the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, 1 shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what j'ou say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlor- window and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION. I THOUGHT to pass a Way before, and yet alive I am ; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here, O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow. And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so liard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun. And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! THE MAY QUEEN. 55 But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. ,He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 'Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll. And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It's not for them : it's mine." And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stai's. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to l)e, with my desire of life. O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the valley for other hands tlian mine. 58 THE LOTOS-EATERS. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — Forever and forever with those just souls and true — And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. THE LOTOS-EATERS. •' Courage ! " he said, and pointed toward the land, ''This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; And like a downward smoke, the slen- der stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams ! some, like a down- ward smoke. Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke. Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. Stood sunset-flush'd ; and, dcw'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy jjine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a wind- ing vale And meadow, set with slender galin- gale ; A land where all things always seem'd the same ! And round about the keel with faces pale. Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, Tlie mild-eyed melancholy Lotos- eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake. His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow- sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore ; And sweet it was to dream of Father- land, Of child and wife, and slave ; but evermore THE LOTOS-EATERS, 59 Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, " We will return no more ; " And all at once they sang, " Our island home Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam." CHORIC SONG. I. There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass. Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep. And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. And from the craggy ledge the poppy. hangs in sleep. Why are we weigh'd upon with heavi- ness. And utterly consumed with sharp dis- tress, While all things else have rest from weariness ? All things have rest : why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things. And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown : Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumlaer's holy balm; Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, " There is no joy but calm ! " Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things ? Lo ! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full- juiced apple, waxing over- mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place. Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil. Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. Hateful is the dark -blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life ; ah, why Should life all labor be ? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast. And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and be- come Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. AVhat j^leasure can we have To war with evil '\ Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave "? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 60 THE LOTOS-EATERS. How sweet it were, liearing the down- ward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling' asleep in a half-dream ! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Whieh will not leave the myrrh-bnsli on the height ; Toheareaeh otiier's whisperM speech ; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender cnrving lines of creamy spray ; To lend our hearts and spirit wholly To the influence of mild-minded mel- ancholy ; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy lleap'd over with a mound of grass. Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass ! Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears : but all hath jjulYer'd change : For surely now our hoiisehold hearths are cold : Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island ])rinces over-bold Have eat our substance, and tiio min- strel sings, Before them of the ten vears' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle \ Let what is broken so renuiin. The Gods are hard to reconcile : 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There h confusion worse than death, Ti'onble on trouble, pain on pain. Long labor unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out by numy wars And e^'cs grown dim with gazing on tlie pilot-stars. 1 But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river draw- ing slowly His waters from the purple hill — To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick- twined vine — To watch the emerald-color'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! ()nly to hear and see the far-off spar- kling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : The l>otos blows by every-winding creek : All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone : Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Bound and roiuid the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, KoU'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spt)Uted ! his foam-fountains in the sea. j Let us swear an oath, and keep it with I an equal mind, ; In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined A DREAM OF FA[R WOMEN. 61 On the hills like Gods together, onro- less of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the chnids are lightly cnrl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world : Where they smile in secret, booking over wasted lands. Blight and famine, plague and earth- cjiiake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and j)raying hands. But they smile, they find a music cen- tred in a doleful song Stean\ing up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong ; Ciianted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; Till they perish and they sutler — some, 'tis whisper'd — down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell. Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar ; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. A DREAM OF FAIH WOMEN. I READ, before my eyelids drojjt their shade, " Tlxe Legend of Good VFowe/*," long ago ' Sung by the morning-star of song, who made His music heard below : Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose .sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. And, for a while, tlie knowledge of his art Meld me above the subject, h>h strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, Brimful of those wild tales, Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth. Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death. Those far-renowned brides of ancient song- Peopled the hollow dark, like burn- ing stars. And 1 heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong. And trumpets blown for wars ; And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoofs ; And I saw crowds in column'd sanctuaries ; And forms that pass'd at windows and on roofs ( )f marble palaces ; Corpses across the threshold ; heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall ; Lances in ambush set ; And high shrine-doors burst thro' with heated blasts Thot run before the fluttering tongues of fire ; White surf wind-si^atter'd over sails and masts. And ever climbing higher 62 DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, And hush'd seraglios. So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way. Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand. Torn from the fringe of spray. I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak. As when a great thought strikes along the brain, And flushes all the cheek. And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; And then, I know not how, All those sharp fancies, by down- lapsing thought Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep RollM on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought Into the gulfs of sleep. At last methought that I had wan- der'd far In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in coolest dew The maiden splendors of the morning star Shook in the steadfast blue. Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and lean Upon the dusky brushwood under- neath Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, New from its silken sheath. The dim red morn had died, her journey done. And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun. Never to rise again. There was no motion in the dumb dead air, Not any song of bird or sound of rill; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn'd Their humid arms festooning tree to tree, And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd The red anemone. I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench 'd in dew. Leading from lawn to lawn. The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. And from within me a clear under- tone Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that un- blissful clime, "Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time." A DREAM OF FAIR IV OMEN. 63 At length I saw a lady within call, Stiller than chisell'd marble, stand- ing there ; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. Her loveliness with shame and with surprise Froze my swift speech : she turning on my face The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place. " I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came I brought calamity." " No marvel, sovereign ladv : in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died," I answer'd free ; and turning I ap- peal'd To one that stood beside. But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, To her full height her stately stat- ure draws; " My youth," she said " was blasted with a curse : This woman was the cause. " I was cut off from hope in that sad place. Which men call'd Aulis in those iron years : My father held his hand upon his face ; I, blinded with my tears, " Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, Waiting to see me die, " The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat ; The crowds, the temples, waver' d, and the shore ; The bright death quiver'd at the vic- tim's throat ; Touch'd ; and I knew no more." Whereto the other with a downward brow: " I would the white cold lieav}'- plunging foam, Whirl'd by the wind, had roU'd me deep below. Then when I left my home." Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear, As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea: Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "■ Come here. That I may look on thee." I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, One sitting on a crimson scarf un- roll'd ; A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes. Brow-bound with burning gold. She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : "I govern'd men by change, and so I sway'd All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man. Once, like the moon, I made " The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humor ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in this wood : That makes my only woe. " Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend One will ; nor tame and tutor with mine eye 64 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythce, friend, Where is Mark Antony ? "The man, Xi\j lover, with whom I rode sublime On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by God : The Nilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod. ^' Wo drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus O my life In Egypt ! the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife, " And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms. My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die ! " And there he died : and when I heard my name Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fame. What else was left ? look here ! " (With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish'd argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh. Showing tlie aspick's bite.) " I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name forever ! — lying robed and crown'd. Worthy a Roman spouse." Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change Of liveliest utterance. When she made pause I knew not for delight : Because with sudden motion from the ground She rais'd her piercing orbs, and fiU'd with light The interval of sound. Still with their fires Love tipt his keen- est darts ; As once they drev/ into two burning rings All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts Of captains and of kings. Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn, And singing clearer than the crested bird That claps his wings at dawn. " The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound all niglit long, in falling thro' the dell, Far-heard beneath the moon. " The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine : All night the splinter'd crags that wall the delf AYith spires of silver shine." As one that museth where broad sun- shine laves The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves Of sound jn roof and floor A DREAM OF FAIR IV OMEN. 65 Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father's vow ; The daughter of the warrior Gileadite ; A maiden pure ; as when she went along From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with wel- come light, With timbrel and with song. My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath." She render'd answer high : " Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times I would be born and die. *' Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. 'My God, my land, my father — these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, "Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave. * And I went mourning, ' No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers ' — emptied of all joy, Leaving the dance and song, " Leaving the olive-gardens far below. Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower. "The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den; We saw the large Avhite stars rise one by one. Or, from the darken'd glen, " Saw God divide tlie niglit witli flyina; flame, And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. " When the next moon was roU'd into the sky, Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire ! " It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, That I subdued me to my father's will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. Sweetens the spirit still. " Moreover it is written that my race Hew'd Amraon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face Glow'd as I look'd at her. She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood : "Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. Toward the morning-star. Losing her carol I stood pensively. As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, And the old year is dead. 66 THE BLACKBIRD. " Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, Murmur'd beside me : " Turn and look on me : I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I he. " Would 1 had been some maiden coarse and poor! O me, that I should ever see the light ! Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night." She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : To whom the Egyptian : " 0, you tamely died ! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust The dagger thro' her side." With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, A light of ancient France ; Or her who knew that Love can van- quish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king. Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath. Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labors longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By signs or groans or tears ; Because all words, tho' cuU'd with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet. Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. THE BLACKBIRD. O blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring Thy sole delight is, sitting still, AVith that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting. A golden bill ! the silver tongue. Cold February loved, is dry : THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 67 Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young : And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning ! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. And the w^inter winds are wearily sighing : Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die ; You came to us so readily. You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still: he doth not move; He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true- love, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go ; So long as you have been with us Such joy as you have seen with us. Old year, you sliall not go. He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. And tho' his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die ; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste. But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend. Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps • the light burns low ; 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you ' Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack ! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up liis chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. TO J. S. The wind, that beats tlie mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made. Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward 3'ou, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. 'Tis strange that those we lean on most. Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed. 68 '7V A MOURNER. Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us ; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas ! In grief 1 am not all unlearn'd ; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; One went, wiio never hath re- turn'd. He will not smile — not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer ; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother : liis nnite dust I honor and his living worth : A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth. I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I : I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew. Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, " Weep, weeping dulls the inw ard pain." Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done — to weep or not to weep. 1 will not say, " God's ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind" ; For that is not a common chance Tliat takes away a noble mind. His nuMuory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun. And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace ! Memory standing near Cast dowai her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I w rote T know not what. In truth. How sJtoidd I soothe you anyway, Wlio miss the brother of your youth ? Yet something I did wish to say : For he too was a friend to me : Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief w^ould make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease Altliough myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace ; Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons in- crease. And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. ON A MOURNER. I. Nature, so far as in her lies, Imitates God, and turns her face To every land beneath the skies, YOU ASJC ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE. 69 Counts nothing that she meets with base, But lives and loves in every place ; Fills out the homely quickset-screens, And makes the purple lilac ripe, Steps from her airy hill, and greens The swamp, where hums the drop- ping snipe. With moss and braidedmarish-pipe; And on thy heart a finger lays, Saying, " Beat quicker, for the time Is pleasant, and the woods and ways Are pleasant, and the beech and lime Put forth and feel a gladder clime." And murmurs of a deeper voice. Going before to some far shrine, Teach that sick heart the stronger choice. Till all thy life one way incline With one wide Will that closes thine. And when the zoning eve has died Where yon dark valleys wind for- lorn, Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride, From out the borders of the morn. With that fair child betwixt them born. VI. And when no mortal motion jars The blackness round the tombing sod, Thro' silence and the trembling stars Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod. And Virtue, like a household god Promising empire ; such as those Once heard at dead of night to greet Troy's wandering prince, so that he With sacrifice, while all the fleet Had rest by stony hills of Crete. You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease. Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languisli for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will ; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent : Where faction seldom gathers head. But by degrees to fulness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute ; Tho' Power should make from land to land Thename of Britain trebly great — Tho' every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand — Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky. And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South. Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet Above her shook the starry lights : She heard the torrents meet. 70 LOVE THOU THY LAND. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her propliet-raind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal'd The fulness of her face — Grave mother of majestic works. From her isle-altar gazing down : Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks. And, King-like, wears the crown ; Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears ; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn Avith lips divine The falsehood of extremes ! Love thou thy land, with love far- brought . From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought. True love turn'd round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends. For English natures, freemen, friends. Thy brothers and immortal souls. But pamper not a hasty time. Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings That every sophister can lime. Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for day, Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. Make knowledge circle with the winds ; But let her herald, Keverence, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth of minds. Watch what main-currents draw the years : Cut Prejudice against the grain : But gentle words are always gain : Regard the weakness of thy peers : Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise : It grows to guerdon after-days : Nor deal in watch-words overmuch : Not clinging to some ancient saw ; Nor master'd by some modern term ; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm: And in its season bring the law ; That from Discussion's lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds — Set in all lights by many minds. To close the interest of all. For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long. Thro' many agents making strong. Matures the individual form. Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that which flies. And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782. 71 A saying, hard to shape m act; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Tliought hath wedded Fact. Ev'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom — The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life. A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school ; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States — The warders of the growing hour. But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power. Of many changes, aptly join'd. Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind ; A wind to puff your idol-fires. And heap their ashes on the head ; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. Oh yet, if Nature's evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war — If New and Old, disastrous feud, Must ever shock, like armed foes. And this be true, till Time shall close, That Principles are rain'd in blood ; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt. But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled land, like Peace ; Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away — Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes : And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke ; To-morrow yet wovild reap to-day. As we bear blossom of the dead ; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782. O THOU, that sendest out the man To rule by land and sea. Strong mother of a Lion-line, Be proud of those strong sons of thine Who wrench'd their rights from thee! What wonder, if in noble heat Those men thine arms withstood, Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught> And in thy spirit with thee fought — Who sprang from English blood ! But Thou rejoice with liberal joy. Lift up thy rocky face. And shatter, when the storms are black. In many a streaming torrent back. The seas that shock thy base ! Whatever harmonies of law The growing world assume. Thy work is thine — The single note From that deep chord which Hampden smote Will vibrate to the doom. 72 THE GOOSE. THE GOOSE. I KXEW an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together ; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm, He utter'd rhyme and reason, " Here, take the goose, and keep you warm. It is a stormy season." She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose — 'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter. She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf. And ran to tell her neighbors ; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labors. And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied ; Until the grave churchwarden dofE'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder : But ah ! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder. " A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! " Then wax'd her anger stronger. " Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer." Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill'd the house with clamor. As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather : He took tlie goose upon liis arm, He utter'd words of scorning ; " So keep j'ou cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning." The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled. Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled. Tlie glass blew in, the fire blew out. The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up. And a whirlwind clear'd the larder : It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : She shifted in her elbow-chair. And hurlM the pan and kettle. And while on all sides breaking locse Her household fled the danger. Quoth she. " The Devil take the goose. And God forget the stra-nger!'' EI^GLISH IDYLS AIs"D OTHEE POEMS. 3>*:c THE EPIC. At Francis Allen's on the Christmas- eve, — The game of forfeits done — the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away — The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wassail- bowl. Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held a talk, How all the old honor had from Christmas gone. Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I bump'd the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze ; and half awake I heard The parson taking wide and \vider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commis- sioners, Now hawking at Geology and schism ; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro' the world, " at home was little left. And none abroad : there was no anchor, none, To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by him." "And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl." " AVhy yes," I said, " we knew your gift that way At college : but another which vou had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then), What came of that ? " " You know," said Frank, " he burnt His epic, his Bang Arthur, some twelve books" — And then to me demanding why? " Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing — that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. It pleased me well enough." " Nay, nay," said Hall, " Why take the style of those heroic times ? For nature brings not back the Mas- todon, Nor we those times ; and why should any man Remodel models ? these twelve books of mine 74 MORTE n ARTHUR. Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- wortli, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." " But I," Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." He laugh'd, and I, tho' sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears ; For I remember'd Everard's college fame When we were Freshmen : then at my request He brought it; and the poet little urged. But with some prelude of disparage- ment, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes. Deep-chested music, and to this result. MORTE D'ARTHUR. So all day long the noise of battle roird Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonness about their Lord, King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep. The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross. That stood on a dark strait of barren land. ■ On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and tlie moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : " The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep — the men I loved. I think that*we Shall nevermore, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds. Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, — Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more — but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Ex- calibur, Which was my pride : for thou re- memberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. Clothed in Avhite samite, mystic, won- derful. Holding the sword — and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told In af tertime, this also shall be known : But noAV delay not : take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere : Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." To him replied the bold Sir Bedi- vere: " It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man. Yet I thy best will all perform at full, MORTE n ARTHUR. 75 Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of an- cient men, Old knights, and over them the sea- wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : For all the haft twinkled with dia- mond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- work Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood. This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted water-flags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : " Hast thou perf orm'd my mission which I gave 1 What is it thou hast seen % or what hast lieard ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : " I heard the ripple washing in the reeds. And the wild water lapping on the crag." To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : *' Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as be- seem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : For surer sign had follow'd, either hand. Or voice, or else a motion of the merc= This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud, "And if indeed I cast the brand away. Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth. Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done ? What harm, undone 1 deep harm to disobey. Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey them, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself \ The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or wliat relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept, MORTE n ARTHUR. Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Exeali- bur. Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills/ So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. "But now much honor and much fame were lost." So spake he, clouded with liis own conceit. And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily.: " AYhat is it thou hast seen ? or wluit hast heard ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : "I heard the water lapping on the crag. And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : " Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king. Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, Li whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the l^recious hilt ; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutchU the sword. And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendor ol the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirFd in an arch. Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. Seen where the moving isles of win- ter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- derful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: " Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen "? " And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : " Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I nevi-r saw. Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. So great a miracle as j-onder hilt. Then with both hands I flung liiiii, wheeling him ; But when I look'd again, behold an arm. MORTE D' ARTHUR. Clothed in wliite samite, m3^stic', won- derful, That caught him by the hilt, and lirandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere." And anrrwer made King Arthur, breathing hard: " My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that T were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive ni}'^ weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 80 saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, witli i>ain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, ( )'er both his shoulders drew the lan- guid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard. Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, '■ Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die." But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten Avitli the dint of armed heels — And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge. Dark as a funeral scarf from stem 10 stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense witli stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. And loosed the shatter'd casqiie, and chafed his hands. And call'd him by his name, com- plaining loud, And dropping bitter teary against his brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white And colorless, and like the wither'd ' moon 78 MORTE U ARTHUR. Mmote by the fresh beam of the springing cast; And all liis greaves and cuisses dash'd with {h'ops Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; Not like that Arthur wlio, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tourna- ment. Shot thro* the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi- vere, " Ah ! my Lord Artlmr, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole round table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world ; A.nd I, the last, go forth companion- less, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds." And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : ' The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many Avays, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ^ " I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure! but thou. If thou shouldst never see my face again. Pray for my soul. More things are wrought b}' prayer Than this world dreams of. Where- fore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For Mdiat are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain. If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? For so the wiiole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest — if indeed I go — (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island- valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea. Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full- breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 79 Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn. And on the mere the wailing died away. Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had Avink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell : At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted " Good ! " but we Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeem'd it from the charge of noth- ingness — Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; I know not : but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, " There now — that's nothing ! " drew a little back, And drove his heel into the smoul- der'd log, That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, There came a bark that, blowing for- ward, bore King Arthur, like a modern gentle- man Of stateliest port ; and all the people cried, "Arthur is come again: he cannot die." Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated — "Come again, and thrice as fair;" And, further inland, voices echoed — " Come With all good things, and war shall be no more." At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas-morn. THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. This morning is the morning of the day. When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; ^ and he. Brothers in Art ; a friendship so com- plete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt. My Eustace might have sat for Hercules ; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little ; — Juliet, she 80 light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons. The summer pilot of an empty heart 80 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. Unto the shores of nothmg ! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of luve, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life ? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting witli us then, •' When will ijoa paint like this ? " and I replied, (Aty words were half in earnest, half in jest,) " 'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, un])orceived, A more ideal ^Vrtist he than all. Came, dre^V your pencil from you, made tlicsc ^yes Darker than dark^ 5t pansies, and that hair More black than as hbuds in the front of March." And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his mas- terpiece." And up we rose, and on the spur we went. Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock ; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream. That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers. The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed 1 y deep- udder'd kine. And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a sunmier home of murmur- ous wings. In that still place she, hoarded in herself, Grew, seldom seen ; not less among us lived Her fame from lip to lip. Who had ; not heard Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he, . So blunt in memory, so old at heart, ] At such a distance from his youth in \ grief. That, having seen, forgot ? The com- mon mouth. So gross to express delight, in praise of her Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world. And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images. Yet this is also true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart. And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, J That sought to sow themselves like I winged seeds. Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutter'd about my senses and my soul ; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought. That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 81 Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. And sure this orbit of the memory folds For ever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares, Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, - Smelt of the Coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward : but all else of heaven was pure Up to the Sun, and JNIay from verge to verge. And INIay with me from head to heel. And now, As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, Leaning his horns into the neighbor field, And lowing to his fellows. From the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right. The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; The redcap Avhistled ; and the night- ingale Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, " Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song ? Or have they any sense of why they sing ? And would they praise the heavens for what they have % " And I made answer, " Were there nothing else For which to praise the heavens but only love, That only love were cause enough for praise." Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought. And on we went ; but ere an hour had pass'd. We reach 'd a meadow slanting to the Nortli ; Down which a well-worn patliway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; And one warm gust, full-fed with per- fume, blew Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. The garden-glasses shone, and mo- mently The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. "Eustace," I said, "this wonder keeps the house." He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, " Look ! look ! " Before he ceased I turn'd. And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose. That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood, 82 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wav- ering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — Ah, happy shade — and still went wavering down, But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced The greensward into greener circles, dipt. And mix'd with shadows of the com- mon ground ! But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young. So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil. Nor heard us come, nor from her tend- ance turn'd Into the world without ; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own in- tent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her : " Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd. Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips Less exquisite than thine." She look'd : but all Suffused with blushes — neither self- possess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, Divided in a graceful quiet — paused. And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips For some sw^eet answer, tho' no answer came. Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue- like. In act to render thanks. I, that wliole day, Saw lier no more, altho' I linger'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star Beam'd thro' the thicken 'd cedar in the dusk. So home we went, and all the live- long way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. " Now," said he, " will you climb the top of Art. You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet "? you, not you, — the Mas- ter, Love, A more ideal Artist he than all." So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Reading her perfect features in the gloom. Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er. And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving — such a noise of life Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice Call'd to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. And all that night I heard the watch- man peal The sliding season : all that night I licard The heavy clocks knoUing the drowsy hours. THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 83 The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odors on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East. Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. Light pretexts drew me ; sometimes a Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk. To grace my city rooms ; or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm ; and more and more A word could bring the color to my cheek ; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew ; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased. The daughters of the year. One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd ; Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade ; And each in passing touch'd with some new grace Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, Like one that never can be wholly known, Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep " I will," Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold From thence thro' all the worlds : but I rose up Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd The wicket-gate, and found her stand- ing there. There sat we down upon a garden mound, Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third. Between us, in the circle of his arms Enwound us both ; and over many a range Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers. Across a hazy glimmer of the west, Reveal'd their shining windows : from them clash'd The bells ; we listen'd ; with the time we play'd, We spoke of other things ; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and near. Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round The central wish, until we settled there. Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her. Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own. Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; And in that time and place she an- swer'd me. And in the compass of three little words. More musical than ever came in one, The silver fragments of a broken voice, Made me most happy, faltering, " I am thine." Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to say That my desire, like all strongest hopes. By its own energy fulfill'd itself, Merged in completion ? Would you learn at full How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades Beyond all grades develop'd ? and in- deed 54 DORA. % 1 had not staid so long to tell you all, But while I nmsod came Memory with sad eyes, Holding thi' folded annals of my youth ; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by. And with a flying linger swept my lips, And spake, " Be wise : not easily for- given Are those, who setting wide the doors that bar The secret bridal chambers of the heart, Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare- wells — Of that which came between, more sweet than each, In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for ut- terance, Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given. And vows, where there was never need of vows. And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleet- ing stars ; Or while the balmy glooming, crescent- lit, Spread the light haze along the river- shores. And in the hollows ; or as once we met Cnheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent On that veil'd picture — veil'd, fo what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul ; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes : the time Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart. My first, last love ; the idol of my youth. The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! Now the most blessed memory of mine DORA. With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought, " I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son : I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter : he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day. 9 DORA. 85 For many j^ears." But William an- swer'd short ; •' I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then tlie old man Was wroth, and doubled up his liands, and said : "You will not, boy! you dare to an- swer thus ! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William : take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish ; Or, by the Lord that made me, you sliall pack, And never more darken my doors again." But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh ; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields ; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells Avere ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well ; But if you speak with him that was my son. Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, " It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " And days went on, and there was born a boy To William ; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and Ids fatlier help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : " I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone. And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not ; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 86 DORA. « But her heart f ail'd lier ; and the reap- ers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To maJce him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said : '* Where were you yesterday ? Whose child is that ? What are you doing here ? " So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. And answer'd softly, "This is Wil- liam's child ! '' " And did I not," said Allan, " did I not Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : " Do with me as you will, but take the child, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone ! " And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy that cried aioud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head. Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widow- hood. And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; But, Mary, let me live and work with you : He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be. That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself : And, now I think, he shall not have the boy. For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back : But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. AUDLEY COURT. 87 And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved liim : and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in : but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her : And Allan set him down, and Mary said : " Father ! — if you let me call you so — I never came a-begging for myself. Or William, or this child ; but now I come For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. D Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said. He could not ever rue his marrying me — [ had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he said rhat he was wrong to cross his father thus : God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never know rhe troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turn'd His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am! But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory ; and take Dora back, ,\nd let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; A.nd all at once the old man burst in sobs : — ** I have been to blame — to blame. 1 have killed my son. [ have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son. May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with re- morse ; And all his love came back a hundred- fold ; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate ; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. AUDLEY COURT. " The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court." I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat. And breathing of the sea. " With all my heart," Said Francis. Then we shoulder 'd thro' the swarm. And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite ; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all The pillar'd dusk of sounding syca- mores, AUDLEY COURT. C And cross'd tlie garden to the gar- dener's lodge, Wit!i all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Fran- cis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Hrought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half -cut-down, a pasty costly- made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and lev- eret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and in jellied ; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and eat And talk'd old matters over; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall : Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was 'J'his season ; glancing thence, dis- cuss'd the farm. The four-field system, and the price of grain ; And struck upon the corn-laws, where Ave split. And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud ; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang — '' Oh ! who would tight and march and countermarch. He shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell'd up into some bloody trench Where no one knows \ but let me live my life. "Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three- legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all liis joints Are full of chalk ? but let me live m v life. " Who'd serve the state ? for if 1 carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it m the sands ; The sea wastes all : but let me live niv life. "Oh! who would love? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind. And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea ; but let me live my life." He sang his song, and I replied with mine : I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, His books — the more the pity, so I said — Came to the hammer here in March — and this — 1 set the words, and added names 1 knew. " Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, \ And sleeping, haply dream her arm is \ mine. | " Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm ; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. ^ "Sleep, breathing health and peace ; upon her breast : Sleep, breathing love and trust again^I her lip : I go to-night : I come to-morrow morn. " I go, but I return : I would I were- The pilot of the darkness and the dream. ^ WALKING TO THE MAIL. 89 Bleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me." So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, rhe farmer's son, who lived across the bay, Vly friend ; and I, that having where- withal, ind in the fallow leisure of my life \ rolling stone of here and every- where, Did what I would; but ere the night we rose \.nd saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just ;n crescent, dimly rain'd about tlie leaf Cwilights of airy silver, till we reach'd rhe limit of the hills ; and as we sank rrom rock to rock upon the glooming quay, rhe town was hush'd beneath us : lower down Che bay was oily ;alm ; the harbor buoy, Jole star of phosp lorescence in the calm, Vith one green sparkle ever and anon )ipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. WALKING TG THE MAIL. John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look Lbove the river, and, but a month ago, 'he whole hill-side was redder than a fox. s yon plantation where this byway joins 'he turnpike? James. Yes. John. And when does this come by? James. The mail? At one o'clock. John. What is it now ? James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see ? ro, not the County Member's with the vane : Fp higher with the yew-tree by it, and half A score of gables. , James. That? Sir Edward Head's : But he's abroad : the place is to be sold. John. Oh, his. He was not broken. James. No, sir, he, Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself. He lost the sense that handles daily life — That keeps us all in order more or less — And sick of home went overseas for change. John. And whither ? James. Nay, who knows '^ he's here and there. But let him go; his devil goes with him, As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. John. What's that ? James. You saw the man — on Mon- day, was it ? — There by the humpback'd willow ; half stands up And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a bridge ; And there he caught the yoimker tickling trout — Caught in flagrante — what's the Latin word ? — Delicto : but his house, for so the}- say. Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors. And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd : The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, " What ! 90 WALKING TO THE MAIL. You're flitting ! " " Yes, we're flit- ting," says tlie ghost (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) " Oh well," says he, " you flitting with us too — Jack, turn the liorses' heads and home again." John. Ha left ///.s wife behind; for so I heard. James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once : A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back — 'Tis now at least ten years — and then she was — You could not light upon a sweeter thing : A body slight and round, and like a pear In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager. Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride. New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd lb what she is : a nature never kind ! Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say : Kind nature is the best : those man- ners next That fit us like a nature second-hand ; Which are indeed the manners of the great. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past. And fear of change at home, tliat drove him hence. James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. I once was near him, when his bailiff brought A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince As from a venomous thing : he thought himself A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry Should break his sleep Ijy night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs Sweat on his blazon'd chairs , but, sir, you know That these two parties still divide the world — Of those that want, and those that have : and still The same old sore breaks out from age to age With much the same result. Nou 1 myself, A Tory to the quick, was as a boy Destructive, when I had not what 1 would. I was at school — a college in the South : There lived a flayflint near; we stoU' his fruit, His hens, his eggs ; but there was law for MS ; We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, With meditative grunts of much con- tent, Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. By night we dragg'd her to the col- lege tower From her warm bed, and up the cork- screw stair With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow. And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. Large range of prospect had the mother sow, And but for daily loss of one she loved As one by one we took them — but f oi this — As never sow was higher in this world — EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 91 Might have been happy : but what lot is pure ? We took them all, till she was left alone Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, And so returned unfarrow'd to lier sty. John. They found you out ? James. Not they. John . Well — after all — What know we of the secret of a man ? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound. That we should mimic this raw fool the world, Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites. As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows To Pity — more from ignorance tlian will. But put your best foot forward, or I fear That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes With five at top : as quaint a four-in- hand As you shall see — tliree pyebalds and a roan. EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake. My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : See here, my doing : curves of moun- tain, bridge. Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built When men knew how to build, upon a rock With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : And here, new-comers in an ancient hold. New-comers from the Mersey, million- aires. Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chim- nied bulk Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate ; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim. Who read me rhymes elaborately good, His own — I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. And once I ask'd him of his early life. And his first passion ; and he answer'd me; And well his words became him : was he not A fuU-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers ? Poet-like he spoke. " My love for Nature is as old as I ; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her. Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, Twin-sisters differently beautiful. To some full music rose and sank the sun. And some full music seem'd to move and change With all the varied changes of the dark. And either twilight and the day be- tween ; For daily hope fulfiU'd, to rise again 92 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. Eevolving tow aril fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe." Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, " I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well. To have a dame indoors, that trims ns up. And keeps us tight ; but these unreal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world." " Parson," said I, " you pitch the pipe too low : But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his : Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 1 do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce have other music : yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream ? " I ask'd him half-sardonically. " Give ? Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; " I would have hid her needle in my heart. To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear Her lightest breath ; her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came ; Her voice fled always thro' the summer land ; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! The flower of each, those moment < when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more." Were not Ids w-ords delicious, I a beast To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd ; Whether he spoke too largely ; that there seem'd A touch of something false, some self- conceit, Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was. He scarcely hit my liumor, and I said : "Friend Edwin, do not think your- self alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left ? But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein : I have, I think, — Heaven knows — as much within ; Have, or should have, but for a thought or two. That like a purple beech among the greens Looks out of place : 'tis from no want in her : It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, Or something of a wayward modern mind Dissecting passion. Time will set me right." So spoke I knowing not the things that were. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull : " God made the woman for the use of man. And for the good and increase of the world." m EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. 93 And I and Edwin laughed; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms And alders, garden-isles; and now we left The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran Hy ripply shallows of the lisping lake, Delighted with the freshness and the sound. But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 'Tis true, we met ; one hour I had, no more : She sent a note, the seal an Elle vans suit, The close, " Your Letty, only yours " ; and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My craft aground, and heard with beating heart The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelv- ing keel ; And out I stept, and up I crept : she moved, Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers : Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she, She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed In some new planet : a silent cousin stole Upon us and departed : " Leave," she cried, " O leave me ! " " Never, dearest, never : here I brave the worst : " and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yell'd within, and out they came lYustees and Aunts and L^ncles. " What, with him ! Go'' (shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus) ; " him ! " I choked. Again they shriekVl the burthen — " Him ! " Again with hands of wild rejection " Go ! — Girl, get you in ! " She went — and in one month They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds. To lands in Kent and messuages in York, And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile And educated whisker. But for me. They set an ancient creditor to work: It seems I broke a close with force and arms : There came a mystic token from the king- To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd : Her taper glimmer'd in the lake be- low : I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the storm ; So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. Nor cared to hear 'i perhaps : yet long ago I have pardon'd little Letty; not in- deed. It may be, for her own dear sake but this, She seems a part of those fresh days to me; For in the dust and drouth of Lon- don life She moves among my visions of the lake. While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then While the gold-lily blows, and over- head The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. 94 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Altho' I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet For troops of devils, mad with blas- phemy, I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn and snb, Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, Patient on this tall pillar I have borne Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow ; And I had hoped that ere this period closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. take the meaning, Lord : I do not breathe. Not whisper, any murmur of com- plaint. Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were still Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, j Than were those lead-like tons of sin, j that crush'd i My spirit fiat before thee. ' Lord, Lord, ; Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, For I was strong and hale of body then; And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away, Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh ; I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am, So that I scarce can hear the people hum About the column's base, and almost blind. And scarce can recognize the fields I know ; And both my thighs are rotted with the dew; Yet cease I not to clamor and to cry, While my stiff spine can hold my weary head. Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin. Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, Who may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? Who may be made a saint, if I fail here ? Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? For either they were stoned, or cruci- fied. Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 95 To-day, and whole years long, a life of death Bear witness, if I could have found a way (And heedfully I sifted all my thought) More slowly-painful to subdue this home Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, I had not stinted practice, my God. For not alone this pillar-punish- ment, Not this alone I bore : but while I lived In the white convent down the valley there, For many weeks about my loins I wore The robe that haled the buckets from the well, Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; And spake not of it to a single soul, Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, Betray'd mv secret penance, so that all My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this I bore, whereof, God, thou knowest all. Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, I lived up there on yonder mountain side. My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, Except the spare chance-gift of those that ?ame To touch my body and be heal'd, and live: And they say then that I work'd mir- acles, ^Yhereof my fame is loud amongst mankind. Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, God, Knowest alone whether this was or no. i Have mercy, mercy ! cover all my sin. I Then, that I might be more alone with thee, Three years I lived upon a pillar, high Six cubits, and tliree years on one of twelve ; And twice three years I croucli'd on one that rose Twenty by measure ; last of all, T grew Twice ten long weary weary j^ears to this. That numbers forty cubits from the soil. I think that I have borne as much as this — Or else I dream — and for so long a time. If I may measure time b}^ yon slow light. And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — So much — even so. And yet I know not well. For that the evil ones come here, and say, "Fall down, Simeon: that hast suffer'd long For ages and for ages ! " then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone thro', Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall. Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. But yet Bethink thee. Lord, while thou and all the saints Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth House in the sliade of comfortable roofs. Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- some food, And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls. 96 ST. SIMEON STYLITES. I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, Bow down one thousand and two hun- dred times, To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the saints ; Or in the night, after a little sleep, I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost. I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back; A grazing iron collar grinds my neck; And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; A sinful man, conceived and born in sin: *Tis their own doing; this is none of mine ; Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this. That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha! They think that I am somewhat. What am 1 7 The silly people take me for a saint. And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : And I, in truth (thouwilt bear witness here) Have all in all endured as much, and more Than many just and holy men, whose names Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. What is it 1 can have done to inerit this ? 1 am a sinner viler than 3'ou all. It may be I have wrought some mira- cles, And cured some halt and maim'd ; but what of that ? It may be, no one, even among the saints. May match his pains with mine ; but Avhat of that ? Yet do not rise ; for you may look on me, And in your looking you may kneel to God. Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? I think you know I have some power with Heaven From my long penance : let him speak his wish. Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. They saj' that they are heal'd. Ah, hark ! they shout " St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, Can I work miracles and not be saved ? This is not told of any. They were saints. It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, " Behold a saint ! " And lower voices saint me from above. Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrys- alis Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all My mortal archives. O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end ; I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes ; I, Avhose bald brows in silent hours become Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now From my high nest of penance here proclaim That Pontius and Iscariot by my side Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals ' I lay, A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath THE TALKING OAK. 97 Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve, Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd again. In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest : They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw Their faces grow between me and my book; With colt-like whinny and with hog- gish whine Tliej- burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns ; Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain, Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise : God only through his bounty hath thouglit fit, Among the powers and princes of this world, To make me an example to mankind, Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say But that a time may come — yea, even now. Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs Of life — I say, that time is at the doors When you may worship me without reproach ; For I will leave my relics in your land, And you may carve a shrine about my dust. And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones. When I am gather'd to the glorious saints. While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud- like change. In passing, with a grosser film made thick These heavy, horny eyes. The end i the end! Surely the end ! What's here ? a shape, a shade, A flash of light. Is that the angel there That holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, come. I know thy glittering face. I waited long ; My brows are ready. What ! deny it now ? Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ ! 'Tis gone ; 'tis here again ; the crown ! the crown ! So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, And from it melt the dews of Paradise, Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm^ and frankincense. Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints; I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, Among you there, and let him pres- ently Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft. And climbing up into my airy home, Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, I prophesy that I shall die to-night, A quarter before twelve. But thou, Lord, Aid all this foolish people ; let them take Example, pattern: lead them to thy light. THE TALKING OAK. Once more the gate behind me falls , Once more before my face I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, That stand within the chace. 98 THE TALKING OAIC. Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke ; And ah ! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak. For when my passion first began, Ere that, which in me burn'd, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return'd ; To yonder oak within the field 1 spoke without restraint, And with a larger faith appeal'd Than Papist unto Saint. For oft I talk'd with him apart. And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarized a heart, And answer'd with a voice. The' what he whisper'd under Heaven None else could understand ; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land. But since I heard him make reply Is many a weary hour ; 'Twere well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power. Hail, hidden to the knees in fern. Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place ! Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs. — " Walter, I have shelter'd here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year Made ripe in Sumner-chace : "Old Summers, when the monk was fat, And, issuing shorn and sleek, Would twist his girdle tight, and pat The girls upon the cheek, •' Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence. And number'd bead, and shrift. Bluff Harry broke into the spence And turn'd the cowls adrift : " And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose To chase the deer at five ; "And all that from the town would stroll. Till that wild wind made work In which the gloomy brewer's soul Went by me, like a stork : " The slight she-slips of loyal blood. And others, passing praise, Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud For puritanic stays : " And I have shadow'd many a group Of beauties, that were born In teacup-times of hood and hoop, Or while the patch was worn ; "And, leg and arm with love-knots gay About me leap'd and laugh'd The modish Cupid of the day, And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. " I swear (and else may insects prick Each leaf into a gall) This girl, for whom your heart is sick. Is three times worth them all ; "For those and theirs, by Nature's law. Have faded long ago ; But in these latter springs I saw Your own Olivia blow, "From when she gamboll'd on thv greens A baby-germ, to when The maiden blossoms of her teens Could number five from ten. " I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, (And hear me with thine ears,) That, tho' I circle in the grain Five hundred rings of years — Yet, since I first could cast Did never creature pass shadi THE TALKING OAK. 99 So slightly, musically made, So light upon the grass ; " For as to fairies, that will flit To make the greensward fresh, I hold them exquisitely knit, But far too spare of flesh." Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, And overlook the chace ; And from thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place. But thou, whereon I carved her name, That oft has heard my vows. Declare when last Olivia came To sport beneath thy boughs. '• O yesterday, you know, the fair "Was holden at the town ; Her father left his good arm-chair, And rode his hunter down. '• And with him Albert came on his. I look'd at him with joy As cowslip unto oxlip is, So seems she to the boy. " An hour liad past — and, sitting straight Witliin the low-wheel'd chaise, Her mother trundled to the gate Behind the dappled grays. " But as for her, she stay'd at home. And on the roof she went. And down the way you use to come, She look'd with discontent. " She left the novel half-uncut Upon the rosewood shelf; She left the new piano shut : She could not please herself. " Then ran she, gamesome as the colt. And livelier than a lark She sent her voice thro' all the holt Before her, and the park. " A light wind chased her on the wing. And in the chase grew wild. As close as might be would he cling About the darling child: " But light as any wind that blows So fleetly did she stir. The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose. And turn'd to look at her. " And here she came, and round me play'd. And sang to me the whole Of those three stanzas that you made About my ' giant bole : " " And in a fit of frolic mirth She strove to span my waist : Alas, I was so broad of girth, I could not be embraced. " I wish'd myself the fair young beech That here beside me stands, That round me, clasping eacli in each, She might have lock'd her hands. " Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet As woodbine's fragile hold. Or when I feel about my feet The berried briony fold." O muffle round thy knees with fern, And shadow Sumner-chace ! Long may thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place ! But tell me, did she read the name I carved with many vows ^A''hen last with throbbing heart I came To rest beneath thy boughs { "O yes, she wander'd round and round These knotted knees of mine. And found, and kiss'd the name she found. And sweetly murmur'd thine. " A teardrop trembled from its source, And down my surface crept. My sense of touch is something coarse, But I believe slie wept. " Tlien flush'd her cheek with rosy light. She glanced across the plain; 100 THE TALKING OAK. But not a creature was in sight : She kiss'd me once again. " Her kisses were so close and kind, That, trust me on my word, Hard wood 1 am, and wrinkled rind. But yet my sap was stirr'd : " And even into my inmost ring- A pleasure 1 discern'd, Like those blind motions of the Spring, That show the year is turn'd. " Thrice-happy he that may caress The ringlet's waving balm — The cushions of whose touch may press The maiden's tender palm. " I, rooted here among the groves, But languidly adjust My vapid vegetable loves With anthers and with dust : " For ah ! my friend, the days w ere brief Whereof the poets talk, When that, which breathes within the leaf, Could slip its bark and walk. " But could I, as in times foregone, From spray, and branch, and stem. Have suck'd and gather'd into one The life that spreads in them, " She had not found me so remiss ; But lightly issuing thro', 1 would have paid her kiss for kiss, With usury thereto." (J flourish high, with leafy towers, And overlook the lea, Pursue thy loves among the bowers But leave thou mine to me. O flourish, liidden deep in fern, Old oak, T love thee well; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell. " 'Tis little more : the day was warm ; At last, tired out with play, She sank her head upon her arm And at my feet she lay. " Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. 1 breathed upon her eyes Thro' all the summer of my leaves A welcome mix'd with sighs. " 1 took the swarming sound of life — The music from the town — The murmurs of the drum and fife And lull'd them in my own. " Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, To light her shaded eye ; A second flutter'd round her lip Like a golden butterfly ; " A third would glimmer on her neck To make the necklace shine ; Another slid, a sunny fleck. From head to ankle fine, " Then close and dark my arms I spread. And shadow'd all her rest — Dropt dews upon her golden head. An acorn in her breast. " But in a pet she started up. And pluck'd it out, and drew My little oakling from the cup, And flung him in the dew. " And yet it was a graceful gift — I felt a pang within As when I see the woodman lift His axe to slay my kin. " I shook him down because he was The finest on the tree. He lies beside thee on the grass. O kiss him once for me. '• O kiss him twice and thrice for me, That have no lips to kiss, For never yet was oak on lea Shall grow so fair as this." LOVE AND DUTY. 101 ytep deeper yet in herb and fern, Look further thro' the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern The front of Sumner-place. This fruit of thine by Love is blest, That but a moment lay Where fairer fruit of Love may rest Some happy future day. I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, The warmth it thence shall win To riper life may magnetize The baby-oak within. But thou, while kingdoms overset, Or lapse from hand to hand, Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet Thine acorn in the land. May never saw dismember thee, Nor wielded axe disjoint. That art the fairest-spoken tree From here to Lizard-point. O rock upon thy towery-top All throats that gurgle sweet ! All starry culmination drop Balm-dews to bathe thy feet ! All grass of silky feather grow - And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around blow The sound of minster bells. thee The fat earth feed thy branchy root, That under deeply strikes ! The northern morning o'er thee shoot. High up, in silver spikes ! Nor ever lightning char thy grain, But, rolling as in sleep, Low tlmnders bring the mellow rain, That makes thee broad and deep ! And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy side Will I to Olive plight my troth. And gain her for my bride. And when my marriage morn may fall, She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball In wreath about her hair. And I will work in prose and rhyme. And praise thee more in both Than bard has honor 'd beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth, In which the swarthy ringdove sat, And mystic sentence spoke ; And more than England honors that, Thy famous brother-oak. Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim. And far below the Roundhead rode, And humm'd a surly hymn. LOVE AND DUTY. Of love that never found his earthly close. What sequel % Streaming eyes and breaking hearts '^ Or all the same as if he had not been ? Not so. Shall Error in the round of time Still father Truth .' O shall the brag. gart shout For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law System and empire ? Sin itself be found The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? And only he, this wonder, dead, be- come Mere highway dust { or year by year alone Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself ? If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all. Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 102 LOVE AND DUTY. The staring eye glazed o'er with sap- less daj's, The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy 3'ears The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time, And that which shapes it to some per- fect end. Will some one say. Then why not ill for good ? Why took ye not your pastime \ To that man My work shall answer, since I knew the right And did it; for a man is not as God, But then most Godlike being most a man. — So let me think 'tis well for thee and me — Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me, When eyes, love-languid thro' half tears would dwell One earnest, earnest moment upon mine. Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice. Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a le^sh, And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, And on thy boso:ii (deep desired relief!) Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! For Love himself took part against himself To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — U this world's curse, — beloved but hated — came Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine. And crying, " Who is this ' behold thy bride," She push'd me from thee. If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to these — No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all. Could Love part thus'? was it not well to speak, To have spoken once ? It could not but be well. The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good. The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill. And all good things from evil, brought the night In which we sat together and alone. And to the want, that hoUow'd all the heart, Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears As flow but once a life. The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words That make a man feel strong in speak- ing truth ; Till now the dark was worn, and over- head The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused THE GOLDEN YEAR. 103 Among her stars to hear us; stars that hung Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of Time THE GOLDEN YEAE. Well, }• ou shall have that song which Leonard wrote : Spun round in station, but the end It was last summer on a tour in "Wales : had come. then like those, who clench their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose. There — closing like an individual life — In one blind cry of passion and of pain, Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it. And bade adieu for ever. Live — yet live — Shall sharpest pathos blight us, know- ing all Life needs for life is possible to will — Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by My blessing! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to Memory's dark- est hold. If not to be forgotten — not at once — Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, might it come like one that looks content. With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth. And point thee forward to a distant light. Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh'd Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown Full quire, and morning driv'n her plow of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded rack. Beyond the fair green field and east- ern sea. Old James Avas with me : we that day had been Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leon- ard there, And found him in Llanberis : then we crost Between the lakes, and clamber'd half way up The counter side ; and that same song of his He told me ; for I banter'd him, and swore They said he lived shut up within himself, A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days. That, setting the how much before the how, Cry, like the daughters of the horse- leech, " Give, Cram us with all," but count not me the herd ! To jvhich "They call me what they will," he said : " But I was born too late : the fair new forms, That float about the threshold of an age, Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — • Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown'd — Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. But if you care indeed to listen, hear These measured words, my work of yestermorn. " We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move; The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse ; And human things returning on them- selves Move onward, leadnig up the golden year. 104 UL YSSES. m " Ah, tlio' the times, when some new thought can bud, Are but as poets' seasons when they flower. Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore, Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, And slow and sure comes up the golden year. " When wealth no more shall rest in mounded her^s But smit with freer light shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands. And light shall spread, and man be liker man Thro' all the season of the golden year. " vShall eagles not be eagles ? Avrens be wrens ? If all the world were falcons, what of that ? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle. Happy days Roll onward, leading up the golden year. " Fly, happy happy sails, and bear the Press ; Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; Knit land to land, and blowing haven- ward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. " But we grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal Peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land. And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. Thro' all the circle of the golden year ? " Thus far he flow'd, and ended; whereupon " Ah, folly ! " in mimic cadence an- swer'd James — " Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away. Not in our time, nor in our children's time. 'Tis like the second world to us that live ; 'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven As on this vision of the golden year." With that he struck his staff against the rocks And broke it, — James, — you know him, — old, but full Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet. And like an oaken stock in winter woods, O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : Then added, all in heat : '' What stuff is this ! Old writers push'd the happy season back, — The more fools they, — we forward: dreamers both : You most, that in an age, when every hour ^lust sweat her sixty minutes to the death. Live on, God love us, as if the seeds- man, rapt Upon the teeming harvest, should not plunge His hand into the bag: but well I know That unto him who works, and feels he works, This same grand year is ever at the doors." He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap And buffet round the hills, from bluff to bluff. ULYSSES. It little profits that an idle king. By this still hearth, among these bar- ren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. UL YSSES. 105 I cannot rest from travel : I will drink Life to the lees : all times I have en- joy 'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea : I am become a name; For alwa3'S roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known ; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, goA"- ernmente. Myself not least, but honor'd of them all ; And drunk delight of battle with my peers. Far on the ringing plains of windv Troy. I am a part of all that I have met ; Yet all experience is an arch Avhere- thro' Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life AVere all too little, and of one to me Little remains : but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new tilings ; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking- star. Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telema- chus. To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail Li offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port ; tlie vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. M.y mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; Death closes all : but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove witli Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : The long day Avanes : the slow moon climbs : tlie deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows ; for my pur- pose holds To sail beyond tlie sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days 106 TITHONUS. Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. TITHONUS. The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath. And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes : I wither slowly in tliine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent sjaaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, AVho madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd To his great heart none other than a God! I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile. Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills. And beat me down and niarr'd and wasted me. And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth. And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now. Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift : Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all ? A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glim- mer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure. And bosom beating with a heart re- newal. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom. Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine. Ere 3^et they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise. And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes. And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo ! ever thus thou growest beauti- ful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears. And make me tremble lest a saying learnt. In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? "The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." LOCKSLEY HALL. 107 Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch — if I be he that watch'd — The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crim- son'd all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-open- ing buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet. Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing. While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not for ever in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine ? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die. And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground ; Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave : Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. LOCKSLEY HALL. Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn : Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call. Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall ; Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts. And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest. Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : 108 LOCKSLE/ HALL. When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see ; Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. — In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast ; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnisn'd dove ; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me. Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the nortliern night. And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — Saying, " I have hid mj feelings, fearing they should do me wrong " ; Saying, " Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, " I have loved thee long. ' Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might, Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships. And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! Yet it shall be : thou slialt lower to his level day by day. What is fine within thee growing coarse to jsympathize with clay. As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. locks: EY HALL. 109 He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : Soothe him Avith thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! Better thou and I were lynig, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool! AVell — 'tis well that I should bluster !^ — Hadst thou less unworthy proved — Would to God — for I liad loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort % in division of the records of the mind ? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ^ No — she never loved me truly : love is love for evermore. Comfort 1 comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proox, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To tliy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt W( .-p 110 LOCKSLEY HALL. Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in tlie ringing of thine ears ; And an eye sliall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thine ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 0, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. " They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt — Truly, she herself had suffer'd " — Perish in thy self-contempt ! Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore should I care? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground. When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels. And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from thy deep emotion, thou wondrous Mother-Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the liglit of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then. Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men: LOCKSLEY HALL. lU Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : That which they have done but earnest of tiie things that they shall do : For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see. Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue ; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of tlie peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm ; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint : Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with tlie process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's ? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, They \r. whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string ? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — Nature made tliem blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : 112 LOCKSLEY HALL. Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — Here at least, wliere nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where nw life began to beat; Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd; — I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag. Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag ; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind. In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space ; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. iron jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains. Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime { I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. Let tlie great world spin for over down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. GODIVA. 113 Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begmi : Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun- O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. GODIVA. / waited for the train at Coventry ; T hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires ; and there I shaped The citji's ancient legend into this: — Not only we, the latest seed of Time, New men, that in the flying of a wheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them over-tax'd ; but she Did more, and underwent, and over- came, The woman of a thousand summers back, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled In Coventry : for when he laid a tax Upon his town, and all the mothers brought Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, we starve ! " She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone. His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears, And praj^'d him, " If they pay this tax, they starve." Whereat he stared, replying, half- amazed, " You would not let your little finger ache For such as these ? " — " But I would die," said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul: Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear; " Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk ! " _ " Alas ! " she said, " But prove me what it is I would not do." And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand. He answer'd, " Ride you naked thro' the town. And I repeal it " ; and nodding, as in scorn. He parted, with great strides among his dogs. So left alone, the passions of her mind. As winds from all tlic compass shift and blow, Made war upon each other for an hour. Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all The hard condition ; but that she would loose 114 THE DAY-DREAM. The people : therefore, as they loved her well, From then till noon no foot sliould pace the street, No eye look down, she passing; but that all Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd. Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt, The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath She linger'd, looking like a summer moon Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head, And shower'd the rippled ringlets to lier knee ; Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair Stole on ; and, like a creeping sun- beam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. Then she rode forth, clothed on witli chastity : The deep air listened round her as she rode. And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's footfall shot Like horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw The Avhite-flower'd elder-thicket from the field Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity : And one low churl, compact of thank- less earth. The fatal byword of all years to come. Boring a little auger-hole in fear, Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will, Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, Avho wait On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- used ; And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at once. With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers. One after one : but even then she gain'd Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, To meet her lord, she took the tax away And built herself an everlasting name. THE DAY-DREAM. PROLOGUE. O Lady Flora, let me speak : A pleasant hour has passed away While, dreaming on your dama!>k cheek. The dewj^ sister-eyelids lay. As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro' many Avayward moods To see you dreaming — and, behind, A sunmier crisp with shining woods. And I too dream'd, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past. And loosely settled into form. And would vou have the thought I had. And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery -frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, THE DAY-DREAM. 115 And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eye — The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And order'd words asunder ?Ly. THE SLEEPING PALACE. The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains. Here rests the sap within the leaf. Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapors lightly cmi'd, Faint murmurs from the meadows come. Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on tlie tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: In these, in those the life is stay'd. The mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily : no sound is made. Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings. That watch the sleepers from the wall. IV. Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honor blooming fair; The page has caught her hand in his : Her lips are sever'd as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss : The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. Till all the Imndred summers pass, The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine. Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker briram'd with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps. Grave faces gather'd in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps. He must have been a jovial king. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. And grapes with bunches red as blood ; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, burr and brake and brier. And glimpsing over these, just seen. High up, the topmost palace spire. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again. And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? Here all things in their place remain, As all were order'd, ages since. Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. I. Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. 116 THE DAk-DREAM. Tlie silk Ptar-broider'd coverlid Unto her limbs itself dotli mould Languidly ever; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, (Hows forth each softly-shadow'd arm Witli bracelets of the diamond bright : Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. Slie sleeps : her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps : on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE ARRIVAL. All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth ; For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth. He travels far from other skies — His mantle glitters on the rocks — A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, And lighter-footed than the fox. The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days to pass, Are wither'd in the thorny close. Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. He gazes on the silent dead : " They perish'd in their daring deeds." This proverb flashes thro* his head, " The many fail : the one succeeds." He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks : He breaks the hedge : lie enters there : The color flies into his cheeks : He trusts to light on something fair; For all his life the charm did talk About his path, and hover near With words of promise in his walk. And Avhisper'd voices at his ear. More close and close his footsteps wind : The Magic Music in his heart Beats quick and quicker, till he find The quiet chamber far apart. The spirit flutters like a lark, He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. " Love, if thy tresses be so dark, How dark those hidden eyes must be!" THE REVIVAL. I. A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. There rose a noise of striking clocks, And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; A fuller light illumined all, A breeze thro' all the garden swept, A sudden hubbub shook the hall. And sixty feet the fountain leapt. The hedge broke in, the banner blew. The butler drank, the steward scraw-l'd, The fire shot up, tlie martin flew. The parrot scream'd, the peacock squaird. The maid and page renew'd their strife, The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and clackt. And all the long-pent stream of life Dash'd downward in a cataract. THE DAY-DREAM. 117 And last with these the king awoke, And in his chair himself nprear'd, And yawn'd, and rnbb'd his face, and spoke, " B}" holy rood, a royal beard ! How say you? we have slept, my lords. My beard has grown into my lap." The barons swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. "Pardy," return'd the king, "but still My joints are somewhat stiff or so. My lord, and shall we pass the bill I mention'd half an hour ago ? " The chancellor, sedate and vain. In courteous words return'd reply : But dallied with his golden chain. And, smiling, put the question by. THE DEPARTURE. I. And on her lover's arm she leant. And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old: Across the hills, and far away Beyond this utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day The happy princess follow'd him. " I'd sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss ; " " O wake for ever, love," she hears, " O love, 'twas such as this and this." And o'er them many a sliding star. And many a merry wind was borne, And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn. " O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " " happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " "O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " "0 love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark. And, rapt thro' many a rosy change. The twiliffht died into the dark. " A hundred summers ! can it be ? And whither goest thou, tell me where 1 " " O seek my father's court with me, For there are greater wonders* there." And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him. MORAL. I. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find no moral there. Go, look in any glass and say, AVhat moral is in being fair. Oh, tc what uses chall we put The wildweed flower that simply blows ? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose ? But any man that walks the mead, In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humors lead, A meaning suited to his mind. And liberal applications lie In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; So 'twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end. L'ENVOI. You head. A random shake your string Your finer female sense oftends. Well — were it not a pleasant thing To fall asleep with all one's friends To pass with all our social ties To silence from the paths of men And every hundred years to rise lis AMPHION. And learn the world, and sleep again ; To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, And wake on science grown to more, On secrets of the brain, the stars. As wild as aught of fairy lore ; And all tliat else the years will show. The Poet-forms of stronger hours, The vast Kepublics that may grow, The Federations and the Powers ; Titanic forces taking birth In divers seasons, divers climes ; For we are Ancients of the earth. And in the morning of the times. So sleeping, so aroused from sleep Thro' sunny decadesnewand strange. Or gay quinquenniads would we reap The tlower and quintessence of change. III. Ah, yet would I — and would I might! So much your eyes my fancy take — Be still the first to leap to light That I might kiss those eyes awake ! For, am 1 right, or am I wrong. To choose your own you did not care ; You'd have my moral from the song, And I will take my pleasure there : And, am I right or am I wrong. My fancy, ranging thro' and thro'. To search a meaning for the song. Perforce will still revert to you ; Nor finds a closer truth than this All-graceful head, so richly curl'd, And evermore a costly kiss The prelude to some brighter world. For since the time when Adam first Embraced his Eve in happy hour. And every bird of Eden burst In carol, every bud to flower. What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes. What iips, like thine, so sweetly join'd ? Where on the double rosebud droops The fulness of the pensive mind ; AVhich all too dearly self -involved. Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; A sleep by kisses undissolved. That lets thee neither hear nor see: But break it. In the name of wife, And in the rights that name may give. Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, And that for which I care to live. EPILOGUE. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And, if you find a meaning there. O whisper to your glass, and say, "What wonder, if he thinks mo fair ? " What wonder I was all unwise, To shape the song for your delight Like long-taii'd birds of Paradise That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light ? Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — But take it — earnest wed with sport. And either sacred unto you. AMPHION. My father left a park to me. But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree. And waster than a warren : Yet say the neighbors when they call. It is not bad but good land, And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland. had I lived when song was great In days of old Amphion, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. Nor cared for seed or scion ! And had I lived when song was great And legs of trees were limber. And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. And fiddled in the timber ! 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such hapi)y intonation. Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation; AMPHION. 119 Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move, And flounder into hornpipes. The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted dowit Coquetting Avith young beeches ; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming. And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing. The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreaths that bind her, And down the middle, buzz ! she went "With all her bees behind her : The poplars, in long order due, With cypress j)romenaded, The shock-head willows two and two By rivers gallopaded. Came wet-shod alder from the wave, Came yews, a dismal coterie ; Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, Poussetting with a sloe-tree : Old elms came breaking from the vine, The vine stream'd out to follow. And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine From many a cloudy hollow. And wasn't it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, Like some great landslip, tree by tree, The country-side descended; And shepherds from the mountain- eaves Look'd down, half-pleased, lialf- frighten'd. As dash'd about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lighten'd ! Oh, nature first was fresh to men, And wanton without measure ; So youthful and so flexile then. You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the twigs ! And make her dance attendance ; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons. 'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle ; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle ; Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and Avith scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick, The passive oxen gaping. But what is that I hear ? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading ; O Lord ! — 'tis in my neighbor's ground, The modern Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses ! how they prose O'er books of travell'd seamen. And show^ you slips of all that grows From England to Van Diemen. They read in arbors dipt and cut. And alleys, faded places, By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy ; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest w^eed That blows upon its mountain. The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro' months of toil And years of cultivation. Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom : Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom. 120 ST. AGiVES' EVE. ST. AGNES' EVE. I)ki;i' on tlie convt-nt-roof the snows Are sparkling to tlie moon: .My brcatli to lieaven like vapor goes : May iny soul follow soon ! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord : Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground ; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round ; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee ; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far. Thro' all yon starlight keen. Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors ; The flashes come and go ; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below. And deepens on and up ! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide — A light upon the shining sea — The Bridegroom with his bride ! SIR GALAHAD. Mv good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, -My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stand.- Perfume and flowers fall in showers. That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall ! For them I battle till the end. To save from shame and thrall : But all my heart is drawn above. My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love. Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beajii, Me mightier transports move and thrill ; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. AVhen down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns : Then by some secret shrine I ride ; I hear a voice but none are there ; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams tlie snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean. The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between . Sometimes on lonely mountain-mere>^ I find a magic bark ; I leap on board : no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an aAvful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stok s -of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the star&^ When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, EDWARD GRAY. 121 The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height ; No branchy thicket shelter yields ; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight — to me is given Such hope, I know not fear ; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odors haunt my dreams ; And, stricken by an angel's hand. This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky. And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear : " O just and faithful knight of God ! Ride on ! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, A.ll-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. EDWARD GRAY. Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, " And have you lost your heart ? " she said ; " And are you married yet, Edward Gray '\ " Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to nie : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : " Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Tan touch the heart of F^.dward Gray. " Ellen Adair she loved me well. Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill " Shy she was, and I thought lier cold ; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; Fiird I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for " Cruel, cruel the words I said ! Cruelly came they back to-day : 'You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' " There I put my face in the grass -- Whisper'd, ' Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did : Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! ' " Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, ' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray ! ' " Love may come, and love may go. And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree ; But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me " Bitterly wept I over the stone : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : There lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the "heart of Edwara Gray ! " 122 WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. MADE AT THE COCK. PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time ? 'Tis five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port : But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, But such wliose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers. No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind, To make me write my random rhymes, Ere they be half-forgotten ; Nor add and alter, many times. Till all be ripe and rotten. 1 pledge her, and she comes and dips Her laurel in the wine. And lays it thrice upon my lips. These favor'd lips of mine ; Until the charm have power to make New lifeblood warm the bosom, And barren commonplaces break In full and kindly blossom. I pledge her silent at the board ; Her gradual fingers steal And touch upon the master-chord Of all I felt and feel. Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, . And phantom hopes assemble ; And that cliild's heart within the man's Begins to move and tremble. Thro' many an hour of summer suns, By many pleasant ways. Against its fountain upward runs The current of my daj's : I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd; The gas-light wavers dimmer ; And softly, thro' a vinous mist. My college friendships glimmer. I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen. Or that eternal want of pence. Which vexes public men. Who hold tlieir hands to all, and cry For tliat which all deny them — Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry. And all the world go by them. Ah yet, tlio' all the world forsake, Tho' fortune clip my wings, I will not cramp my heart, nor take Half-views of men and things. Let Whig and Tory stir their blood ; There must be stormy weather ; But for some true result of good All parties work together. Let there be thistles, there are grajjes ; If old things, there are new ; Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, Yet glimpses of the true. Let rafts be rife in prose and rhyme. We lack not rhymes and reasons, As on this whirligig of Time We circle with the seasons. This earth is rich in man and maid ; With fair horizons bound : This whole wide earth of light and shade Comes out a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar, And set in Heaven's third story, I look at all things as they are. But thro' a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe. The pint, you brought me, was the best That ever came from pipe. But tho' the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with stiffer. Is there some magic in the place ? Or do my peptics differ ? For since I came to live and learn, No pint of white or red Had ever half the power to turn This wheel within my head. Which bears a season'd brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out. Thro' everv convolution. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 123 For I am of a numerous house, With many kinsmen gay, Where long and largely we carouse As who shall say me nay : p]acli month, a birth-day coming on, We drink defying trouble, Or sometimes two would meet in one. And then we drank it double ; Whether the vintage, yet unkept. Had relish fiery-new, Or elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, As old as Waterloo ; Or stow'd, when classic Canning died, In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! She answer'd to my call, She changes with that mood or this. Is all-in-all to all : She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker. Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout. His proper chop to each. He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally ; I think he came like Ganymede, From some delightful valley. The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg, And cramm'd a plumper crop ; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crow'd lustier late and early, 8ipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley. A. private life was all his joy. Till in a court he saw A. Bomething-pottle-bodied boy That knuckled at the taw : He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fan- and good, Flew over roof and casement : His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow'd with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,. Till, where the street grows straiter, One fix'd for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go ? How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow Among the chops and steaks ! 'Tis but a steward of the can, One shade more plump than com- mon ; As just and mere a serving-man As any born of woman. I ranged too high : what draws me down Into the common day ? Is it the weight of that half-crown. Which I shall have to pay ? For, something duller than at first, Nor wholly comfortable, I sit, my empty glass reversed. And thrumming on the table : Half fearful that, with self at strife, I take myself to task ; Lest of the fulness of my life I leave an empty flask : For I had hope, by something rare To prove myself a poet : But, while I plan and plan, my hair Is gray before I know it. So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather'd up ; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the vacant cup: And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches ; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches. 124 LADY CLARE, Ah, let the rusty theme tdone ! We know not what we know. But for my pleasant liom-, 'tis gone; 'Tis gone, and let it go. 'Tis gone: a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dustj^ crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went Long since, and came no more; With peals of genial clamor sent From many a tavern-door. With twisted quirks and hapi)v hits. From misty men of letters ; The tavern-hours of mighty wits — Thine elders and tliy betters. Hours, Avlien tlie Toet's words and looks Had yet their native glow : Nor yet the fear of little books Had nuide him talk for show ; But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, He flash'd his random speeches, Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd His literary leeches. So mix for ever wdth the past. Like all good things on earth ! For should T prize thee, couldst thou last, At half thy real worth ? I hold it good, good things should pass : With time I will not quarrel : It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the cliop-house here, To which I most resort, I too must part : I hold thee dear For this good pint of port. For this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirtii and Uuighter; And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after. But thou wilt never move from hence. The sphere thy fate allots : Thy latter days increased with pence (to down among tlie i)ots : Thou battenest by the greasy gleam In haunts of hungry sinners, Old boxes, larded with the steam Of thirty tlioiisand dinners. We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Would quarrel witli our lot; Thy care is, under polish'd tins To serve the hot-and-hot ; To come and go, and come again. Returning like tlie pewit. And Avatch'd by silent gentlemen, That trifle witli the cruet. Live long, ere from thy topmost head The thick-set liazel dies ; Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread The corners of thine eyes : Live long, nor feel in head or chest Our changeful equinoxes, Till mellow Death, like some late guest. Shall call thee from the boxes. But when he calls, and thou shalt cease To pace the gritted floor, And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, shalt earn no more ; No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee past to Heaven : But carved cross-pipes, and, under- neath, A pint-pot neatly graven. LADY CLARE. It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, l.rady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn : Lovers long-betroth'd were they : They too will wed the morrow morn : God's blessing on the dav! LADY CLARE. 125 " He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair : lie loves me for my own true wortli, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, " Who was this that went from thee 1 " " It was my cousin," said Ladj^ Clare, " To-morrow he weds with me. " " God be thank'd ! " said Alice tlie nurse, " That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare." " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? " Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " " As God's above," said Alice tlie nurse, "I speak the truth, you are mv child. " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." " ^''alsely, falsely have ye done, mother," she said, "if this be true. To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life. And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife." " If I'm a begp^ar born," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." "Nay now, my child," said Alice tlic nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can." She said, " Not so : but I will know If there be any faith in man." " Nay now, wiiat faith ? " said Alice the nurse; " The man will cleave unto his right." " And he shall have it," the lady replied, " Tho' I should die to-night." "Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." " O mother, mother, mother," she said. " So strange it seems to me. " Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so. And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown. She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down. With a single rose in her air. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand; And follow'd her all the way. Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : "() Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest like a village maid. That are the flower of the earth ? "" " If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are ; I am a beggar born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." 126 THE CAPTAIN " Play me no tricks," said Lord Ro- nald, " For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, " Your riddle is hard to read." O and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugli'd a laugh of merry scorn : He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood: '' If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next in blood — " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the lawful heir. We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall still be Lady Clare." THE CAPTAIN. A LEGEND OF THE XAVY, He that only rules by terror Doetli jijrievous wrong. Deep as Hell I count his error. Let him hear my song. Brave the Captain Avas : the seamen Made a gallant crew, Gallant sons of English freemen, Sailors bold and true. But they hated his oppression, Stern he was and rash ; So for every light transgression Doom'd them to tlie lash. Day by day more harsh and cruel Seem'd the Captain's mood. Secret wrath like smother'd fuel Burnt in each man's blood. Yet he hoped to purchase glory. Hoped to make tlie name Of his vessel great in story, Wheresoe'er he came. So they past by capes and islands, Many a harbor-mouth, Sailing under palmy highlands Far within the South. On a day when they were going O'er the lone expanse, In the north, her canvas flowing. Rose a ship of France. Then the Captain's color heighten'd, Joyful came his sj)eech : But a cloudy gladness lighten'd In the eyes of each. " Chase," he said : the ship flew for ward, And the wind did blow ; Stately, lightly, went she Korward, Till she near'd the foe. Then they look'd at him they hated, Had what they desired : Mute with folded arms they waited — Not a gun was fired. But they heard the foeman's thunder Roaring out their doom ; All the air was torn in sunder, Crashing went the boom, Spars were splinter'd, decks were shat- ter'd. Bullets fell like rain ; Over mast and deck were scatter'd Blood and brains of men. Spars were splinter'd; decks were broken : Every mother's son — Down they dropt — no word was spoken — Each beside his gun. On the decks as they were lying. Were their faces grim. In their blood, as they lay dying. Did thry smile on him. Those, in whom he had reliance For his noble name, With one smile of still defiance Sold him unto shame. Shame and wrath his heart con founded. Pale he turn'd and red, Till himself was deadly wounded Falling on the dead. Dismal error! fearful slaughter! Y^ears have Mander'd by. Side by side beneath the water Crew and Captain lie ; There the sunlit ocean tosses O'er them mouldering, And the lonely seabird crosses With one waft of the wing. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. \11 THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. Ix her ear he whispers gayly, " If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily. And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter, "There is none I love like thee." lie is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof : Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. " I can make no marriage present : Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand : Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses. Says to her that loves him well, " Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell." So she goes by him attended. Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers ; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, BuiL for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer : Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. but she will love him truly ! He shall have a cheerful home ; She will order all things duly. When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly. Till a gateway she discerns With armorial iDcarings stately. And beneath the gate she turns ; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before : Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call. While he treads with footsteps firmer Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly. Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, " All of this is mine and thine." Here he lives in state and bounty. Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin : As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he clieer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank : Shaped her heart with woman's meek- ness To all duties of her rank : And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady. And the people loved lier much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her. And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burthen of an honor Unto whicli she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter. And she murmur'd, "Oh, that he Were once more that landscape- painter. Which did win my heart from me ! " So she droop'd and droop'd before him. Fading slowly from his side : Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early. Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, " Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed." Then her people, softly treading. Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in. That her spirit might have rest. 128 THE VOYAGE. THE VOYAGE. I. We left behind the painted buoy That tosses at the harbor-mouth ; And madly danced our hearts with joy, As fast we fleeted to the South : How fresh was every sight and sound On open main or winding shore ! We knew the merry world was round, And we might sail for evermore. Warm broke the breeze against the brow, Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail: The Lady's-head upon the prow Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale. The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel. And swept behind ; so quick the run, We felt the good ship shake and reel, We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! How oft we saw the Sun retire, And burn the threshold of the night, Fall from liis Ocean-lane of fire, And sleep beneath his pillar'd light! How oft the purple-skirted robe Of twilight slowly downward drawn, As thro' the slumber of the globe Again we dash'd into the dawn ! New stars all night above the brim Of waters lighten'd into view ; They climb'd as quickly, for the rim Changed every moment as we flew. Far ran the naked moon across The houseless ocean's heaving field, Or flying shone, tlie silver boss Of her own halo's dusky shield ; The peaky islet shifted shapes, Higli towns on hills were dimly seen, We past long lines of Northern capes And dewy Northern meadows green. We came to warmer waves, and deep Across the boundless east we drove, Where those long swells of breaker sweep The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, Gloom'd the low coast and quivering- brine With asliy rains, that spreading made Fantastic plume or sable pine ; By sands and steaming flats, and floods Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, And hills and scarlet-mingled woods Glow'd for a moment as we past. O hundred shores of happy climes. How swiftly stream'd ye by tlu- bark ! At times the whole sea burn 'd, at times With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; At times a carven craft would shoot From havens hid in fairy bowers. With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, ^ < But we nor paused for fruit nor flowers. VIII. For one fair Vision ever fled Down the waste waters day and night, And still we follow'd where slie led, In hope to gain upon her flight. Her face was evermore unseen. And fixt upon the far sea-line ; But each man murmur'd, " O my Queen, I follow till I make thee mine." And now we lost her, now she gleam'd Like Fancy made of golden air. Now nearer to the prow she seem'd Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, Now high on waves that idly burst Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the sea, And now, the bloodless point reversed, She bore the blade of Liberty. SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 129 And only one among us — him We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : He saw not far : his eyes were dim : But ours he swore were all diseased. " A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, "A ship of fools," he sneer'd and wept. And overboard one stormy night He cast his body, and on we swept. And never sail of ours was furl'd, Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn ; We lov'd the glories of the world, But laws of nature were our scorn. For blasts would rise and rave and cease, But ^whence were those that drove the sail Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, And to and thro' the counter gale ? Again to colder climes we came, For still we follow'd where she led : Now mate is blind and captain lame. And half the crew are sick or dead, But, blind or lame or sick or sound, We follow that which flies before : We know the merry world is round, And we may sail for evermore. SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. A FRAGMENT. Luce souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. In crystal vapor everywhere Blue isles of heaven laugli'd between, And far, in forest-deeps unseen. The topmost elm-tree gather'd green From draughts of balmy air. Sometimes the linnet piped his song : Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong : By grassy capes with fuller sound In curves tlie yellowing river ran, And drooping chestnut-buds began To spread into the perfect fan, Above tlie teeming ground. Then, in the boyhood of the year, Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, With blissful treble ringing clear. She seem'd a part of joyous Spring : A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before ; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. Now on some twisted ivy-net, Now by some tinkling rivulet, In mosses mixt with violet Her cream-white mule his pastern set . And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains Than she whose elfin prancer springs By night to eery warblings. When all the glimmering moorland rings With jingling bridle-reins. As she fled fast thro' sun and shade. The happy winds upon her play'd. Blowing the ringlet from the braid : She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his wordly worth for this. To waste his whole heart in one kisj Upon her perfect lips. A FAREWELL. Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. Thy tribute wave deliver : No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. 130 THE BEGGAR MAID. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river : No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow : From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go ; Till over thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes That watch me from the glen below. Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne. Dip forward under starry light. And move me to my marriage-morn, And round again to happy night. THE BEGGAR MAID. Her arms across her breast she laid ; She was more fair than words can say : Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down. To meet and greet her on her way; " It is no wonder," said the lords, " She is more beautiful than day." As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen : Ono^ praised her ankles, one her eyes. One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been : Cophetua sware a royal oath : "This beggar maid shall be my queen ! " THE EAGLE. He FRAGMENT. clasps the crag with crooked hands ; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. Co3iE not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head. And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sw^eep and the plover cry ; Biit thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest : AVed whom thou wait, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : Go by, go by. THE LETTERS. Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, I peer'd athwart the chancel pane And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet, A band of pain across my brow ; " Cold altar. Heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow." I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song That mock'd the wholesome human heart. THE VISION OF SIN. 131 And then we met in wrath and wrong, We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry ; She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; I saw with half-unconscious eye She Avore the colors I approved. III. She took the little ivory chest, "With half a sigh she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips com- prest, And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings. My gifts, when gifts of mine could please; As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I look'd on these. IV. She told me all her friends had said ; I raged against the public liar ; She talk'd as if her love were dead. But in my words were seeds of fire. " No more of love ; your sex is known : I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone. The woman cannot ^e believed, v. " Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Plell — And women's slander is the worst. And you, whom once I lov'd so well. Thro' you, my life will be accurst." I spoke with heart, and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarms — Like torrents from a mountain source We rush'd into each other's arms. VI. We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars. And sweet the vapor-braided blue. Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars. As homeward by the church I drew. The very graves appear'd to smile. So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; " Dark porch," I said, " and silent aisle, There comes a sound of marriage bells. THE VISION OF SIN. I. I HAD a vision when the night was late : A youth came riding toward a palace- gate. He rode a horse with wings, that would have tiown, But that his heavy rider kept him down. And from the palace came a child of sin. And took him by the curls, and led him in. Where sat a company with heated eyes, Expecting when a fountain should arise : A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse. Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes. By heajis of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes. Then methought I heard a mellow sound. Gathering up from all the lower ground ; Narrowing in to where they sat assem- bled Low voluptuous music winding trem- bled, Wov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd, Panted hand-in-hand with faces pale, Swung themselves, and in low tones replied ; Till the fountain spouted, showering wide Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail ; Then the music touch'd the gates and died , Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale; 132 THE VISION OF SIX. 'Pill thronging in and in, to where they waited, As twere a Imndred-throated nightin- gale, The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated ; Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, Caught the sparkles, and in circles, Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, Flung the torrent rainbow round: Then they started from their places. Moved with violence, changed in hue. Caught each other with wild grimaces, Half-in visible to the view. Wheeling with precipitate paces To the melody, till they flew, Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, Twisted hard in fierce embraces. Like to Furies, like to Graces, Dasird together in blinding dew : Till, kiird with some luxurious agony. The nerve-dissolving melody Flutter'd headlong from the sky. And then I look'd up toward a moun- tain-tract, That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : I saw that every morning, far with- drawn Beyond the darkness and the cataract, God made Himself an awful rose of dawn, Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, A vapor heavv, hueless, formless, cold, Came floating on for many a month and year, I'nheeded : and I thought I would liave spoken, And warn'd that madman ere it grew too late : Hut, as in dreams, 1 could not. Mine was broken, Wlien that cold vapor touch'd the ])alace gate. And link'd again. 1 saw within my head A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death. Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath. And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : " Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! Here is custom come your way ; Take my brute, and lead him in, Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. " Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! See that sheets are on my bed; What ! the flower of life is past: It is long before you wed. " Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, At the Dragon on the heath ! Let us have a quiet hour, Let us hob-and-nob witli Death. " I am old, but let me drink ; Bring me spices, bring me wine : 1 remember, when I think. That my youth was half divine. " Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. When a blanket wraps the day. When the rotten woodland drips. And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. " Sit thee d(;wn, and have no shame, Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee •• What care I for any name ? What for order or degree .' "Let me screw thee up a i)eg : Let me loose thy tongue with wine Callest thou that thing a leg ? Which is thinnest '? thine or mine " Thou shalt not be saved by works : Thou hast been a sinner too : Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, Empty scarecrows, I and you ! " Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man. Every moment one is born. THE VISION OF SIN. 133 ' Wc arc men of ruin'd blood; Therefore comes it we are wise. Fish are we that love the nmd, Rising to no fancy-flies. " Name and fame ! to fly sublime Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the liall of Time, Bandied by the hands of fools. Friendship ! — to be two in one — Let the canting liar pack ! Well I know, when I am gone, How she mouths behind my back. " ^'irtue ! — to be good and just — Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. " ! we two as well can look Whited thought and cleanly life As the priest, above his book Leering at his neighbor's wife. " Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before thfe morn : Every moment dies a man. Every moment one is born. " Drink, and let the parties rave : They are fiU'd with idle spleen ; Rising, falling, like a wave, For they know not what they mean " He that roars for liberty Faster binds a tyrant's power ; And the tyrant's cruel glee Forces on tlie freer hour. '■ Fill the can, and fill the cup r All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. *' Greet her with applausive breath, Freedom, gayly doth she tread ; In her right a civic wreath, In h?r left a human head. " No, 1 love not what is new ; She is of an ancient house : And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows. " Let her go ! her thirst she slakes Where the bloody conduit runs, Then her sweetest meal she makes On the first-born of her sons, " Drink to lofty hopes that cool — Visions of a perfect State : Drink we, last, the j^ublic fool, Frantic love and frantic hate. " Chant me now some wicked stave, Till thy drooping courage rise, .Vnd the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. " Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ; Set thy hoary fancies free ; What is loathsome to the young Savors well to thee and me. " Change, reverting to the years. When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears, And the warmth of hand in hand, " Tell me tales of thy first love — April hopes, the fools of chance ; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. " Fill the can, and fill the cup : All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. " Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads : Welcome, fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads ! " You are bones, and what of that' Every face, however full. Padded round with flesh and fat, Is but modell'd on a skull. " Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! Tread a measure on the stones. Madam — if I know your sex, From the fashion of your bones 134 THE VISION OF SIN. 'No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye — nor yet your lip : All the more do 1 admire Joints of cumnni,^ workmanship. " Lo ! God's likeness — the ground- plan — Neither modell'd, glazed, nor framed : Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. Far too naked to be shamed ! '' Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, While we keep a little breath ! Drink to heavy Ignorance ! Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! " Thou art mazed, the night is long, And the longer night is near : What ! I am not all as wrong As a bitter jest is dear. " Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, When the locks are crisp and curFd ; Unto me my maudlin gall And my mockeries of the world. '' Fill the cup and fill the can : Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! Dregs of life, and lees of man: Yet we will not die forlorn." The voice grew faint : there came a further change : Once more uiDrosethemy&tic mountain- range . Below were men and horses pierced with worms, And slowly quickening into lower forms ; By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. Then some one spake : " Behold ! it was a crime Of sense avenged by sense that Avore Avith time." Another said : " The crime of sense became The crime of malice, and is equal blame." And one : " He had not wholly quench'd his power ; A little grain of conscience made him sour." At last I heard a voice upon the slope Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope '* " To which an answer peal'd from that high land, But in a tongue no man could under- stand ; And on the glimmering limit far with- drawn God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. TO AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. " Cursed be he that raoves mj' bones." Shakespeare's Epitaph. You might have won the Poet's name, If such be. worth the winning now, And gain'd a laurel for your brow Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Thro' troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice : And you have miss'd the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown : Hereafter, neither knaA^e nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die. Nor leave his music as of old. But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry : "Proclaim the faults he would not show : Break lock and seal : betray the trust ; Keep nothing sacred : tis but just The many-headed beast should know." TO E. Z., ON HIS TKAVELS IN GREECE. 135 Ah shameless ! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth ; • No public life was his on earth, No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. He gave the people of his best ; His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Sliakespeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest ! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier, The bird tliat pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree, Than he that warbles long and loud And drops at Glory's temple-gates. For whom the carrion vulture waits To tear his heart before the crowd ! TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. Illtrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Peneian pass. The vast Akrokeraunian walls. Tomolirit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen. You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there : And trust me while I turn'd the page, And track'd you still on classic ground, I grew in gladness till I found My spirits in the golden age. For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd — here and there alone The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns ; — and Naiads oar'd A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars ; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell ; And many a slope was rich in bloom From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea. Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. . O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play ! well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE POET'S SONG. The rain had fallen, the Poet arose. He pass'd by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. And waves of shadow went over the wheat. And he sat him down in a lonely place^ 136 THE BROOK. And chanted a mc4ody loud and j sweet, j That made the wild-swan pause in her j cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee. The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak. And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thouglit, " I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away," THE BROOK. Here, by this brook, we parted ; I to the East And he for Italy — too late — too late : One whom the strong sons of the world despise ; For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; Nor could he understand how money breeds. Thought it a dead thing ; yet himself could make The thing that is not as the thing that is. had he lived ! In our schoolbooks we say, Of those that held their heads above the crowd, They flourish'd then or then ; but life in liim Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd On such a time as goes before the leaf. When all the wood stands in a mist of green, And nothing perfect: yet the brook he loved. For which, in branding summers of Bengal, Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neil- gherry air I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy. To me that loved him ; for " brook," he says, "0 babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme, " Whence come you '^ " and the brook; why not '^ replies. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down. Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town. And half a hundred bridges. Till last by riiilip's farm I flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. " Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out. Travelling to Naples. There is Darn- ley bridge, • It has more ivy ; there the river ; and there Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. I chatttr over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow. And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow . To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. "But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird ; Old Philip; all about the fields you caught His weary daylong chirping, like the dry High-elbow'd grigs that leap in sum- mer grass. THE BROOK, 137 I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, ' And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. "O darling Katie Willows, his one child ! A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell Divides threefold to show the fruit within. " Sweet Katie, once I did her a goodf turn, Her and her far-off cousin and be- trothed, James Willows, of one name and heart with her. For here I came, twenty years back — the week Before I parted with poor Edmund, crost By that old bridge which, half in ruins then. Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost, Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate. Half -parted from a weak and scolding hinge. Stuck; and he clamor'd from a case- ment. ' Run' To Katie scnnewhere in the walks below. ' Run, Katie ! ' Katie never ran : she moved To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers, A little flutter'd, with her eyelids down, Fresli apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. "What was if? less of sentiment than sense Had Katie ; not illiterate ; nor of those Who dabbling in the fount of Active tears. And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philan- thropies. Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. " She told me. She and James had quarrell'd. Why 7 What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, no cause ; James had no cause ; but when I prest the cause, I learnt that James had flickering jealousies Which anger'd her. Wlio anger'd James '^ I said. But Katie snatch'd her eyes at onct from mine. And sketching with her slender pointed foot Some tigure like a wizard pentagram On garden gravel, let my query pass Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd If James were coming. 'Coming every day,' She answer'd, ' ever longing to explain. But evermore her father came across AVith some long-winded tale, and broke him short ; And James departed vext with him and her.' How could I help her ? 'Would I — was it wrong 'i ' (Claspt hands and that petitionary grace Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke) 138 THE BROOK. ' O would I take her father for one hour, For one half-hour, and let liim talk to me !' And even while she spoke, I saw where James Made toward us, like a wader in the surf, Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet. "0 Katie, what I suffered for your sake ! For in I went, and call'd old Philip out To show the farm; full willingly he rose : He led me thro' the short sweet- smelling lanes Of his wheat-suburb, babbling as he went. He praised his land, his horses, his machines ; He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ; He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens ; His pigeons, who in session on their roofs Approved him, bowing at their own deserts: Then from the plaintive mother's teat he took Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each. And naming those, his friends, for whom they were : Then crost the common into Darnley chase To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech. He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : ' That was the four-year-old I sold the Squire.' And there he told a long long-winded tale Of how the Squire had seen the colt at grass. And how it was tlie thing his daughter wish'd, And how he sent the bailiff to the farm To learn the price, and what the price he ask'd, And how the bailiff swore that he was mad. But he stood firn) ; and so the matter hung ; He gave them line : and five days after > that He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, Who then and there had offer'd some- thing more, But he stood firm ; and so the matter hung ; He knew the man ; the colt would fetch its price ; He gave them line : and how by chance at last (It might be May or April, he forgot, The last of April or the first of May) He found the bailiff riding by the farm. And, talking from the point, he drew him in. And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale, Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. " Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he. Poor fellow, could he help it ? recom menced. And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle, Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, Eeform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest. Till, not to die a listener, I arose, And with me Philip, talking still ; and so We turn'd our foreheads from the fall- ing sun, And following our own shadows thrice as long As when they f olio w'd us from Philip's door. Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content TFIE BROOK. 139 Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by mj' shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, -But I go on for ever. Yes, men may come and go ; and these are gone, All -gone. My dearest brother, Ed- mund, sleeps, Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire, But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace : and he, Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb : I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks By the long wash of Australasian seas Far off, and holds her head to other stars, And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone." So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook A tonsured head in middle age forlorn. Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath Of tender air made tremble in the hedge The fragile bindweed-bells and briony nngs ; And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near, Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when tlie shell Divides threefold to show the fruit within : Then, wondering, ask'd her " Are you from the farm ? " " Yes," answer'd she. " Pray stay a little : pardon me ; What do they call you ? " " Katie." " That were strange. What surname 1 " " Willows." "No ! " " That is my name." " Indeed ! " and here he look'd so self- perplext, That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blusli'd, till he Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes. Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. Then looking at her ; " Too happy, fresh and fair, Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom. To be the ghost of one wlio bore your name About these meadows, twenty years ago." " Have you not heard % " said Katie, " we came back. We bought the farm we tenanted be- fore. Am I so like her ^ so they said o»i board. Sir, if you knew licr in her English days, My mother, as it seems you did, the days That most she loves to talk of, come with me. My brother James is in the harvest- field : But she — you will be welcome — 0, come in ! " 140 AYLMER'S FIELD. AYLMER'S FIELD. 1793. Dust are our frames ; and, gilded dust, our pride Looks only for a moment whole and sound ; Like that long-buried body of the king. Found lying witli his urns and orna- ments, Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven, Slipt into ashes, and was found no more. Here is a story which in rougher shape Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saM' Sunning himself in a waste field alone — Old, and a mine of memories — who had served, Long since, a bygone Rector of the place, And been himself a part of what he told. Sir Aylmek Aylmer, that al- mighty man. The county God — in whose capacious liall. Hung with a hundred shields, the family tree Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king — Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the spire-, Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gates And swang besides on many a windy sign — Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head Saw from his windows nothing save his own — What lovelier of his own had lie than her, His only child, his Edith, whom he loved As lieiress and not heir regretfully % But " he that marries her marries her name " This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife, His wife a faded beauty of the Baths, Insipid as the Queen upon a card; Her all of thought and bearing hardly more Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn. Little about it stirring save a brook ! A sleepy land, where under the same wheel The same old rut would deepen year by year ; Where almost all the village had one name ; AVhere Aylmer followed Aylmer at the Hall And Averill Averill at the Rectory Thrice over; so that Rectory and Hall, Bound in an immemorial intimacy, AY ere open to each other; tho' to dream Tliat Love could bind them closer well had made The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up AVith horror, worse than liad he heard his priest Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men Daughters of God ; so sleepy was tlie land. And might not Averill, had he will'd it so. Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs. Have also set his many-shielded tree ? There was an Aylmer-Averill mar- riage once. When the red rose was redder than itself, And York's white rose as red as Lan caster's, With wounded peace which each liad prick'd to death. "Not proven " Averill said, or laugh- AYLMER'S FIELD. 141 Some other race of Averills" — prov'n [ Had tost his ball and flown his kite, or no, and roll'd What cared he? what, if other or the [ His hoop to pleasure Kditli, with her -same ? dipt He lean'd not on his fathers but him- j Against the rush of the air in the prone swing, Made blossom-hall or daisy-chain, ar- ranaed self. But Loolin, his brother, living oft With .V verill, and a year or two before CallM to the bar, but ever call'd away Her garden, sow'd her name and kept By one low voice to one dear neigli borhood. Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim A distant kinship to the gracious blood That shook the heart of Edith hearing him. Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue Than of that islet in the chestnut- bloom Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, that still Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd, Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold. Their best and brightest, when they dwelt -on hers, Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else. But subject to the season or the mood, Shone like a mystic star between the less And greater glory varying to and fro, We know not wherefore ; boimteously made. And yet so finel)^, that a troublous touch Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. And these had been together from the first. Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers : So much the boy foreran : but when his date Doubled her own, for want of play- mates, he (Since Averill was a decade and a half It green In living letters, told her fairy-tales, Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass. The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, The petty marestail forest, fairy pines. Or from the \\\\\' pitted target blew What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd All at one mark, all hitting: make- believes For Editli and himself : or else he forged, But that was later, boyish histories Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck. Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love Crown'd after trial ; sketches rude and faint. But where a passion yet unborn per- haps Lay hidden as the music of the moon Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightin- gale. And thus together, save for college- times Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair As ever painter painted, poet sang. Or Heaven in lavish bounty moulded, grew. And more and more, the maiden woman-grown, He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when first The tented winter-field was broken up Into that phalanx of the summer spears That soon should wear the garland; there again Ilis elder, and their parents under- When burr and bine were gather'd ground) lastly there 142 AYLMER'S FIELD. At Christmas ; ever welcome at the Hall, On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth Broke with a phosphorescence charm- ing even My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid No bar between them : dull and self- involved, Tall and erect, but bending from his height With half-allowing smiles for all the world. And mighty courteous in the main — his pride Lay deeper than to wear it as his ring — He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism, Would care no more for Leolin's walk- ing with her Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they ran To loose him at the stables, for he rose Two footed at the limit of his chain. Roaring to make a third : and how should Love, Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyes Flash into fiery life from nothing, follow Such dear familiarities of dawn ? Seldom, but when he does, Master of all. So these young hearts not knowing that they loved, Not she at least, nor conscious of a bar Between them, nor by plight or broken ring Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, Wander'd at will, and oft accompanied By Averill : his, a brother's love, that Imng With wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace, Might have been other, save for Leolin's — Who knows ? but so they wander'd, hour by hour Gatlier'd tlie blossom that rebloom'd, and drank The magic cup that filled itself anew. A whisper half reveal'd her to her- self. For out beyond her lodges, where the brook Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' liomes, A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls That dimpling died into each other, huts At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom. Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought About them : here was one that, sum- mer-blanch'd. Was parcel-bearded with the trav- eller's joy In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad ; and here The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle : One look'd all rosetree, and another wore A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars : This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers About it ; this, a milky-way on earth, Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens, A lily-avenue climbing to the doors ; One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves A summer burial deep in hollyhocks ; Each, its own charm ; and Edith's everywhere ; And Edith ever visitant with him, He but less loved than Edith, of her poor: For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving, Queenly responsive when the loyal hand Kose from the clay it work'd in as she past. AYLMER'S FIELD. 143 Not sowing hedgerow texts and pass- ing by, Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice Of comfort and an open hand of help, A splendid presence flattering the poor roofs Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves To ailing wife or wailing infancy Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; He, loved for her and for himself. A grasp Having the warmth and muscle of the heart, A childly waj' with children, and a laugh Ringing like proven golden coinage true. Were no false passport to that easy realm, A¥here once with Leolin at her side the girl. Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth The tender pink five-beaded baby- soles, Heard the good mothei softly whis- per " Bless, God bless 'em : marriages are made in Heaven." A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her. My lady's Indian kinsman unan- nounced With half a score of swarthy faces came. His own, tho' keen and bold and sol- dierly, Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair; Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour, Tho' seeming boastful : so when first he dash'd Into the chronicle of a deedful day, Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile Of patron " Good ! my lady's kins- man ! good ! " My lady with her fingers interlock'd. And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear To listen : unawares they flitted off. Busying themselves about the flow- erage That stood from out a stiff brocade in which, The meteor of a splendid season, she. Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days : But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his life : Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye, Hated him with a momentary hate. Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he: I know not, for he spoke not, only shower'd His oriental gifts on everyone And most on Edith : like a storm he came. And shook the house, and like a storm he went. Among the gifts he left her (possibly He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return When others had been tested) there was one, A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself Fine as ice-ferns on January panes Made by a breath. I know not whence at first, Nor of what race, the work ; but as he told The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves He got it ; for their captain after fight. His comrades having fought their last below. Was climbing up the valley ; at whom he shot: Down from the beetling crag to which he clung Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet, 144 AYLMER'S FIELD. Tliis dagger with him, which when uow admired By Edith whom his pleasure was to please. At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. And Leolin, coming after he was j gone. I Tost over all her presents petulantly : And when she show'd the wealthy , scabbard, saying " Look what a lovely piece of work- manship ! " Slight was his anwser " Well — I care ' not for it " : Then playing with the blade he prick'd his hand. " A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! " | " But would it be more gracious '' ask'd the girl " Were I to give this gift of his to one That is no lady ? " "Gracious ? No " said he. " Me ? — but I cared not for it. O pardon me, I seem to be ungraciousness itself.' •Take it" she added sweetly, " tho' his gift; For I am more imgracious ev'n than you, I care not for it either " ; and he said '• Why then I love it " : but Sir Aylmer i past, And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard. I The next day came a neighbor. Blues and reds , They talk'd of : blues were sure of it, . he thought : Then of the latest fox — where started — kill'd In such a bottom : '* Peter had the brush, My Peter, first " : and did Sir Aylmer know That great pock-pitten tVllow had been caught \ Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand. And rolling as it were the substance of it Between his palms a moment up and down — " The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon him : We have him now " • and had Sir Aylmer heard — Xay. but he must — the land was ringing of it — This blacksmith border-marriage — one they knew — Raw from the nursery- — who could trust a child ? That cursed France with her egalities '. And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially With nearing chair and lower'd ac- cent ) think — For people talk'd — that it was wholly wise To let that handsome fellow Averill walk So freelv with his daughter \ people talk'd — The boy might get a notion into him ; The girl might be entangled ere she knew. Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stifEening spoke : " The girl and boy. Sir, know their differences ! " " Good," said his friend, " but watch ! '' and he. " Enough. More than enough. Sir ! I can guard my own." They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd. Pale, for on her the thunders of the house Had fallen first, was Edith that same night: Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough piece Of early rigid color, vmder which Withdrawing by the counter door to that Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon him A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He as one AYLMER'S FIELD. 145 Caught in a burst of unexpected storm. And pelted with outrageous epi- thets. Turning beheld the Powers of the House « 'n either side the hearth, indignant : her. Cooling her false cheek with a feather- fan. Him, glaring, bv his own stale devil spurr'd, And, like a beast hard-ridden, breath- ing hard. • Ungenerous, dishonorable, base. Presumptuous I trusted as he was with her. The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands, The last remaining pillar of their hotise. The one transmitter of their ancient name. Their child." "Our child!" "Our heiress I '" " Ours I " for still, Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came Her sicklier iteration. Last he said, " Boy, mark me I for your fortunes are to make. I swear you shall not make them out of mine. Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, Perplext her. made her half forget herself. Swerve from her duty to herself and us — Things in an Avlmer deem'd impos- sible. Far as we track ourselves — I say that this — Else I withdraw- favor and counte- nance From you and yours for ever — shall you do. Sir. when you see her — but you shall not see her — Xo. you shall write, and not to her, but me: And you shall say that having spoken with me. And after look'd into yourself, vou find That you meant nothing — as indeed you know That you meant nothing. Such a match as this ! \ mpuojiible, prodigious ! " These were words. As meted by his measure of himself. Arguing bomidless forbearance : after which, And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, a So foul a traitor to myself and her, Xever oh never," for about as long As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within. Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying " Boy, should I find you by my doors again. My men shall lash you from them like a dog; Hence I " with a sudden execration drove The footstool from before him, and arose ; So, stammering ''scoundrel" out of teeth that groimd As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man Follow'd, and under his own lintel stood Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face Meet for the reverej^ce of the hearth, but now. Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon, Vext with imworthy madness, and deform'd. Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye That watch'd him, till he heard the ponderous door Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the land, 146 AYLMER'S FIELD. Went Leolin; then, his passions all in flood And masters of his motion, furiously Down tliro' the bright lawns to his brotlier's ran, And foam'd away his heart at Aver- ill's ear : Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed : The man was his, had ])een his fath- er's, friend : He must have seen, himself had seen it long ; He must have known, himself had known : besides. He never yet had set his daughter forth Here in the woman-markets of the west, Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leolin to him. " Brother, for I have loved you more as son Than brother, let me tell you : I my- self— Wliat is their pretty saying ? jilted, "is it? Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the shame The woman should have borne, humili- ated, I lived for years a stunted sunless life ; Till after our good parents past away Watching your growth, I seeni'd again to grow. Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : The very whitest Jamb in all my fold Loves you : I know her : the worst thought she has Is whiter even than her pretty hand : She must prove true : for, brother, where two fight The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength, And you are happy : let her parents be." But Leolin cried out the more upon them — Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, wealth, Their wealth, their heiress ! wealtli enough was theirs For twenty matches. Were he lord of this. Why twenty boj-s and girls should marry on it. And forty blest ones bless him, and himself Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He Ixdieved This filthy marriage-hindering Mam- mon made The harlot of the cities : nature crost Was mother of the foul adulteries That saturate soul with body. Name, too ! name. Their ancient name ! they might be proud ; its worth Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she had look'd Darling, to-night! they must have rated her Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant-lords, These partridge-breeders of a thou- sand years, Who had mildew'd in their thousands, doing notliing Since Egbert — why, the greater their disgrace ! Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that ! Not keep it noble, make it nobler { fools, With such a vantage-ground for noble- ness ! He had known a man, a quintessence of man. The life of all — who madly loved — and he, Thwarted by one of these old father- fools, Had rioted his life out, and made an end. He would not do it ! her sweet face and faith Held him from that : but he had pow- ers, he knew it : Back would he to his studies, make a name. AYLMER'S FIELD. 147 Name, fortune too : the world should ring of him To shame these mouldy Aylmers in tlieir graves : Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be — " O brother, I am grieved to learn 3-our grief — Give me my fling, and let me say my say." At which, like one that sees his own excess, And easily forgives it as his own, He laugh'd ; and then was mute ; but presently Wept like a storm : and honest Averill seeing How low his brother's mood had fallen, fetch'd His richest beeswing from a binn re- served For banquets, praised the waning red, and told The vintage — when this Aylmer came of age — Then drank and past it ; till at length the two, Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed That nmch allowance must be made for men. After an angry dream this kindlier glow Faded with morning, but his purpose held. Yet orice by night again the lovers met, A perilous meeting under the tall pines That darken'd all the northward of her Hall. Him, to her meek and modest bosom pre St In agony, she promised that no force, Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her: He, passionately hopef uUer, would go, Labor for his own Edith, and return In such a sunlight of prosperity He should not be rejected. " Write to me! They loved me, and because I love their child They hate me : there is war between us, dear, Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we must remain Sacred to one another." So the^' talk'd, Poor children, for their comfort : tht- wind blew ; The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears. Tears, and the careless rain of heaven. mixt Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine. So Leolin went ; and as we task our- selves To learn a language known but smat- teringly In phrases here and there at random, toil'd Mastering the lawless science of our law. That codeless myriad of precedent, That wilderness of single instances, Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led, May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. The jests, that tlash'd about the plead- er's room, Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale, — Old scandals buried now seven decade^^ deep In other scandals that have lived and died, And left the living scandal that shall die — Were dead to him already ; bent as he was To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hojies. And prodigal of all brain-labor he. Charier of sleep, and wine, and exer- cise. Except when for a breathing-while at eve, 148 A YLMER\S FIELD. Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ran Beside the river-bank: and then indeed Harder the times were, and tlie liands of power Were bloodier, and the according hearts of men Seem'd liarder too ; but the soft river- breeze, Wliich fann'd the gardens of that rival rose Yet fragrant in a lieart remembering His former talks with Edith, on him breathed Far purelier in his rushings to and fro, After his books, to flush his blood with air. Then to his books again. My lady's cousin, Half-sickening of his pension'd after- noon. Drove in upon the student on(ie or twice. Ran a Malayan amuck against the times. Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, Answer'd all queries touching those at home With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile. And fain had haled him out into the world, And air'd him there : his nearer friend would say " Screw not the chord too sharply lest it snap." Then left alone he pluck'd her dajyger forth From where his worldless heart had kept it warm, Kissing his vows upon it like a knight. And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him Approvingly, and projjhesied his rise : For heart, 1 think, help'd head : her letters too, Tho' far between, and coming fitfully Like broken nmsic, written as she found Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, I Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he saw An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. But they that cast her spirit into flesh, Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued themselves To sell her, those good parents, for her good. Wliatever eldest-born of rank or wealth Might lie within their compass, him they lured Into their net made pleasant by the baits (3f gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. So month by month the noise about their doors. And distant blaze of those dull ban- quets, made The nightly wirer of their innocent hare Falter before he took it. All in vain. Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit So often, that the folly taking wings Slipt o'er those lazy limits down the wind With rumor, and became in other fields A mockery to the yeomen over ale. And laughter to their lords : but those at home, As hunters round a hunted creature draw, The cordon close and closer toward the death, Narrow'd her goings out and comings in; Forbade her first the house of Averill, Then closed her access to the wealthier farms. Last from her own home-circle of the poor They barr'd her : yet she bore it : yet her cheek Kept color : wondrous 1 but, O mystery ! What amulet drew her down to tluit old oak. So old, that tAventy years before, a part AYLMER'S FIELD. 149 Falling had let appear the brand of John — Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now The broken base of a black tower, a cave Of touchwood, with a single flourish- ing spray. There the manorial lord too curiously Kaking in that millennial touchwood- dust Found for himself a bitter treasure- trove ; Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read AVrithing a letter from his child, for which Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly, But scared with threats of jail and halter gave To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits The letter which he brought, and swore besides To play their go-between as heretofore Xor let them know themselves be- tray'd ; and then. Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went Hating his own lean heart and miser- able. Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream The father panting woke, and oft, as dawn Aroused the black republic on his elms. Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue brush'd Thro' the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove, Seized it, took home, and to my lady, — Avho made A downward crescent of her minion mouth. Listless in all despondence, — read ; and tore. As if the living passion symbol'd there Were living nerves to feel the rent; and burnt, j NoM' chafing at his own great self defied, Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scorn In babyisms, and dear diminutives Scatter'd all over the vocabulary Of such a love as like a chidden child. After much wailing, hush'd itself at last Hopeless of answer: then tho' Averill wrote And bade him with good heart sustain himself — All would be well — the lover heeded not. But passionately restless came and went. And rustling once at night about the place, Tliere by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, Raging return'd : nor was it well for her Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, Watch'd even there ; and one was set to watch The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all. Yet bitterer from his readings . once indeed, AVarm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her, She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly Not knowing what possess'd him : that one kiss Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth ; Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit, Seem'd hope's returning rose : and then ensued A Martin's summer of his faded love, Or ordeal by kindness ; after this He seldom crost liis child without a sneer ; The mother flow'd in shallower acrimo- nies : Never one kindly smile, on« kindly word : So that the gentle creature shut from all Her charitable use, and face to face 150 AYLMER'S FIELD. With twenty months of silence, slowly lost Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. Last, some low fever ranging round to spy The weakness of a people or a house. Like flies tiiat haunt a wound, or deer, or men, Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt — Save Christ as we believe liim — found tlie girl And flung her down upon a couch of fire. Where careless of the household faces near. And crying upon the name of Leolin, She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. Star to star vibrates light: may soul to soul Strike thro' a finer element of her own' So, — from afar, — touch as at once 1 or why That night, that moment, when she named his name. Did the keen shriek " Yes love, yes, Edith, yes," Shrill, till the comrade of his cham- bers woke, And came upon him half-arisen from sleep, With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling. His hair as it were crackling into flames, His body half flung forward in pursuit. And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer : Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry ; And being much befool'd and idioted By the rough amity of the other, sank As into sleep again. The second day, My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, A breaker of the bitter news from home, Found a dead man, a letter edged with death Beside him, and the dagger which him- self Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's blood : " From Edith " was engraven on the blade. Then Averill went and gazed upon his death. And when he came again, his flock believed — Beholding how the years which are not Time's Had blasted him — that many thou- sand days Were dipt by horror from his term of life. Yet the sad mother, for the second , death Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the first. And being used to find her pastor texts. Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying him To speak before the people of her child. And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose : Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded woods Was all the life of it; for hard on these, A breathless burthen of low-folded heavens Stifled and chill'd at once ; but every roof Sent out a listener: many too had known Edith among the hamlets round, and since The parents' harshness and the hap- less loves And double death were widely mur- mur'd, left Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle, • To hear him ; all in mourning these, and those With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove AYLMER'S FIELD. 151 Jr kerchief ; while the church, — one night, except ?or greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets, — made still paler the pale head of him, who tower'd Vbove them, with his hopes in either grave. Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Averill, lis face magnetic to the hand from which L,ivid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd thro' 3is brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse " Behold, ifour house is left unto you desolate ! " 3ut lapsed into so long a pause again \s half amazed half frighted all his flock: riien from his height and loneliness of grief 3ore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heart ^.gainst the desolations of the Avorld. Isever since our bad earth became one sea, IVhich rolling o'er the palaces of the proud, iVnd all but those who knew the liv- ing God — Eight that were left to make a purer world — ^Vhen since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, wrought 5uch waste and havoc as the idola- tries. Which from the low light of mortality 5hot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, A.nd worshipt their own darkness as the Highest % ' Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute Baiil, A.nd to thy worst self sacrifice thyself, For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God. ihen came a Lord in no wise like to Baal. The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts ! — No coarse and blockish God of acreage Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to— ' Thy God is far diffused in noble groves And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns, And heaps of living gold that daily grow, And title-scrolls and gorgeous heral- dries. In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for liim / for thine Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while The deathless ruler of thy dying house Is wounded to the death that cannot die ; And tho' thou numberest with the followers Of One who cried, 'Leave all and fol- low me.' Thee therefore with His light about thy feet, Thee with His message ringing in thine ears. Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven, Born of a village girl, carpenter's son, Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God, Count the more base idolater of the two ; Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire Bodies, but souls — thy children's — thro' the smoke. The blight of low desires — darkening tiiine own To thine own likeness ; or if one of these, Thy better born unhappily from thee. Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair — Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 152 A YLMEK'S FIELD. V>y those who most have cause to sor- row for her — i-'airi r than Kachel by the palmy well, I'airer than Ruth among the fields of corn, Fair as the angel that said 'Hail!' she seem'd, Who entering fill'd the house with sudden light. P\)r so mine own was brighten'd : where indeed The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven Pawn'd sometime thro' the doorway *? whose the babe Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, Warm'd at her bosom '^ The poor child of shame The common care whom no one eared for, leapt To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart, As with the mother he had never known, In gambols ; for her fresh and inno- cent eyes Had such a star of morning in their blue, Tiiat all neglected places of the field Broke into nature's music when they saw her. Low was her voice, but won mysteri- ous way Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one Was all but silence — free of alms her hand — The hand that robed your cottage- walls with flowers Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones; How often placed upon the sick man's brow Cool'd it, or laid his feverous j^illow smooth ! Had you one sorrow and she shared it not? < )ne burthen and she would not liohten it? ( )ne spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? Or when some heat of difference sparkled out, How sweetly would she glide between your wraths. And steal you from each other! for she walk'd Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love, Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee! And one — of him I was not bid to speak — Was always with her, whom you also knew. Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. And these had been together from the first ; They might haA^e been together till the last. Triends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried, May wreck itself without the pilot s guilt, Without the captain's knowledge : hope with me. Whose shame is that, if he went hence wdth shame ? Kor mine the fault, if losing both of these I cry to vacant chairs and widow'd walls, * My house is left unto me desolate.' " AVhile thus he spoke, his hearers Avept ; but some, Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than those That knit themselves for summer shadow, scowl'd At their great lord. He, when it seem'd he saw No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork'd Of the near storm, and aiming at his head. Sat anger-charm'd from sonx)w, sol- dier-like. Erect: but when the preacher's ca- dence flow'd Softening thro' all the gentle attri- butes Of his lost child, the wife, who watch*d his face, AYLMER'S FIELD. 15^ Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth ; And " pray God that he hold up " she thought " Or surely I shall shame myself and him." "Nor yours the blame — for who beside your hearths Can take her place — if echoing me you cry ' Our house is left unto us desolate ' ? But thou, O thou tliat killest, hadst thou known, O thou that stonest, hadst thou under- stood The things belonging to thy i)eace and ours ! Is there no prophet but tlie voice tliat calls Doom upon kings, or in the waste 'Repent'? Is not our own child on the narrow way, Who down to those that saunter in the broad Cries ' Come up hither/ as a prophet to US'? 1:< there no stoning save with flint and rock? Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — No desolation but b}^ sword and fire ? Yes, as your moanings witness, and myself Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers, Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven. But 1 that thought myself long-suffer- ing, meek, Exceeding 'poor in spirit' — how the words Have twisted 1)ack upon themselves, and mean Vileness, we are grown so proud — I wish'd my voice A rushing tempest of the wrath of God To blov; these sacrifices thro' the world — 8ent like the twelve-divided concubine To inflame the tribes: but there — out yonder — eartli Lightens from her own central Hell — O there The red fruit of an old idolatry — The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast, They cling together in the ghastly sack — The land all shambles —naked mar riages Flash from the bridge, and ever-mur- der'd France, By shores that darken with the gath- ering wolf, Rvms in a river of blood to the sick sea. Is this a time to madden madness then \ Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride ? May PharaolVs darkness, folds as dense as those Which hid the Holiest from the peo pie's eyes Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all ! Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it : O rather pray for those and pity them, Who, thro' their own desire accom- plish'd, bring Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave — Who broke the bond which they desired to break. Which else had link'd their race with times to come — Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity, Grossly contriving their dear daugh- ter's good — 'Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but sat Ignorant, devising their own daugh- ter's death ! May not that earthly chastisement suffice ? Have not our love and reverence left them bare 1 Will not another take tlieir heritage ? Will there be children's laughter in their hall For ever and for ever, or one stone i54 AYLMER\S FIELD. Left on another, or is it a light thing That I, their guest, their host, their ancient friend, I made by these the last of all my race, Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried Christ ere His agony to those that swore Not by the temple but the gold, and made Their own traditions God, and slew the Lord, And left their memories a world's curse — * Behold, Your house is left unto you deso- late "2 " Ended he had not, but she brook'd no more : • Long since her heart had beat remorse- lessly, Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a sense Of meanness in her unresisting life. Then their eyes vext her; for on en- tering He had cast the curtains of their seat aside — Black velvet of the costliest — she herself Had seen to that . fain had she closed them now. Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, Wifelike, her hand in one of liis, he veil'd His face with the other, and at once, as falls A creeper when the prop is broken, fell The woman slirieking at his feet, and swoon'd. Then her own people bore along the nave Her pendent hands, and narrow mea- gre face Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years : And her the Lord of all the landscape round Ev'n to its last horizon, and of all Who peer'd at him so keenly, foUow'd out Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle Reel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded ways Stumbling across the market to his death, L^npitied ; for he groped as blind, and seemed Always about to fall, grasping the pCAVS And oaken finials till he touch'd the door ; Yet to the lychgate, wliere his chariot stood, Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. But nevermore did either pass the gate Save under pall with bearers. In one month. Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours, The childless mother went to seek her child ; And when he felt the silence of his house About him, and the change and not the change. And those fixt eyes of painted ances- tors Staring for ever from their gilded walls On him their last descendant, his own head Began to droop, to fall ; the man be- came Imbecile; his one word was "deso- late " ; Dead for two years before his death was he ; But when the second Cliristmas came, escaped His keepers, and the silence which he felt. To find a deeper in the narrow gloom By wife and cliild ; nor wanted at his end The dark retinue reverencing death SEA DREAMS. 155 At golden thresholds ; nor from tender hearts, And those who sorrow'd o'er a van- ish'd race, Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. Then the great Hall was wliolly broken down, And the broad woodland parcell'd into farms ; And where the two contrived their daughter's good, Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his run, The hedgehog underneath the plan- tain bores, The rabbit fondles his own harmless face. The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there Follows the mouse, and all is open field. SEA DREAMS. A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred ; His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child — One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old : They, thinking that her clear ger- mander eye Droopt in the giant-factoried city- gloom. Came, with a month's leave given tlieni, to the sea : For whicli his gains were dock'd, how- ever small : Small were his gains, and hard his work; besides, Their slender household fortunes (for the man Had risk'd his little) like the little tlirift. Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep : And oft, when sitting all alone, his face Would darken, as he cursed his credu- lousness. And that one unctuous mouth whicli lured him, rogue, To buy strange shares in some Peru- vian mine. Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast. All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave. At close of day ; slept, woke, and went the next, The Sabbath, pious variers from the church. To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer, Not preaching simple Christ to simple men. Announced the coming doom, and ful- minated Against the scarlet woman and her creed ; For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd " Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if he held The Apocalyptic millstone, and him- self Were that great Angel; "Thus with violence Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; Then comes the close." The gentle- hearted wife Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; He at his own : but when the wordy storm Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore. Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves, Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed (The sootflake of so many a summer still Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff, Lingering about the thymy promon- tories. Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, And rosed in the east : then homeward and to bed : Where she, who kept a tender Chris- tian hope. Haunting a hoi}' text, and still to that SEA DREAMS. Returning, as the bird returns, at night, " Let not tlie sun go down upon your wrath," Said, " Love, forgive him : " but lie did not speak ; And silenced by that silence lay the wife, Kemembering her dear Lord who died for all. And musing on the little lives of men, And how they mar this little by their feuds. But while the two were sleeping, a full tide Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and woke The mother, and the father suddenly cried, " A wreck, a wreck ! " then turn'd, and groaning said, " Forgive ! How many will say, ' for- give,' and find A sort of absolution in the sound To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin That neither God nor man can well forgive. Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. Is it so true that second thoughts are best? Not first, and third, which are a riper first? Too ripe, too late ! they come too late for use. Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast Something divine to warn them of their foes : And such a sense, when first 1 fronted him, Said, ' Trust liim not ; ' but after when I came To know him more, I lost it, knew him less ; Fought with what seein'd \xiy own uncharity ; Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines; Made more and more allowance for his talk; Went further, fool ! and trusted him with all, All my poor scrapings from a dozen years Of dust and deskwork : there is no such mine. None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd ! the sea roars Ruin : a fearful night ! " " Not fearful ; fair," Said the good wife, "if every star in heaven Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide. Had you ill dreams ?" " O yes," he said, " I dream'd Of such a tide swelling toward the land, And I from out the boundless outer deep Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. I thought the motion of the boundless deep Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved upon it In darkness: then 1 saw one lovely star T^arger and larger. ' What a world,' I thought, ' To live in!' but in moving on I found Only the landward exit of the cave, Briglit with the sun upon the stream beyond : And near the light a giant woman sat, All over earthy, like a piece of earth, A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt SEA DREAMS. 157 Into a land all sun and blossom, trees Still so much gold was left ; and then As high as heaven, and every bird that sings : And here the night-light flickering in my eyes Awoke me." "That was then your dream," she said, " Not sad, but sweet." " So sweet, I lay," said he, "And mused upon it, drifting up the stream In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced The broken vision ; for I dream'd that still The motion of the great deep bore me on. And that the woman walk'd upon the brink : I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it : ' It came,' she said, * by working in the mines : ' () then to ask her of ni}^ shares, I thought ; And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook her head. And then the motion of the current ceased. And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'd A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns ; But she with her strong feet up the hill Trod out a path : I f ollow'd ; and at top She pointed seaward : there a fleet of glass, That seem 'd a fleet of jewels under me, Sailing along before a gloomy cloud That not one moment ceased to thun- der, past In sunshine : right across its track there lay, I fear'd Lest the gay navy there should splin- ter on it. And fearing waved my arm to warn them oif ; An idle signal, for the brittle fleet (I thought I could have died to savi- it) near'd, Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish 'd, and I woke, I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see My dream was Life ; the woman hon- est Work ; And my poor venture but a fleet of Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold." " Nay," said the kindly wife to com- fort him, "You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke The glass with little Margaret's medi- cine in it ; And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream : A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." " No trifle," groan'd the husband ; "yesterday I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. Like her, he shook his head. ' Show me the books ! ' He dodged me with a long and loose account. * The books, the books ! ' but he, he could not wait, Bound on a matter he of life and death : When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) Were open'd, I should find he meant me well ; Down in the water, a long reef of gold, j And then began to bloat himself, and Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at first To think that in our often-ransack'd \ That makes the widow lean. * My ooze All over with the fat affectionate smile world dearest friend, 158 SEA DREAMS. Have faith, have faith ! We live by- faith/ said he ; ' And all things work together for the good Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote him — last Gript my hand hard, and with God- Lless-you went. I stood like one that had received a blow : I found a hard friend in his loose ac- counts, A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, A curse in his God-bless-you : then my eyes Pursued him down the street, and far away, Among the honest shoulders of the crowd, Read rascal in the motions of liis back, And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." "Was he so bound, poor soul?" said the good wife ; "So are we all : but do not call him, love, Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast. Himself the judge and jury, and liim- self The prisoner at the bar, ever con- demn'd : And that drags down his life : then comes what comes Hereafter : and he meant, he said he meant. Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well." " ' With all his conscience and one eye askew ' — Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn A man is likewise counsel for himself, Too often, in that silent court of yours — ' With all his conscience and one eye askew, So false, he partly took himself for true; Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry. Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye ; Who, never naming God except for gain, So never took that useful name in vain. Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool. And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; Xor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged, And snake-like slimed his victim ere he gorged ; And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest Arising, did his holy oily best. Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, To spread the AVord by which him- self had thriven.' How like you this old satire ? " "Nay," she said, " I loathe it : he had never kindly heart, Nor ever cared to better his own kind. Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. But will you hear my dream, for I had one That altogether went to music ? Still It awed me." Then she told it, having dream'd Of that same coast. — But round the North, a light, A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay, And ever in it a low musical note Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, a ridge SEA DREAMS. 159 Of breaker issued from the belt, and still Grew -with tlie growing note, and when the note Had reach'd a thunderous fullness, on those cliffs Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that Living within the belt) wliereby she saw That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more. But huge cathedral fronts of every age, Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see, One after one : and then the great ridge drew. Lessening to the lessening music, back. And past into the belt and swell'd again Slowly to music : ever when it broke The statues, king or saint, or founder fell; Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left Came men and women in dark clusters round. Some crying, " Set them up ! the v shall not fall ! " And others, "Let them lie, for they have faU'n." And still they strove and wrangled : and she grieved In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find Their wildest wailings never out of tune With that sweet note; and ever as their shrieks Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd Broke, mixt with awful light, and sliow'd their eyes Glaring, with passionate looks, and swept away j The men of flesh and blood, and men ! of stone. To the waste deeps together. " Then I fixt My wistful eyes on two fair images. Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars, — The Virgin Mother standing with her child High up on one of those dark min- ster-fronts — Till she began to totter, and the child Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke, And my dream awed me: — well — but what are dreams ? Yours came but from the breaking of a glass. And mine but from the crying of a child." " Child ? No ! " said he, " but <,his tide's roar, and his, Our Boanerges with his threat* of doom. And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisvus ( Altho' I grant but little music thure) AYent both to make your dream : but if there were A music harmonizing our wild cries, Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about, Why, that would make our passions far too like The discords dear to the musician. No — One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven : True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune With nothing but the Devil ! " " ' True ' indeed ' One out of our town, but later by an horn- Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore ; While you were running down the sands, and made The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbe- low flap, Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news. 160 LUCRETIUS. Why were you silent wlien I spoke to-niglit \ I had set my heart on your forgiving him Before you knew. AVe muat forgive the dead." " Dead ! wlio is dead ? " " The man yo\xx eye pursued. A little after you had parted with him, He suddenly dropt dead of heart- disease." " Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what heart had lie To die of ? dead ? " " Ah, dearest, if there be A devil in man, there is an angel too, And if he did that wrong you charge him with, His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice (Vou spoke so loud) has roused the child again. Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not sleep Without her ' little birdie ' ? well then, sleep. And I will sing you, ' birdie.' " Saying this. The woman half turn'd round from him she loved, Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night Her other, found (for it was close beside) And half-embraced the basket cradle- head With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bougli That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd The cradle, while she sang this baby song. What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day ? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer. Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day 1 Baby says, like little birdie. Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer. Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, P)aby too shall fly away. " She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, sleep. He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. He can do no more Avrong : forgive him, dear, And I shall sleep the sounder ! " Then the man, " His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : I do forgive him ! " " Thanks, my love," she said, " Your own will be the sweeter," and they slept. LUCRETIUS. LuciLiA, wedded to Lucretius, found Her master cold ; for when the morn- ing flush Of passion and the first embrace had died Between them, tho' he lov'd her none the less, Yet often when the woman heard his foot Eeturn from pacings in the field, and ran To greet him with a kiss, the master took Small notice, or austerely, for — his mind LUCRETIUS. 161 Half buried in some weightier argu- ment, Or fancy, borne perhaps upon the rise And long roll of the Hexameter — he past To turn and ponder those three hun- dred scrolls Left by the Teacher, whom he held divine. She brook'd it not ; but wrathful, pet- ulant. Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch Who brew'd the philtre which had power, they said. To lead an errant passion home again. And this, at times, slie mingled with his drink, And this destroy 'd him ; for the wicked broth Confused the chemic labor of the blood, And tickling the brute brain within the man's Made havoc among those tender cells, and check'd His power to shape : he loathed him- self ; and once After a tempest woke upon a morn That niock'd him with returning calm, and cried : " Storm in the night ! for thrice I heard the rain Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt — Methought I never saw so fierce a fork — Struck out the streaming mountain- side, and show'd xV riotous confluence of watercourses Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it, Where all but yester-eve was dusty- dry. " Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreams ! For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Perchance We do but recollect the dreams that come Just ere the waking: terrible! for it seem'd X void was made in Nature ; all her bonds Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring atom- streams And torrents of her myriad universe, Ruining along the illimitable inane, Fly on to clash together again, and make Another and another frame of things For ever : that was mine, my dream, I knew it — Of and belonging to me, as the dog With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies His function of the woodland : but the next ! I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed Came driving rainlike down again on earth, And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, sprang No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth. For these I thought my dream would show to me, But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art. Hired animalisms, vile as those that made The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods. And hands they mixt, and yell'd and round me drove In narrowing circles till I yell'd again Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw — Was it the first beam of my latest day? " Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the iireasts. The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword Now over and now under, now direct. Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a fire, 162 LUCRETIUS. The fire that left a roofless Ilion, Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that I woke. " Is this thy vengeance, lioly Venus, thine, Because I would not one of thine own doves, Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee ? thine. Forgetful how my rich prooeniion makes Thy glory fly along the Italian field, In lays that will outlast thy Deity 1 " Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these Angers thee most, or angers thee at ain Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn, Live the great life which all our great- est fain AVould follow, center'd in eternal calm. "Nay, if thou canst, Goddess, like ourselves Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry to thee To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms Round him, and keep him from the lust of blood That makes a steaming slaughter- house of Rome. " Ay, but I meant not thee ; I meant not her. Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt The Trojan, while his neat-herds were abroad ; Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept Her Deity false in human-amorous tears ; Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter Decided fairest. Rather, ye Gods, Poet-like, as tlie great Sicilian called Calliope to grace his golden verse — Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take That popular name of thine to shadow forth The all-generating powers and genial heat Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the thick blood Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs are glad Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers : Which things appear the work of mighty Gods. " The Gods ! and if I go, m?/ work is left Unfinish'd — //"I go. The Gods, who haunt The lucid interspace of world and world, Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind. Nor ever falls the least white star of snow, Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans. Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar Their sacred everlasting calm! and such. Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm. Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Gods ! If all be atoms, how then sliould the Gods Being atomic not be dissoluble. Not follow the great law ? Mv master held That Gods there are, for all men so believe. I prest my footsteps into his, and meant Surely to lead my Memmius in a train Of flowery clauses onward to the proof That Gods there are, and deathless. LUCRETIUS. 163 Meant % I meant ? I have forgotten what I meant : my mind Stumbles, and all ray faculties are lamed. " Look where another of our Gods, the Sun, Apollo, Delias, or of older use All-seeing Hyperion — what you will — Has mounted yonder; since he never sware, Except his wrath were wreak'd on wretched man, That he would only shine among the dead Hereafter; tales! for never yet on earth Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roast- ing ox Moan round the spit — nor knows he what he sees ; King of the East altho' he seem, and girt With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts His golden feet on those empurpled stairs That climb into the windy halls of heaven : And here he glances on an eye new- born. And gets for greeting but a wail of pain ; And here he stays upon a freezing orb That fain would gaze upon him to the last ; And here upon a yellow eyelid f all'n And closed by those who mourn a friend in vain, Not thankful that his troubles are no more. And mc, altho' his fire is on my face Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end my- self. Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods : but he that liolds The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once. Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink Past earthquake — ay, and gout and stone, that break Body toward death, and palsy, death- in-life. And wretched age — and worst disease of all. These prodigies of myriad naked- nesses. And twisted shapes of lust, unspeak- able. Abominable, strangers at my hearth Not welcome, harpies miring every dish, The phantom husks of something foully done. And fleeting thro' the boundless uni- verse. And blasting the long quiet of my breast With animal heat and dire insanity? "How should the mind, except it loved them, clasp These idols to herself ? or do they fly Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes In a fall of snow, and so press in, per- force Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear The keepers down, and throng, their rags and they The basest, far into that council-hall Where sit the best and stateliest of the land ? " Can I not fling this horror off me again. Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile, Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm. 164 Li'CRETIUS. At random ravage ? and liow easily The mountain there has cast liis cloudy slough, Now towering o'er him in serenest air, A mountain o'er a mountain, — ay, and within All hollow as the hopes and fears of men 7 " But who was he, that in the gar- den snared Pious and Faun us, rustic Gods ] a tale To laugh at — ^more to laugh at in myself — Nor look! what is it'? there? yon arbutus Totters ; a noiseless riot underneath Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quivering — The mountain quickens into Nymph and Faun ; And here an Oread — how the sun delights To glance and shift about her slippery sides. And rosy knees and supple rounded- ness, And budded bosom-peaks — who this way runs Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see, Follows ; but him I proved impossible ; Twy-natured is no nature : yet he draws Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now Beastlier than any phantom of his kind That ever butted his rough brother- brute For lust or lusty blood or provender : I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and she Loathes him as well ; such a precij)!- tate heel. Fledged as it were with Mercury's ankle-wing. Whirls her to me : but will she fling herself. Shameless upon me ? Catch her, goat-foot : nay, Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilderness, And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide ! do I wish — What "? — that the bush were leafless ? or to whelm All of them in one massacre ? O ye Gods, I know you careless, yet, behold, to you From childly wont and ancient use I call — I thought I lived securely as your- selves — No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey- spite, I No madness of ambition, avarice, none : j No larger feast than under plane or I pine With neighbors laid along the grass, to take Only such cups as left us frieudly- warm, AflGirming each his own philosophy — Nothing to mar the sober majesties Of settled, sweet. Epicurean life. But now it seems some unseen mon- ster lays His vast and filthy hands upon mv will, Wrenching it backward into his; and [ spoils { ]\ly bliss in being ; and it was not I great ; I For save when shutting reasons uj) in i rhythm. Or Heliconian honey in living word;?. To make a truth less harsh, I ofteii grew Tired of so much within our little life. Or of so little in our little life — Poor little life that toddles half an hour Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an end — And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade. Why should I, beastlike as I find my- self, Not manlike end myself ? — our privi- lege — AVhat beast has heart to do it ? -Vnd what man. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 165 What Kouian would be dragg'd in tri- umph thus ? Not I ; not he, wlio bears one name with her Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom of kings, When, brooking not the Tarquin in her A^eins, She made her blood in sight of Col- latine And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air, Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart. And from it sprang the Common- wealth, which breaks As I am breaking now ! " And therefore now Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all, Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart Those blind beginnings thathave made me man. Dash them anew together at her will Thro' all her cycles — into man once more. Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower : But till this cosmic order everywhere Shatter'd into one earthquake in one day Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour perhaps Is not so far when momentary man Shall seem no more a something to himself. But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and fanes. And even his bones long laid within the grave, The very sides of the grave itself shall pass, Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void. Into the unseen for ever, — till that hour, My golden work in which I told a truth That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel, And numbs the Fury's ringlet-snake, and plucks The mortal soul from out immortal hell, Shall stand : ay, surely : tlien it fails at last And perishes as I must ; for O Thou, Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, Yearn'd after by the wisest of the wise. Who fail to find thee, being as thou art Without one pleasure and without one pain, Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not How roughly men may woo thee so they win — Thus — thus : the soul flies out and dies in the air." With that he drove the knife into his side : She heard him raging, heard him fall ; ran in, Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd That she but meant to win him back, fell on him, Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd : lie an- swer'd, " Care not thou ! Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee well ! " ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. PUBLISHED IN 1852. Bury the Great Duke With an empire's lamentation, Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, Mourning when their leaders fall. Warriors carry the warrior's pall. And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall- 166 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. Where shall we lay tlie man whom we deplore ? Here, in streaming London's central roar. Let the sound of those he wrought for, And the feet of tliose he fought for, Echo round his bones for evermore. Lead out the pageant : sad and slow. As fits an universal woe, Let the long long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful martial music blow ; The last great Englishman is low. Mourn, for to us he seems the last. Remembering all his greatness in the Past. No more in soldier fashion will he greet "With lifted hand the gazer in the street. friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood. The statesman-warrior, moderate, res- olute, Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the man of amplest influ- ence. Yet clearest of ambitious crime. Our greatest yet with least pretence. Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving common-sense. And, as the greatest only are. In his simplicity sublime. O good gray head which all men knew, O voice from which their omens all men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, fall'n at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore. The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. The great AVorld-victor's victor will be seen no more. All is over and done : Render thanks to the Giver, England, for thy son. Let the bell be toll'd. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, There he shall rest for ever Among the wise and the bold. Let the bell be toU'd : And a reverent people behold The towering car, the sable steeds : Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds. Dark in its funeral fold. Let the bell be toU'd : And a deeper knell in the heart be knoU'd ; And the sound of the sorrowing an- them roll'd Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; He knew their voices of old. For many a time in many a clime His captain's-ear has heard them boom Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : When he with those deep voices wrought. Guarding realms and kings from shame ; With those deep voices our dead cap- tain taught The tyrant, and asserts his claim In that dread sound to the great name Which he has worn so pure of blame, In praise and in dispraise the same, A man of well-attemper'd frame. O civic muse, to such a name, To such a name for ages long, To such a name. Preserve a broad approach of fame, And ever-echoing avenues of song. ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 16/ Who is he that cometh, like an hon- or'd guest, With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest. With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest 1 Mighty Seaman, this is he Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, The greatest sailor since our world began. Now, to the roll of muffled drums, To thee the greatest soldier comes ; For this is he Was great by land as thou by sea ; His foes were thine; he kept us free; give him welcome, this is he Worthy of our gorgeous rites, And worthy to be laid by thee ; For this is England's greatest son. He that gain'd a hundred fights, Nor ever lost an English gun : This is he that far away Against the myriads of Assaye Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; And underneath another sun. Warring on a later day, Round affrighted Lisbon drew The treble works, the vast designs Of his labor'd rampart-lines. Where he greatly stood at bay. Whence he issued forth anew, And ever great and greater grew. Beating from the wasted vines Back to France her banded swarms. Back to France with countless blows. Till o'er the hills her eagles flew Beyond the Pyrenean pines, Follow'd up in valley and glen With blare of bugle, clamor of men, Roll of cannon and clash of arms, And England pouring on her foes. Such a war had such a close. Again their ravening eagle rose In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadow- ing wings. And barking for the thrones of kings ; Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler down ; A day of onsets of despair! Dash'd on every rocky square Their surging charges foam'd them- selves away; Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; Thro' tlio long-tormented air Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, And down we swept and charged and overthrew. So great a soldier taught us there, What long-enduring hearts could do In that world earthquake, Waterloo ! INlighty Seaman, tender and true, And pure as he from taint of craven guile, O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, If aught of things that here befall Touch a spirit among things divine. If love of country move thee there at all, Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! And thro' the centuries let a people's voice In full acclaim, A people's voice. The proof and echo of all human fame, A people's voice, when they rejoice At civic revel and pomp and game, Attest their great commander's claim With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name. A people's voice ! we are a people yet. Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget. Confused by brainless mobs and law- less Powers ; Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set His Briton in blown seas and storming showers, We have a voice, with which to pay the debt Of boundless love and reverence and regret 168 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. To those great men wlio fought, and kept it ours. And keep it ours, God, from brute control; O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, And save the one true seed of free- dom sown Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, That sober freedom out of which there springs Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; For, saving that, ye help to save man- kind Pill public wrong be crumbled into dust. And drill the raw workl for the march of mind, fill crowds at length be sane and croAvns be just. But wink no more in slothful over- trust, j Remember him who led your hosts ; \ He bade you guard the sacred coasts. Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; His voice is silent in your council-hall For ever; and whatever temi)ests lour For ever silent ; even if they broke In thunder, silent ; yet remember all He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; \Yho let the turbid streams of rumor flow Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; Whose life was work, whose language rife With rugged maxims hewn from life ; Who never spoke against a foe ; Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke All great self-seekers trampling on the right : Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named ; Truth-lover was our English Duke ; Whatever record leap to light He never shall be shamed. Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial slowly borne, Follow'd by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great. But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our I'ough island- story. The path of duty was the way to glory: He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden-roses. Not once or twice in our fair island- story, The path of duty was the way to glory . He, that ever following her commands, On witli toil of heart and knees and hands. Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevail'd. Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table- lands To which our God Himself is moon and sun. Such was he : his work is done. But while the races of mankind en- dure. Let his great example stand Colossal, seen of every land, And keep the soldier firm, the states man pure : Till in all lands and thro' all human story THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852. 169 The patli of duty be the way to glory : And let the land whose hearts he saved from shame For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game, And when the long-illumined cities flame, Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name. Peace, his triumph will be sung By some yet unmoulded tongue Far on in summers that we shall not see : Peace, it is a day of pain For one about whose patriarchal knee Late the little children clung : peace, it is a day of pain For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain Once the Aveight and fate of Europe hung. Ours the pain, be his the gain ! More than is of man's degree Must be with us, Avatching here At this, our great solemnity. Whom we see not we revere ; VVe revere, and we refrain From talk of battles loud and vain. And brawling memories all too free For such a wise humility xVs befits a solemn fane : We revere, and while we hear The tides of Music's golden sea Setting toward eternity, Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, Until we doubt not that for one so true There must be other nobler work to do Than when he fought at Waterloo, And Victor he must ever be. For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill And break the shore, and evermore Make and break, and work their will ; Tho' Avorld on world in mvriad myriads roll Round us, each with different powers. And other forms of life tlian ours. What know we greater than tlie soul ? On God and Godlike men we build our trust. Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears : The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; He is gone who seem'd so great. — Gone ; but nothing can bereave liim Of the force he made liis own Being here, and we believe him Something far advanced in State, And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him. Speak no more of liis renown. Lay your earthly fancies down. And in the vast cathedral leave him. God accept him, Christ receive him. THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852. My Lords, we heard you speak : you told us all That England's honest censure went too far ; That our free press should cease to brawl, Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war. It was our ancient privilege, my Lords, To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into words. We love not this French God, the child of Hell, Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise ; But though we love kind Peace so well, We dare not ev'n by silence sanction lies. It might be safe our censures to with- draw ; And yet, my Lords, not well : there is a higher law. 170 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. As long as we remain, we must speak free, Tho' all the storm of Em-ope on us break ; No little German state are we. But the one voice in Europe : we must speak ; That if to-night our greatness were struck dead, There might be left some record of the things we said. If you be fearful, then must we be bold. Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. Better the waste Atlantic roll'd On her and us and ours for evermore. What ! have we fought for Freedom from our prime. At last to dodge and palter with a public crime ? Shall we fear }nm ? our own we never fear'd. From our first Charles by force we wrung our claims. Prick'd by the Tapal spur, we rear'd. We flung the burden of the second James. I say, we never feared ! and as for these, We broke tiiem on the land, we drove them on the seas. And you, my Lords, you make the people muse In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed — j Were those your sires who fought at Lewes i Is this the manly strain of Runny- j mede ? ! fall'n nobility, that, overawed, ; Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this monstrous fraud ! Wt feel, at least, that silence here were sin, Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts — If easy patrons of then- kin Have left the last free race with naked coasts ! They knew the precious things they had to guard : For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word. Tho' niggard throats of Manchester may bawl. What England was, shall her true sons forget ? We are not cotton-spinners all, But some love England and her honor yet. And these in our Thermopylse shall stand. And hold against the world this honor of the land. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns," he said ; Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd : Theirs not to make reply. Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them. Cannon in front of them Volley 'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell. Boldly they rode and well. OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION 171 Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd : Plunged in tlie battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke , Cossack and Russian ReeFd from the sabre-stroke Shattered and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them VoUey'd and thunder'd ; Storm'd at with shot and shell. While horse and hero fell. They that had fouglit so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade ? the wild charge they made ! All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred ! ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet. In this wide hall with earth's inven- tion stored, And praise the invisible universal Lord, Who lets once more in peace the na- tions meet. Where Science, Art, and Labor have outpour'd Their mvriad horns of plenty at our feet. silent father of our Kings to be Mourn'din this golden hour of jubilee, For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee ! III. The world-compelling plan was thine, — And, lo ! the long laborious miles Of Palace ; lo ! the giant aisles, Rich in model and design ; Harvest-tool and Imsbandry, Loom and wheel and enginery. Secrets of the sullen mine. Steel and gold, and corn and wine, Fabric rough, or fairy-fine. Sunny tokens of the Line, Polar marvels, and a feast Of wonder, out of West and East, And shapes and hues of Art divine ! All of beauty, all of use, That one fair planet can produce. Brought from under every star, Blown from over every main. And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, The works of peace with works of war. IV. Is the goal so far away ? Far, how far no tongue can say, Let us dream our dream to-day. O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign, From growing commerce loose her latest chain. And let the fair white-wing'd peace- maker fly To happy havens under all the sky. And mix the seasons and the golden hours ; Till each man find his own in all men's good, 172 A WELCOME TO MARIE ALEXANDROVNA. and And all men work in noble brother- hood, Breaking their mailed fleets armed towers, And ruling by obeying Nature's powers. And gathering all the fruits of earth and crown'd with all her flow- ers. A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. MARCH 7, 1S63. Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, Alexandra ! Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, Alexandra ! AVelcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! AVelcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet, Scatter tlie blossom under her feet ! Break, happy land, into earlier flow- ers! Make music, O bird, in tlie new-budded bowers ! Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer ! Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours! Warble, bugle, and trumpet, blare ! Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! Flames, on the windy headland flare! Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! Clash, 3^e bells, in the merry March air ! Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher Melt into stars for the land's desire ! Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand. Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land. And welcome her, welcome the land's desire, The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair, Blissful bride of a blissful heir, Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — O joy to the people and joy to the throne, Come to us, love us and make us your own : For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be. We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, Alexandra ! A WELCOME TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS MARIE ALEX- ANDROVNA, DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH. MARCH 7, 1874. The Son of him with Avhom we strove for power — Whose will is lord tliro' all his world-domain — Who made the serf a man, and burst his chain — Has given our Prince his own imperial Flower, Alexandrovna. And welcome, Russian flower, a people's pride. To Britain, when her flowers begin to blow ! From love to love, from home to home you go. From mother unto mother, stately bride, Marie Alexandrovna ! The golden news along the steppes is blown. And at thy name the Tartar tenth are stirr'd ; Elburz and all the Caucasus have heard ; And all the sultry palms of India known, Alexandrovna. THE GRANDMOTHER. 173 The voices of our universal sea On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent, The Maoris and that Isle of Conti- nent, And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee, Where men are bold and strongly say their say ; — See, empire upon empire smiles to- day, ! As thou with thy young lover hand in hand, ' Alexandrovna ! Marie Alexandrovna ! | So now tliy fuller life is in the west, Whose hand at home was gracious to thy poor : Thy name was blest within the nar- row door ; Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, Marie Alexandrovna ! Fair empires branching, both, \\\ lusty life! — Yet Harold's England fell to Nor- man swords ; Yet thine own land has bow'd to Tartar hordes Since English Harold gave its throne a wife, Alexandrovna ! For thrones and peoples are as waifs that swing, And float or fall, in endless ebb and flow ; But who love best have best the grace to know That Love by right divine is deathless king, Marie Alexandrovna ! And Love has led thee to the stranger land. Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again ? Or at thy coming. Princess, every- where, The blue heaven break, and some diviner air Breathe thro' the world and change the hearts of men, Alexandrovna ! But hearts that change not, love that cannot cease, And peace be yours, the peace of soul in soul ! And howsoever this wild world mav roll, Between your people's truth and man ful peace, Alfred — Alexandrovna THE GRANDMOTHER And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne 1 Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. And Willy's wife has written : she never was over-wise, Never the wife for Willy : he wouldn't take my advice. For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, Hadn't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. Pretty enough, very pretty ! but I was against it for one. Eh! — but he wouldn't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone. 174 THE GRANDMOTHER. "Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock ; Never a man could fling liim : for Willy stood like a rock, " Plere's a leg for a babe of a week ! " says doctor ; and he would be bound, There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue ! I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young. I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. Why do 3^ou look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and cold; But all my children have gone before me, I am so old : I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. VI. For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear. All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. I mean your grandfather, Annie : it cost me a world of woe. Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well That Jenny had tript in her time : I knew, but I would not tell. And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. VIII. And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day; And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! But soiling another, Annie, will never make one's self clean. And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale. And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside mo chirrupt the nightingale. THE GRANDMOTHER. 175 All of a sudden he stopt : there past by the gate of the farm, Willy, — he didn't see me, — and Jenny lumg on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how ; Ah, there's no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now. Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant ; Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking curtsey and went. And I said, "Let us part : in a hundred years it'll all be the same. You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine : '* Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill ; But marry me out of hand : we two shall be happy still." " Marry you, Willy ! " said I, " but I needs must speak my mind, And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, " No, love, no Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. So Willy and I were wedded : I wore a lilac gown ; And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. But the first that ever I bare Avas dead before he was born, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife ; But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain : I look'd at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain. For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay : Kind, like a man, was he ; like a man, too, would have his way : Never jealous — not he : we had many a happy year ; And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem'd so near. 176 THE GRANDMOTHER. XIX. But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget : But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you : Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team : Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed — I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive ; For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five : And Willy, my eldest-born, at nigh threescore and ten; I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ; I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve : And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad : But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, And happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest ; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower; But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour. Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next ; I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext V NORTHERN FARMER. 177 And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. Get me my glasses, Annie : thank God that I keejj my eyes. There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to stay. NORTHERN FARMER. OLD STYLE. Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin' 'ere aloan ? Noorse ? thoort nowt o' a noorse : whoy, Doctor's abean an' ago&n Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale : but I beant a fool : Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gooin' to break my rule. Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what's nawways true : Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things that a do. I've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere. An' I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year. Parson's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' ere o' my bed. " The amoighty's a taakin o' you to 'issen, my friend," a said, An' a towd ma my sins, an's toithe Avere due, an' I gied it in hond I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy the lond. Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to lam. But a cast oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Harris's barne. Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire an' choorch an' staate, An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin the raate. An' I hallus coom'd to's choorch afoor moy Sally wur dead, An' 'eerd 'um a bummin' awaiiy loike a buzzard-clock^ ower my 'ead, An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to saay, An' I thowt a said wiiot a owt to 'a said an' I coom'd awaay. Bessy Harris's barne ! tha knaws she laaid it to mea. Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, shea. 'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha mun understond ; I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy the lond. 1 Cockchafer. 178 N OK r HERN FARMER. But Parson a cooms an' a goos, an' a says it easy an' freea "The amoiglity's a taiikin o' you to 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 1 weant saiiy men be loiars, thaw summum said it in 'aaste : But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste VIII. D'ya moind the waaste, my lass ^ naw, naw, tha was not born then ; Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eerd 'um mysen ; Moast loike a butter-bump,^ fur I 'eerd 'um aboot an' aboot, But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raiived an' rembled 'um oot. IX. Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer a-laaid of 'is faace Doon i' the woild 'enemies ~ afoor I coom'd to the plaace. Noaks or Thimbleby — toiiner 'ed shot 'um as dead as a naail. Noaks wur 'aug'd for it oop at 'soize — but git ma my aale. X, Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer warn't not feeiid for a cow Newt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook at it now — Warnt wortli nowt a haacre, an' now theer's lots o' feead, Fourscoor yows upon it an' some on it doon i' seead. Nobbut a bit on it's left, an' I mean'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let me aloan, Mea, wi' haate oonderd haacre o' Squoire's an' loud o' my oan. Do godamoighty knaw what a's doing a-taakin' o' mea ? I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yonder a pea ; An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear! And I 'a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year. XIII. A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant nor a 'aiipoth o' sense. Or a mowt 'a taaen young Eobins — a niver mended a fence : But godamoighty a moost taiike mea an' taiike ma now Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby hoalms to plow ! Loook 'ow quoloty smoiles when they seeas ma a passin' boy, Says to thessen naw doubt "what a man a bea sewer-Ioy!" Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin fust a coom'd to the 'All; I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy duty boy hall. 1 Bittern. 2 Anemones. NORTHERN FARMER. 179 XV. Squoire's i' Lunnon, an' summun I reckons 'ull \a to wroite, For whoa's to howd the lond ater mea thot muddles ma quoit; Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give it to Joanes, Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver rembles the stoans. XVI. But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap wi' 'is kittle o' steam Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds \vi' the Divil's oan team. Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet, But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. What atta stannin' theer fur, an' doesn bring ma the aSle ? Doctor's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' the owd taale ; I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy Git ma my aale I tell tha, an' if I mun doy I mun doy. NORTHERN FARMER. NEW STYLE. Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awafty ? Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'em saSy. Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou's an ass for thy paal'ns Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs nor in all thy braa'ins. II. WoS, — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam : yon's parson's 'ouse ■ Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be eather a man or a mouse ? Time to think on it then ; for thou'U be twenty to weeak.^ Proputty, proputty — woa then woa — let ma 'ear myse'n speak. Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean a-talkin' o' thee ; Thou's bean talkin' to muther, an' she bean a te^.m' it me. Thou'll not marry for raunny — thou's sweet upo' parson's lass — Noa — thou'll marry for luvv — an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. IV. Seea'd her todaay goa by — Saaint's daay — they was ringing the bells. She's a beauty thou thinks — an' soa is scoors o' gells, Them as 'as munny an' all — wot's a beauty 1 — the flower as blaws. But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. » This week. 130 NORTHERN FARMER. Do'ant be stunt : ^ taake time : I knaws what maiikes tha sa mad. AVarn't I eraiized fur the lasses mysen when I wur a lad ? But I knaw'd a Quaaker feller as often 'as towd ma this : " Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is ! " An' I went wheer nmuny war : an' thy mutiier cooni to 'and, Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' land. Maaybe she warn't a beauty — I niver giv it a thowt — But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant nowt ? Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 'e's dead, Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addle "^ her bread : Why ? fur 'e's nobbut a curate, an' weant niver git naw 'igher ; An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 'e coom'd to the shire. An thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' Varsity debt, Stook to his taa'il they did, an' 'e 'ant got shut on 'em yet. An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noan to lend 'im a shove, Woorse nor a far-welter'd ^ yowe : fur, Sammy, 'e married fur luvv. Luvv ? what's luvv ? thou can luvv thy lass an' 'er munny too, Maakin' 'em goa togither as they've good right to do. Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'er munny laaid by 1 Naay — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it : reason why. Ay an' thj^ muther says thou wants to marry the lass, Cooms of a gentleman burn : an' we boath on us thinks tha an ass. Woa then, proputty, wiltha \ — an ass as near as mays nowt* — Woa then, wiltha ? dangtha ! — the bees is as fell as owt.^ Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence! Gentleman burn ! what's gentleman burn ? is it shillins an' pence Proputty, proputty 's ivry thing 'ere, an', Sammy, I'm blest If it isn't the saame oop yonder, fur them as 'as it's the best. Tis'n them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steals, Them as 'as coats to their backs an' taakes their regular meSls. Noa, but it's them as niver knaws wheer a meal's to be 'ad. Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loomp is bad. 1 Obbtinate. ■ 2 Earn. 3 Or fow-welter'd, — said of a sheep lying on its back in the furrow. * Makes nothing. ^ -phe flies are as fierce as anything. THE DAISY. 181 Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beiin a laiizy lot, Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whiniver munny was got. Feyther 'ad ammost nowt ; leastways 'is munny was 'id. But 'e tued an' moil'd 'issen dead, an 'e died a good un, 'e did. Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck cooms out by the 'ill "Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs oop to the mill; A.n' I'll run oop to the brig, an' that thou'll live to see ; And if thou marries a good un I'll leave the land to thee. Thim's my noS^tions, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; But if tliou marries a bad un, I'll leave the land to Dick. — Coom ooj), proputty, proputty — that's what I 'ears 'im saay Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaay THE DAISY. avuitten at edinburoh. O j^ovE, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine ; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom. Of olive, aioe, and maize and vine. What Roman strength Turbia sliow'd In ruin, by the mountain road ; How like a gem, beneath, the city Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. How richly down the rocky dell The torrent vineyard streaming fell To meet the sun and sunny waters. That only heaved with a summer swell. What slender campanili grew By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; Where, here and there, on sandy beaches A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew. How young Columbus seem'd to rove, Yet present in his natal grove, Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove, Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ; Till, in a narrow street and dim, I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and lovallv drank to him. Nor knew we well what pleased us most. Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; But distant color, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citadel on the coast. Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olives green ; Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; Or rosy blossom in hot ravine. Where oleanders fiush'd the bed Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten Of ice, far up on a mountain head. We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, Those niched shapes of noble mould, A princely people's awful princes. The grave, severe Genovese of old. At Florence too what golden hours, In those long galleries, were ours ; What drives about the fresh Cascine, Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 182 TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. In l)right vignettes, and each com- plete, Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, Or palace, how the city glitter'd, Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. But when we crost the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain ; Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. And stern and sad (so rare the smiles Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ; Porch-pillars on the lion resting, And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. Milan, the chanting quires. The giant windows' blazon'd fires. The height, the space, the gloom, the glory ! A mount of marble, a liundred spires ! 1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. I stood among the silent statues. And statued pinnacles, mute as they. How f aintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair. Was Monte Rosa, hanging there A thousand shadowy-pencill'd val- leys And snowy dells in a golden air. Remember how we came at last To Como ; shower and storm and blast Had blown the lake beyond his limit, And all was flooded ; and how we past From Como, when the light was gray, And in my head, for half the day. The rich Yirgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way, Like ballad-burthen music, kept. As on The Lariano crept To that fair port below the castle < )f Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; ( )r hardly slept, but watch'd awake A cypress in the moonlight shake. The moonlight touching o'er a terrace One tall Agave above the lake. What more ? we took our last adieu, And up the snowy Splugen drew. But ere we reach'd the highest summit I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. It told of England then to me, And now it tells of Italy. O love, we two shall go no longer To lands of summer across the sea; So dear a life your arms enfold Whose crying is a cry for gold : Yet here to-night in this dark city. When ill and weary, alone and cold, I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, This nursling of another sky Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by : And I forgot the clouded Forth, The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, The bitter east, the misty summer And gray metropolis of the North. Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain. Perchance, to dream you still be- side me. My fancy fled to the South again. TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. JANUARY, 1854. Come, when no graver cares employ. Godfather, come and see your boy : Your presence will be sun in winter. Making the little one leap for joy. For, being of that honest few, Who give the Fiend himself his due, Should eighty-thousand college- councils Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you ; Should all our churchmen foam in spite At you, so careful of the right, Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; WILL. 183 iVhere, far from noise and smoke of town, watch the twilight falling brown All round a careless-order'd garden lose to the ridge of a noble down. You'll have no scandal while jou dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine, And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine : For groves of pine on either hand, To break the blast of winter, stand ; And further on, the hoary Channel iTurables a billow on chalk and sand ; Where, if below the milky steep Some ship of battle slowly creep, And on thro' zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep. We might discuss the Nortliern sin Which made a selfish war begin ; Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : Or whether war's avenging rod Shall lash all Europe into blood ; Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God ; How best to help the slender store. How mend the dwellings, of the poor ; How gain in life, as life advances, Valor and charity more and more. Come, ]NJaurice, come : the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet ; But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet. Or later, pay one visit here, For those are few we hold as dear ; Nor pay but one, but come for many, Many and many a happy year. WILL. O WELL for him whose will is strong ! He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; He suffers, but he cannot suffer ! wrong : For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, Nor all Calamity's hugcst waves con- found, Who seems a promontory of rock. That, compass'd round with turbulent sound. In middle ocean meets the surging shock, Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. II. But ill for him who, bettering not with time, Corrupts the strength of heaven- descended Will, And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime. Or seeming-genial venial fault, Recurring and suggesting still ! He seems as one whose footsteps halt. Toiling in immeasurable sand, And o'er a weary sultry land, Far beneath a blazing vault. Sown in a wrinkle in the monstrous hill. The city sparkles like a grain of salt. IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. All along the valley, stream that flashest white, Deepening thy voice with the deepen- ing of the night, All along the valley, where thy waters flow, I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. All along the valley, while I walk'4 to-day, 184 IN THE GARDEN AT SWA INS TON Tlie two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away ; For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed, Th}- living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, Tlie voice of the dead was a living voice to me. IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON. Nightingales warbled without, Within Avas weeping for thee : Shadows of three dead men Walk'd in the walks with me. Shadows of three dead men and thou wast one of the three. Nightingales sang in his woods : The Master was far away : Nightingales warbled and sang Of a passion that lasts but a day ; Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of courtesy lay. Two dead men have I known In courtesy like to thee : Two dead men have I loved With a love that ever will be : Three dead men have I loved, and thou art last of the three. THE FLOWER. Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed. To and fro they went Thro' my garden-bower, And mattering discontent Cursed me and my flower. Then it grew so tall It wore a crown of light, But thieves from o'e.*; the wall Stole the seed by night. Sow'd it far and wide By every town and tower. Till all the people cried, " Splendid is the flower." Read my little fable : He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed. And some are pretty enough. And some are poor indeed ; And now again the people Call it but a weed. REQUIESCAT. Fair is her cottage in its place, Where yon broad water sweetly, slowly glides. It sees itself from thatch to base Dream in the sliding tides. And fairer she, but ah how soon to die! Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease. Her peaceful being slowly passes by To some more perfect peace. THE SAILOR BOY. He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar. And reach'd the ship and caught the rope, And whistled to the morning star. And while he whistled long and loud He heard a fierce mermaide'n cry, "O boy, tho' thou art young and proud, I see the place where thou wilt lie. " The sands and yeasty surges mix In caves about the dreary bay. And on thy ribs the limpet sticks. And in thy heart the scrawl shall play." THE ISLET. 185 Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure To those that stay and those that roam, But I will nevermore endure To sit with empty hands at home. " My mother clings about my neck. My sisters crying, ' Stay for shame ; ' My father raves of death and wreck. They are all to blame, they are all to blame. God help me ! save I take my part Of danger on the roaring sea, A devil rises in my heart, Far worse than any death to me." THE ISLET. "Whither, O whither, love, shall we go, For a score of sweet little summers or sol" The sweet little wife of the singer said, On the day that foUow'd the day she was wed, " Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?" And the singer shaking his curly head Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys There at his right with a sudden crash, Singing, " And shall it be over the seas With a crew that is neither rude nor rash. But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheek'd, In a shallop of crystal ivory-beak'd. With a satin sail of a ruby glow, To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, A mountain islet pointed and peak'd; AVaves on a diamond shingle dasli, Cataract brooks to the ocean run, Fairily-delicate palaces shine Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd With many a rivulet high agamst the Sun The facets of the glorious mountain flash Above the valleys of palm and pine." " Thither, O thither, love, let us go.'" "No, no, no! For in all that exquisite isle, my dear. There is but one bird with a musical throat, And his compass is but of a single note. That it makes one weary to hear," "Mock me not! mock me not! love, let us go." " No, love, no. For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree. And a storm never wakes on tlie lonely sea. And a worm is there in the lonelj wood, That pierces the liver and blackens the blood ; And makes it a sorrow to be." CHILD-SONGS. THE CITY CHILD. Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells ? " Far and far away," said tlie dainty little maiden, "All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones. Ruses and lilies and Canterbury- bells." Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander ? Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours 1 " Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and kingcups and honey suckle-flowers." 186 MINNIE AND WINNIE. n. MINNIE AND WINNIE. Minnie and AVinnie Slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies ! And they slept well. Pink was the shell within, Silver without; Sounds of the great sea Wander'd about. Sleep, little ladies ! AVake not soon ! Echo on echo Dies to the moon. Two bright stars Peep'd into tlie shell. " What are they dreaming of Who can tell '^ " Started a green linnet Out of the croft; Wake, little ladies, The sun is aloft ! THE SPITEFUL LETTER Hepe, it is here, the close of the year, And with it a spiteful letter. My name in song has done him much wrong, For himself has done much better. U little bard, is your lot so hard, If men neglect your pages '^ I think not much of yours or of mine, I bear the roll of the ages. Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times ! Are mine for the moment stronger ? Yet hate me not, but abide your lot, I last but a moment longer. Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf. For it hangs one moment later. Greater than I — is that your cry ? And men will live to see it. Well — if it be so — so it is, you know ; And if it be so, so be it. Brief, brief is a summer leaf, . But this is the time of hollies. O hollies and ivies and evergreens. How I hate the spites and the follies ! LITERARY SQUABBLES. Ah God! the petty fools of rhyme That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars Before the stony face of Time, And look'd at by the silent stars : Who hate each other for a song, And do their little best to bite And pinch their brethren in the throng, And scratch the very dead for spite : And strain to make an inch of room For their sweet selves, and cannot hear The sullen Lethe rolling doom On them and theirs and all things here : When one small touch of Charity Could lift them nearer God-like state Than if the crowned Orb should cry Like those who cried Diana great : And I too, talk, and lose the touch I talk of. Surely, after all, The noblest answer unto such Is perfect stillness when they brawl. THE VICTIM. our names are as This faded leaf, brief ; What room is left for a hater A PLAGUE upon the people fell, A famine after laid them low, Then thorpe and byre arose in fire, THE VICTIM. 187 For on them brake the sudden foe ; So thick they died the people cried, "The Gods are moved against the land." The Priest in horror about his altar To Thor and Odin lifted a hand • " Help us from famine And plague and strife ! What would you have of us ? Human life ? Were it our nearest, Were it our dearest, (Answer, answer) We give you his life." But still the f oeman spoil'd and burn'd, And cattle died, and deer in wood, And bird in air, and fishes turn'd And whiten'd all the rolling flood ; And dead men lay all over the way, Or down in a furrow scathed with flame: And ever and aye the Priesthood raoan'd, Till at last it seem'd that an answer came. "The King is happy In child and wife ; Take you his dearest, Give us a life." The Priest went out by heath and hill ; The King was hunting in the wild ; They found the mother sitting still ; She cast her arms about the child. The child was only eight summers old, His beauty still with his years in- creased. His face was ruddy, his hair was gold, He seem'd a victim due to the priest. The Priest beheld him. And cried with joy, " The Gods have answer'd : We give them the boy." The King return'd from out the wild, He bore but little game in hand ; The mother said, "They have taken the child To spill his blood and heal the land : The land is sick, the people diseased, And blight and famine on all the lea: The holy Gods, they must be appeased, So I pray you tell the truth to me. They have taken our son. They will have his life. Is he your dearest ? Or I, the wife ? " The King bent low, with hand on brow, He stay'd his arms upon his knee : " wife, what use to answer now ? For now the Priest has judged for me." The King was shaken with holy fear ; "The Gods," he said, "would have chosen well; Yet both are near, and both are dear, And which the dearest I cannot tell!" But the Priest was happy, His victim won : " We have his dearest, His only son ! " The rites prepared, the victim bared, The knife uprising toward the blow To the altar-stone she sprang alone, " Me, not my darling, no ! " He caught her away with a sudden cry ; Suddenly from him brake his wife. And shrieking "/ am his dearest, I — / am his dearest ! " rush'd on the knife. And the Priest was happy, "0, Father Odin, We give you a life. Which was his nearest ? Who was his dearest '? The Gods have answer'd; We give them the wife ! " 188 IVA GES. WAGES. Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, Paid with a voice flying l)y to be lost on an endless sea — Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to riglit the wrong — Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she r Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Virtue be dust, Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just, To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky : Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains — Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns ? Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that which He seems ? Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams ; Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb, Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him "? Dark is the world to thee : thyself art the reason why ; For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I " ? Glory about thee, without thee ; and thou f ulfillest thy doom Making Him broken gleams, and*a stifled splendor and gloom. Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet — Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. God is law, say the wise ; O Soul, and let us rejoice, For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool ; And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see; But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He ? THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. The voice and the Peak I All night have I heard the voice Far over summit and lawn, I Rave over the rocky bar, The lone glow and long roar But thou wert silent in heaven. Green-rushing from the rosy thrones Above thee glided the star, of dawn ! i A DEDICATION. 189 Hast thou no voice, O Peak, That standest high above all ? '• I am the voice of the Peak, I roar and rave for I fall. " A thousand voices go To North, South, East, and West ; They leave the heights and are troubled. And moan and sink to their rest. " The fields are fair beside them, The chestnut towers in his bloom ; But they — they feel the desire of the deep — Fall, and follow their doom. " The deep has power on the height, And the height has power on the deep; They are raised for ever and ever. And sink again into sleep." Not raised for ever and ever, But when their cycle is o'er, The valley, the voice, the peak, the star Pass, and are found no more. The Peak is high and flush'd At his highest with sunrise fire ; The Peak is high, and the stars are high, And the thought of a man is higher. A deep below the deep, And a height beyond the height ! Our hearing is not hearing, And our seeing is not sight. The voice and the Peak Far into heaven withdrawn. The lone glow and long roar Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn ! Flow^er in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand. Little flower — but (/' I could under- stand Whatyou are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. A DEDICATION. Deae, near and true — no truer Time himself Can prove you, tho' he make you ever- more Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life Shoots to the fall — take this and pray that he Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him, May trust himself; and after praise and scorn. As one who feels the immeasurable world, Attain the wise indifference of the wise; And after Autumn past — if left to pass His autumn into seeming-leafless days — Draw toward the long frost and long- est night. Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit Which in our winter woodland looks a flower.i 1 The fruit of the Spindle-tree {Euony mus Eiiro2)fei(s) . 190 BOADICEA. EXPERIMENTS. BOADICEA. While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, Far in the East Boiidice'a, standing loftily charioted, Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodune, Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. " They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces. Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating ? Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall I brook to be supplicated ? Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talon annihilate us ? Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering '? Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken innumerable, Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcase a skeleton, Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Taranis be propitiated. Lo their colony half-defended! low their colony, Camulodune ! There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot. Such is Rome, and this her deity : hear it. Spirit of Cassivelaun ! " Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, Icenian, Coritanian ! Doubt not ye the Gods have answer'd, Catieuchlanian, Trinobant. These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances. Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially. Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred, Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. Bloodily flow'd the Taraesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and men ; Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the refluent estuary ; Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — There was one who watch'd and told me — down their statue of Victory fell. Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall we care to be pitiful ? Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall we dandle it amorously ? " Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses, ' Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets ! Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee, Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be the mighty one yet! BO AD ICE A. 191 Thine the liberty, thine tlie glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated. Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, Thine the lands of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God.' So they chanted : how shall Britain light upon auguries happier ? So they chanted in the darkness, and there cometh a victory now, '' Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant ! Me the wife of rich Prasiitagus, me the lover of liberty, Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated, Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy ! Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodiine ! There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory, Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness — Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. Shout Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout Coritanian, Trinobant, Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously Like the leaf in a roaring wliirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Cunobeline ! There they drank in cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay, Boiling on their purple couches in their tender effeminacy. There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there — there — they dwell no more Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable, Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness. Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated. Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out, Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us." So the Queen Boadicea, standing loftily charioted. Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like, Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters in her fierce volubility. Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated, Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineaments. Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, Roar'd as when the roaring breakers boom and blanch on the precipices Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand^ Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice. Till she felt the heart within her fall and flutter tremulously, Then her pulses at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. Ran the land with Roman slaughter, multitudinous agonies. Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary, Fell the colony, city, and citadel, London, Verulam, Camulodunec 192 TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD. IN QUANTITY. ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER. Hexameters and Pentameters. These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer ! No — but a most burlesque barbarous experiment. When was a harsher sound ever heard, ye Muses, in England 1 When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon '? Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave us, Barbarous experiment, barbarous hexameters. MILTON. Alcaics. O mighty-mouth'd inventor of har- monies, O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages ; AVhose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous ar- mories. Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean Rings to the roar of an angel on- set — Me rather all that bowery loneliness. The brooks of Eden mazily murmur- ing, And bloom profuse and cedar arches Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean, Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, And crimson-hued the stately palm- woods Whisper in odorous heights of even. Hendecasyllahics. O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers. Irresponsible, indolent reviewers. Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem All composed in a metre of Catullus All in quantity, careful of my motion. Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, Lest I fall imawares before the people, Waking laughter in indolent re- viewers. Should I flounder awhile without a tumble Thro' this metrification of Catullus, They should speak to me not without a welcome. All that chorus of indolent reviewers. Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble, So fantastical is the dainty metre. Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers, blatant Magazines, regard me rather — Since I blush to belaud myself a mo- ment — As some rare little rose, a piece of in- most Horticultural art, or half coquette-like Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. SPECIJ^IEN OF A TRANSLA- TION OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE. So Hector spake ; the Trojans roar'd applause ; Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke. And each beside his chariot bound his own; And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep THE WINDOW. 193 In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. And these all night upon the bridge^ of war Sat glorying; many a fire before them blazed : As when in heaven the stars about the moon Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid. And every height comes out, and jut- ting peak 1 Or ridge. And valley, and the immeasurable heavens Break open to their highest, and all the stars Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart : So many a fire between the ships and stream Of Xanthus blazed before the toAvers of Troy, A thousand on the plain; and close by each Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire; And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds, Fixt by their cars, waited the golden dawn. Iliad viii. 542-561. THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS. Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as " Or- pheus with his lute," and I drest up for hira, partly in the old style, a puppet, whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days ; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise, December, 1870. A. Tennyson. THE WINDOW. ON THE HILL. The lights and shadows fly ! Yonder it brightens and darkens down on the plain. A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye! Oh is it the brook, or a pool, or her window pane, When the winds are up in the morning ? Clouds that are racing above. And winds and lights and shadows that cannot be still, All running on one way to the home of my love, You are all running on, and I stand on the slope of the hill. And the winds are up in the morn- ing ! Follow, follow the chase ! And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, ever on, on, on. lights, are you flying over her sweet little face '? And my heart is there before you are come, and gone, When the winds are up in the morning ! Follow them down the slope ! And I follow them down to the window- pane of my dear. And it brightens and darkens and brightens like my hope, And it darkens and brightens and darkens like my fear. And the winds are up in the morning. .194 THE WINDOW. AT THE -WINDOW. Vine, vine and eglantine, Clasp her window, trail and twine ! Rose, rose and clematis, Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower All of flowers, and drop me a flower. Drop me a flower. Vine, vine and eglantine. Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine \ Hose, rose and clematis, Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss. Kiss, kiss — and out of her bower All of flowers, a flower, a flower, Dropt, a flower. GONE. Gone ! Gone, till the end of the year, Gone, and the light gone with her, and left me in shadow here ! Gone — flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun from the day ! Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in the air ! Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not where ! Down in the south is a flash and a groan : she is there ! she is there ! The frost is here, And fuel is dear, And woods are sear, And fires burn clear, And frost is here And has bitten the heel of the going year. Bite, frost, bite ! You roll up away from the light The blue wood-louse, and the plump dormouse, And the bees are still'd, and the flies are kill'd. And you bite far into the heart of the house, But not into mine. Bite, frost, bite! The woods are all the searer, The fuel is all the dearer. The fires are all the clearer. My spring is all the nearer. You have bitten into the heart of the earth. But not into mine. Birds' love and birds' song Flying here and there, Birds' song and birds' love. And you with gold for hair! Birds' song and birds' love, Passing with the weather, Men's song and men's love, To love once and for ever. Men's love and birds' love. And women's love and men's! And you my wren with a crown of gold. You my queen of the wrens ! You the queen of the wrens — We'll be birds of a feather, I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens. And all in a nest together. THE LETTER. Where is another sweet as my sweet. Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy "? Fine little hands, fine little feet — Dewy blue eye. Shall I write to her ? shall I go ? Ask her to marry me by and by ? Somebody said that she'd say no ; Somebody knows that she'll say ay i Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? Ay or no, from shy of the shy 1 Go, little letter, apace, apace, Fly; Fly to the light in the valley below — Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : Somebody said that she'd say no ; Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! NO ANSWER. The mist and the rain, the mist and the rain ! THE WINDOW. 195 Is it ay or no '^ is it ay or no '^ And never a glimpse of her window pane ! And I may die but the grass will grow, And the grass will grow when I am gone, And the wet west wind and the world will go on. Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, No is trouble and cloud and storm, Ay is life for a hundred years, No will push me down to the worm, And when I am there and dead and gone, The wet west wind and the world will go on. The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet ! Wet west wind how you blow, you blow ! And never a line from my lady yet ! Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no 1 Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, The wet west wind and the world may go on. NO ANSWER. "Winds are loud and you are dumb. Take my love, for love will come, Love will come but once a life. Winds are loud and winds will pass ! Spring is here with leaf and grass ; Take my love and be my wife. After-loves of maids and men Are but dainties drest again : Love me now, you'll love me then : Love can love but once a life. THE ANSVTER. Two little hands that meet, Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! Must I take you and break you, Two little hands that meet 1 I must take you, and break you, And loving hands must part — Take, take — break, break — Break — you may break my heart. Faint heart never won — Break, break, and all's done. Be merry, all birds, to-day. Be merry on earth as you never were merry before, Be merry in heaven, larks, and far away. And merry for ever and ever, and one day more. AVhy ? For it's easy to find a rhyme. Look, look, how he flits, Tlie fire-crown'd king of the wrens, from out of the pine ! Look how they tumble the blossom, the mad little tits ! " Cuck-oo ! Cuck-oo ! " was ever a May so fine ? Why ? For it's easy to find a rhyme. merry the linnet and dove, And swallow and sparrow and throstle, and have your desire ! O merry my heart, you have gotten the wings of love. And flit like the king of the wrens with a crown of fire. Why? For its ay ay, ay ay. Sun comes, moon comes. Time slips away. Sun sets, moon sets, Love, fix a day. " A year hence, a year hence." " We shall both be gray." " A month hence, a month hence. " Far, far away." " A week hence, a week hence." " Ah, the long delay." " Wait a little, wait a little. You shall fix a day." "To-morrow, love, to-morrow. And that's an age away." Blaze upon her window, sun, And honor all the day. 196 THE WINDOW. MARKIAGK MORNING. Light, SO low upon earth, You send a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love, All my wooing is done. (_)li, the woods and tlie meadows, Woods where we hid from the wet, Stiles where we stay'd to be kind. Meadows in which we met ! Light, so low in the vale You flash and lighten afar, For this is the golden morning of love, And you are his morning star. Flash, I am coming, I come. By meadow and stile and wood, Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart, Into my heart and my blood ! Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires ? heart, are you great enough for love ! I have heard of thorns and briers. Over the thorns and briers. Over the meadows and stiles, Over the world to the end of it Flash for a million miles. IDTLS OF THE KIISTG. ^^^c DEDICATION. These to His Memory — since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there uncon- sciously Some image of himself — I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — These Idylls. And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my king's ideal knight, •' Who reverenced his conscience as his king; Whose glory was, redressing human wrong ; AVho spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it; Who loved one only and who clave to her — " Her — over all whose realms to their last isle. Commingled Avith the gloom of im- minent war. The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is gone : We know him now : all narrow jeal- ousies Are silent; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise, With what sublime repression of him- self, And in what limits, and how tenderly ; Not swaying to this faction or to that ; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage- ground For pleasure j but thro' all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blame- less life. Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne. And blackens every blot : for where is he. Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his ? Or how should England dreaming of his sons Hope more for these than some in- heritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor — Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace — Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed. Beyond all titles, and a household name, 198 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. Break not, woman's-heart, but still endure ; Break not, for thou art Eoyal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made One light together, but has past and leaves The Crown a lonely splendor. May all love. His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, Till God's love set Thee at his side again ! THE COMING OF ARTHUR. Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child ; And she was faii'cst of all flesh on earth, Guinevere, and in her his one delight. For many a petty king ere Arthur came Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war Each upon other, wasted all the land; And still from time to time the heathen host Swarm'd overseas, and harried what was left. And so there grew great tracts of wil- derness. Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less, till Arthur came. For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, | And after him King Uther fought and died. But either fail'd to make the kingdom one. And after these King Arthur for a space, And thro' the puissance of his Table Round, Drew all their petty princedoms under him. Their king and head, and made a realm, and reign'd. And thus the land of Cameliard was waste. Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein. And none or few to scare or chase the beast ; So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, And wallow'd in the gardens of the King. And ever and anon the wolf would steal The children and devour, but now and then, Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat To human sucklings ; and the children, housed In her foul den, there at their meat would growl. And mock their foster-mother on four feet. Till, straighten'd, they grew up to wolf-like men, AVorse than the wolves. And King Leodogran Groan'd for the Roman legions here again, And Caesar's eagle : then his brother king, Urien, assail'd hira : last a heathen horde, Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood, THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 199 And on the spike that split the mother's heart Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed. ' He knew not whither he should turn for aid. But — for he heard of Arthur newly crown'd, Tho' not without an uproar made by those Who cried, " He is not Uther's son " — the King Sent to him, saying, " Arise, and help us thou ! For here between the man and beast we die." And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms. But heard the call, and came : and Guinevere Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass ; But since he neither wore on helm or shield The golden symbol of his kinglihood. But rode a simple knight among his knights. And many of these in richer arms than he. She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she saw. One among many, tho' his face was bare. But Arthur, looking downward as he past. Felt the light of her eyes into his life Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitch'd His tents beside the forest. Then he drave The heathen ; after, slew the beast, and fell'd The forest, letting in the sun, and made Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight And so return'd. For while he linger'd there, A doubt that ever smouldered in the hearts Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm Flash'd forth and into war : for most of these, CoUeaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him, crying, " Who is he That he should rule us % who hath proven him King Uther's son % for lo ! we look at him. And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, Are like to those of U ther whom we knew. This is the son of Gorlo'is, not the King; This is the son of Anton, not the King." And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt Travail, and throes and agonies of the life. Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere; And thinking as he rode, " Her father said That there between the man and beast they die. Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts Up to my throne, and side by side with me ? What happiness to reign a lonely king, Vext — ye stars that shudder over me, earth that soundest hollow under me, Vext with waste dreams 1 for saving I be join'd To her that is the fairest under heaven, 1 seem as nothing in the mighty world. And cannot will my will, nor work my work Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm Victor and lord. But were I join'd with her, Then might we live together as one life. 200 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. And reigning with one will in every- thing Have power in this dark land to lighten it, And power on this dead world to make it live." Thereafter — as he speaks who tells the tale — When Arthur reach'd a field-of-battle bright With pitcli'd pavilions of his foe, the world Was all so clear about him, that he saw The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, And even in high day the morning star. So when the King had set his banner broad, At once from either side, with trumpet- blast, And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood. The long-lanced battle let their horses run. And now the Barons and the kings prevail'd, And now the King, as here and there that war Went swaying; but the Powers who walk the world Made lightnings and great thunders over him, And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might. And mightier of his hands with every blow, And leading all his knighthood threw the kings Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, Claudias, and Clariance of Northum- berland, The King Brandagoras of Latangor, With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice As dreadful as the shout of one who sees To one who sins, and deems himself alone And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the brands That hack'd among the flyers, " Ho ! they yield ! " So like a painted battle the war stood Silenced, the living quiet as the dead. And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. He laugh'd upon his warrior whom he loved And lionor'd most. " Thou dost not doubt me King, So well thine arm hath wrought for me to-day." " Sir and my liege," he cried, " the fire of God Descends upon thee in the battle-field : I know thee for my King ! " Whereat the two, For each had warded either in the fight, Sware on the field of death a deathless love. And Arthur said, " Man's word is God in man : Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death." Then quickly from the foughten field he sent Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, His new-made knights, to King Leo- dogran, Saying, " If I in aught have served thee well. Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife." Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart Debating — " How should I that am a king. However much he holp me at my need. Give my one daughter saving to a king. And a king's son 1 " — lifted his voice, and call'd A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 201 He trusted all things, and of him required His counsel i " Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth ? " Then spake the hoary chamberlain and said, " Sir King, there be but two old men that know : And each is twice as old as I ; and one Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served King Uther thro' his magic art ; and one Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys, Who taught him magic ; but the scholar ran Before the master, and so far, that Bleys Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote All things and whatsoever Merlin did In one great annal-book, where after years "Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth." To whom the King Leodogran replied, . " O friend, had I been holpen half as well By this King Arthur as by thee to- day, Then beast and man had had their share of me : But summon here before us yet once more Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere." Then, when they came before him, the King said, " I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl. And reason in the chase : but where- fore now Do these your lords stir up the heat of war. Some calling Arthur born of Gorlois, Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye your- selves, Hold ye this Arthur f(5r King Uther's son 1 " And Ulfius and Brastius answer'd, "Ay." Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, spake — For bold in heart and act and word was he, AVhenever slander breathed against the King — " Sir, there be many rumors on this head : I For there be those who hate him in their hearts, Call him baseborn, and since his ways are sweet. And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man : And there be those who deem him more than man. And dream he dropt from heaven : but my belief In all this matter — so ye care to learn — Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's time The prince and warrior Gorlo'is, he that held Tintagil castle by the Cornisli sea. Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne : And daughters had she borne him, — one whereof, Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent, Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved To Arthur, — but a son she had not borne. And Uther cast upon her eyes of love : But she, a stainless wife to Gorlois, So loathed the bright dishonor of his love. That Gorlois and King Uther" went to war : And overthroAvn was Gorlois and slain. Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged 202 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. Ygerne within Tintagil, where her men, Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls, Left her and fled, and Uther enter 'd in, And there was none to call to but him- self. So, compass'd by the power of the King, Enforced she was to wed him in her tears, And with a shameful swiftness : after- ward, Not many moons, King Uther died himself. Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule After him, lest the realm should go to wrack. And that same night, the night of the new year. By reason of the bitterness and grief That vext his mother, all before his time Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born Deliver'd at a secret postern-gate To Merlin, to be holden far apart Until his hour should come ; because the lords Of that fierce day were as the lords of this. Wild beasts, and surely would have torn the child Piecemeal among them, had they known ; for each But sought to rule for his own self and hand, And many hated Uther for the sake Of Gorlo'is. Wherefore Merlin took the child, And gave him to Sir Anton, an old knight And ancient friend of Uther ; and his wife Nursed the j^oung prince, and rear'd him with her own ; And no man knew. And ever since the lords Have foughten like wild beasts among themselves, So that the realm has gone to wrack : but now, This year, when Merlin (for his hour had come) Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the hall. Proclaiming, ' Here is Uther's heir, your king,' A hundred voices cried, 'Away with him ! No king of ours ! a son of Gorlois he. Or else the child of Anton, and no king. Or else baseborn.' Yet Merlin thro' his craft. And while the people clamor'd for a king, Had Arthur crown'd; but after, the great lords Banded, and so brake out in open war." Then while the King debated with himself If Arthur were the child of shameful- ness. Or born the son of Gorlois, after death, Or Uther's son, and born before his time. Or whether there were truth in any- thing Said by these three, there came to Cameliard, With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons, Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent; Whom as he could, not as he w^ould, the King Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat, " A doubtful throne is ice on sum- mer seas. Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men Report him ! Yea, but ye — think ye this king — So many those that hate him, and so strong, THE COMING OF ARl 203 So few his knights, however brave they be — Hath body enow to hold his foemen down ? " " O King," she cried, " and I will tell thee : few. Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him ; For I was near him when the savage yells Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat Crown'd on the dais, and his warriors cried, ' Be thou the king, and we will work thy will Who love thee.' Then the King in low deep tones. And simple words of great autliority, Bound them by so strait vows to his own self. That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some "Were pale as at the passing of a ghost. Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one who wakes Half-blinded at the coming of a light. " But when he spake and cheer'd his Table Round With large divine and comfortable words Beyond my tongue to tell thee — I beheld From eye to eye thro' all their Order flash A momentary likeness of the King : And ere it left their faces, thro' the cross And those around it and the Crucified, Down from the casement over Arthur, smote Flame-color, vert and azure, in three rays, One falling upon each of three fair queens, Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright Sweet faces, need. , "And there i whose vast And hundred wintf hands Of loyal vassals ' ^m at his ^rlin, he " And nea- theT Who kno' 0' Clothe She : ady of 11. than his :, mystic, won- his huge cross- the heathen out : a Whereby i^ mist Of incense curl'd about her, and her face Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom ; But there was heard among the holy hymns A voice as of the waters, for she dwells Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever storms May shake the world, and when the surface rolls. Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord. " There likewise I beheld Excalibur Before him at his crowning borne, the sword That rose from out the bosom of the lake. And Arthur row'd across and took it — rich With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt, Bewildering heart and eye — the blade so bright That men are blinded by it — on one side, Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world, ' Take me,' but turn the blade and ye shall see, And written in the speech ye speak vourself, 204 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. ' Cast me away ! ' And sad was Arthur's face Taking it, but old Merlin counsell'd him, ' Take thou and strike ! the time to cast a'.vay Is yet far-off.' So this great brand the king Took, and by this will beat his f oemen down." Thereat Leodogram rejoiced, but thought To sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd, Fixing full eyes of question on her face, "The swallow and the swift are near akin. But thou art closer to this noble prince, Being liis own dear sister ; '' and she said, " Daughter of Gorlo'is and Ygerne am " And therefore Arthur's sister ? " ask'd the King. She answer'd, "These be secret things," and sign'd To those two sons to pass and let them be. And Gawain went, and breaking into song Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying hair Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw : But Modred laid his ear beside the doors, And there half-heard ; the same that afterward Struck for tlie throne, and striking foimd his doom. And then the Queen made answer, " What know I ? For dark my mother was in eyes and hair, And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and dark Was Gorlo'is, yea and dark was Uther too, Wellnigh to blackness ; but this King is fair Beyond the race of Britons and of men. Moreover, always in my mind I hear A cry from out the dawning of my life, A mother weeping, and I hear her say, '0 that ye had some brother, pretty one, To guard thee on the rough ways of the world.' " " Ay," said the King, " and hear j'e such a cry ? But when did Arthur chance upon thee first ? " "0 King!" she cried, "and I will tell thee true : He found me first when yet a little maid : Beaten I had been for a little fault Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I ran And flung myself down on a bank of heath. And hated this fair world and all therein. And wept, and wish'd that I were dead ; and he — I know not whether of himself he came, Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walk Unseen at pleasure — he was at my side And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart. And dried my tears, being a child with me. And many a time he came, and ever- more As I grew greater grew with me ; and sad At times he seem'd, and sad with him was I, Stern too at times, and then I loved him not, But sweet again, and then I loved him well. And now of late I see him less and less. THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 205 But those first days had golden hours for me, For then I surely thought he would be king " But let me tell thee now another tale ; For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say, Died but of late, and sent his cry to me, To hear him speak before he left his life. Shrunk like a fairy changeling la}^ the mage ; And when I enter'd told me that him- self And Merlin ever served about the King, Uther, before he died; and on the night When Uther in Tintagil past away Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe. Then from the castle gateway by the chasm Descending thro' the dismal night — a night In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost — Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof A dragon wing'd, and all from stem to stern Bright with a shining people on the decks, And gone as soon as seen. And then the two Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the great sea fall, Wave after wave, each mightier than the last. Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame : And down the wave and in the flame was borne A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried ' The King ! Here is an heir for Uther ! ' And the fringe Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand, Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the word. And all at once all round him rose in fire. So that the child and he were clothed in fire. And presently thereafter followed calm, Free sky and stars : ' And this same child,' he said, *Is he who reigns; nor could I part in peace Till this were told.' And saying this the seer Went thro' the strait and dreadful pass of death. Not ever to be question'd any more Save on the further side ; but when I met Merlin, and ask'd him if these things were truth — The shining dragon and the naked child Descending in the glory of the seas — He laugh'd as is his wont, and an- swer'd me In riddling triplets of old time, and said: " ' Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow in the sky ! A young man will be wiser by and by ; An old man's wit may wander ere he die. Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on the lea ! And truth is this to me, and that to thee; And truth or clothed or naked let it be. Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free blossom blows : 206 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he who knows ? From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' " So Merlin riddling anger'd me ; but thou Fear not to give this King thine only child, Guinevere : so great bards of him will sing Hereafter ; and dark sayings from of old Ranging and ringing thro' the minds of men, And echo'd by old folk beside their fires For comfort after their wage-work is done. Speak of the King ; and Merlin in our time Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn Tho' men may wound him that he will not die, But pass, again to come ; and then or now Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, Till these and all men hail him for their king.'' She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced, But musing " Shall I answer yea or nay ? " Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw. Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew, Field after field, up to a height, the peak Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king. Now looming, and now lost; and on tlie slope The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven. Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from roof and rick. In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind. Stream'd to the peak, and mingled with the haze And made it thicker; while the phan- tom king Sent out at times a voice ; and here or there Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest Slew on and burnt, crying, " No king of ours. No son of Uther, and no king of ours ; " Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze Descended, and the solid earth be- came As nothing, but the King stood out in heaven, Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sent Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, Back to the court of Arthur answer- ing yea. Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved And h jnor'd most. Sir Lancelot, to ride forth And bring the Queen ; — and watch'd him from the gates : And Lancelot past away among the flowers, (For then was latter April) and return'd Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, Chief of the church in Britain, and before The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King That morn was married, while in stain- less white, The fair beginners of a nobler time. And glorying in their vows and him, his knights Stood round him, and rejoicing in his joy- Far shone the fields of May thro' open door. The sacred altar blossom'd white with May, THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 207 The Sun of May descended on their King, They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen, Eoll'd incense, and there past along tlie hymns A voice as of the waters, while the two Sware at the shrine of Christ a death- less love : And Arthur said, " Behold, thy doom is mine. Let chance what will, I love thee to the death ! " To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes, " King and my lord, I love thee to the death ! " And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake " Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee. And all this Order of thy Table Round Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King ! " So Dubric said ; but when they left the shrine Great Lords from Rome before the portal stood, In scornful stillness gazing as they past; Then while they paced a city all on fire With sun and cloth of gold, the trum- pets blew. And Arthur's knighthood sang before ,. the King : — \' " Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May ; Blow trumpet, the long night hath roU'd away ! Blow thro' the living world — 'Let the King reign/ " Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm 1 Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign. " Strike for the King and live ! his knights have heard That God. hath told the King a secret word. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign. "Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust. Blow trumpet ! live the strength and die the lust ! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let the King reign. " Strike for the King and die ! and if thou diest. The King is King, and ever wills the highest. Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign. " Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May ! Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day ! Clang battleaxe, and clash brand! Let the King reign. " The King will follow Christ, and we the King In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign." So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall. There at the banquet those great Lords from Rome, The slowly-fading mistress of the world. Strode in, and claim'd their tribute as of yore. But Arthur spake, " Behold, for these have sworn To wage my wars, and worship me their King ; The old order changeth, yielding place to new ; 208 G ARE Til AND LYNETTE. And we that fight for our fair fatlier Christ, Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old To drive the heathen from your Roman wall, No tribute will we pay " : so those great lords Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome. And Arthur and his knighthood for a space Were all one will, and thro' that strength the King Drew in the petty princedoms under him. Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign'd. THE ROUND TABLE. GABETH AND LYNETTE. GERAINT AND ENID. MERLIN AND VIVIEN. LANCELOT AND ELAINE. GARETH AND LYNETTE. The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring Stared at the spate. A plender-shaf ted Pine Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd away. " How he went down," said Gareth, " as a false knight Or evil king before my lance if lance Were mine to use — O senseless cata- ract. Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows And mine is living blood : thou dost His will, Tlie Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know. Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall Linger with vacillating obedience, Prison'd, and kept and coax'd and whistled to — Since the good mother holds me still a child ! Good mother is bad mother unto me ! A worse were better ; yet no worse would I. THE HOLY GBAIL. PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. THE LAST TOURNAMENT. GUINEVERE. Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force To weary her ears with one continuous prayer, Until she let me fly discaged to sweej) In ever-highering eagle-circles up To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop Down upon all things base, and dash them dead, A knight of Arthur, working out his will. To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came With Modred hither in the summer- time, Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven knight. Modred for want of worthier was the judge. Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said, ' Thou hast half prevail'd against me,' said so — he — Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was mute. For he is alway sullen : what care I .' ' And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair GARETH AND LYNETTE. 209 Ask'd, " Mother, tho' ye count me still j And handed down the golden treasure the child Sweet mother, do ye love the child ? " She laugh'd, " Thou art but a wild-goose to ques- tion it." " Then, mother, an ye love the child," he said, "Being a goose and rather tame than wild, Hear the child's story." " Yea, my well-beloved. An 'twere but of goose and golden eggs." And Gareth answer'd her with kind- ling eyes, " Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine Was finer gold than any goose can lay; For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm As glitters gilded in thy Book of Hours. And there was ever haunting round the palm A lusty youth, but poor, who often saw The splendor sparkling from aloft, and thought * An I could climb and lay my hand upon it. Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings,' But ever when he reach'd a hand to climb. One, that had loved him from his childhood, caught And stay'd him, ' Climb not lest thou break thy neck, I charge thee by my love,' and so the boy. Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck. But brake his very heart in pining for it, And past away." To whom the mother said, " True love, sweet son, had risk'd him- self and clirab'd. to hii And Gareth answer'd her with kind- ling eyes, " Gold 1 said I gold 1 — ay then, why he, or she. Or whoso'er it was, or half the world Had ventured — had the thing I spake of been Mere gold — but this was all of that true steel. Whereof they forged the brand Ex- calibur, And lightnings play'd about it in the storm. And all tlie little fowl were flurried at it. And there were cries and clashings in the nest. That sent him from his senses : let me go." Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself and said, " Hast thou no pity upon my loneli- ness ? Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth Lies like a log, and all but smoulder'd out! For ever since when traitor to the King He fought against him in the Barons' war, And Arthur gave him back his terri tory. His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there A yet-warm corpse, and yet unburia- ble. No more; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows. And both thy brethren are in Arthur's hall, Albeit neither loved with that full love I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love : Stay therefore thou ; red berries charm the bird. And thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, 210 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang Of wrcnch'd or broken limb — an often chance In tliosc brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, Frights to my heart ; but stay : follow the deer By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns ; So make thy manhood mightier day by day ; Sweet is the chase : and I will seek thee out Some comfortable bride and fair, to grace Thy climbing life, and cherish my prone year, Till falling into Lot's forgetfulness I know not thee, myself, nor any- thing. Stay, my best son ! ye are yet more boy than man." Then Gareth, " An j'e hold me yet for child. Hear yet once more the story of the child. For, mother, there was once a King, like ours. The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable, Ask'd for a bride ; and thereupon the King Set two before him. One was fair, strong, arm'd — But to be won by force — and many men Desired her ; one, good lack, no man desired. And these were the conditions of the King : That save he won the first by force, he needs Must wed that other, whom no man desired, A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile. That evermore she long'd to hide her- self, Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye — Yea — some she cleaved to, but they died of her. And one — the}^ call'd her Fame ; and one, — O jNlother, How can ye keep me tether'd to you — Sliame ! Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. Follow the deer ? follow the Christ, the King, Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King — Else, wherefore born ? " To whom the mother said, " Sweet son, for there be many who deem him not, Or will not deem him, wholly proven King — Albeit in mine own heart I knew him King, When I was frequent with him in my youth. And heard him Kingly speak, and doubted him No more than he, himself; but felt him mine, Of closest kin to me : yet — wilt thou leave Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King ■? Stay, till the cloud that settles round his birth Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son." And Gareth answer'd quickly, "■ Not an hour. So that ye yield me — I will walk thro' fire. Mother, to gain it — your full leave to go. Not proven, who swept the dust of ruin'd Rome From off the threshold of the realm, and crush'd The Idolaters, and made the people free ? Who should be King save him who makes us free ? " GARETH AND LYNETTE. 211 So when the Queen, who long had sought in vain To break him from the intent to which he grew, Found her son's will unwaveringly one, She answer'd craftily, " Will ye walk thro' fire "? Wlio walks thro' fire will hardly heed the smoke. Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof, Before thou ask the King to make thee knight. Of thine obedience and thy love to me, Thy mother, — I demand." And Gareth cried, " A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. Nay — quick ! the proof to prove me to the quick ! " But slowly spake the mother look- ing at him, "Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall, And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks Among the scullions and the kitchen- knaves. And those that hand the dish across the bar. Nor shalt thou tell thy name to any- one. And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day." For so the Queen believed that when her son Beheld his only way to glory lead Low down thro' villain kitchen-vas- salage, Her own true Gareth was too princely- proud To pass thereby ; so should he rest with her, Closed in her castle from the sound of arms. Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, " The thrall in person may be free in soul. And I shall see the jousts. Thy son am I, And since thou art my mother, must obey. I therefore yield me freely to thy will : For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves ; Nor tell my name to any — no, not the King." Gareth awhile linger'd. The mother's eye Full of the wistful fear that he would go, And turning toward him wheresoe'er he turn'd, Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, When waken'd by the wind which witli full voice Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on to dawn. He rose, and out of slumber calling two That still had tended on him from his birth, Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. The three were clad like tillers of the soil. Southward they set their faces. The birds made Melody on branch, and melody in mid air. The damp hill-slopes were quicken'd into green. And the live green had kindled into flowers, For it was past the time of Easterday. So, when their feet were planted on the plain That broaden'd toward the base of Camelot, Far off they saw the silver-misty morn lioUing her smoke about the Royal mount, 212 GAKETJI AND LYAE'l'TE. That rose between the forest and the field. At times the summit of the high city flash'd ; At times the spires and turrets half- way down Prick'd thro' the mist; at times the great gate shone Only, that open'd on the field below : Anon, the whole fair city had disap- pear'd. Then those who went with Gareth were amazed. One crying, "Let us go no further, lord. Here is a city of Enchanters, built By fairy kings." The second echo'd him, " Lord, we have heard from our wise man at home To Northward, that this King is not the King, But only changeling out of Fairy- land, Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery And Merlin's glamour." Then the first again, " Lord, there is no such city anywhere. But all a vision." Gareth answer'd them With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow In his own blood, his princedom, youth and hopes. To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian sea; So push'd them all unwilling toward the gate. And there was no gate like it under heaven. For barefoot on the keystone, which was lined And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave. The Lady of the Lake stood : all her dress Wept from her sides as water flowing away; But like the cross her great and goodly arms Stretch'd under all the cornice and upheld : And drops of water fell from either hand ; And down from one a sword was hung, from one A censer, either worn with wind and storm ; And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish; And in the space to left of her, and right, Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done, New things and old co-twisted, as if Time Were nothing, so inveterately, that men Were giddy gazing there; and over all High on the top were those three Queens, the friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need. Then those with Gareth for so long a space Stared at the figures, that at last it seem'd The dragon-boughts and elvish em- blemings Began to move, seethe, twine and curl : they call'd To Gareth, " Lord, the gateway is alive." And Gareth likewise on them fixt his eyes So long, that ev'n to him they seem'd to move. Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. Back from the gate started the three, to whom From out thereunder came an ancient man. Long-bearded, saying, " Who be ye, my sons ? " Then Gareth, " We be tillers of the soil, Who leaving share in furrow come to see 7ARETH AND LYNETTE. 213 The glories of our King: but these, my men, (Your city moved so weirdly in the mist) Doubt if the King be King at all, or come From Fairyland ; and whether this be built By magic, and by fairy Kings and Queens ; Or whether there be any city at all, Or all a vision : and this music now Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth." Then that old Seer made answer playing on him And saying, " Son, I have seen the good ship sail Keel ujiward and mast downward in the heavens, And solid turrets topsy-turvy in air : And here is truth; but an it please thee not, Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. For truly as thou sayest, a Fairy King And Fairy Queens have built the city, son ; They came from outa sacred mountain- cleft Toward the sunrise, each with harp in hand. And built it to the music of their harps. And as thou sayest it is enchanted, son. For there is nothing in it as it seems Saving the King ; tho' some there be that hold Tlie King a shadow, and the city real : Yet take thou heed of him, for, so thou pass Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become A thrall to his enchantments, for the King Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame A man should not be bound by, yet the which No man can keep ; but, so thou dread to swear, Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide Witliout, among the cattle of the field. For an ye heard a music, like enow They are building still, seeing the city is built To music, therefore never built at all. And therefore built for ever. Gareth spake Anger'd, '' Old Master, reverence thine own beard That looks as white as utter truth, and seems Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall! Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been To thee fair-spoken ? " But the Seer replied, " Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards ? ' Confusion, and illusion, and relation, Elusion, and occasion, and evasion ' ? I mock thee not but as thou mockest me, And all that see thee, for thou art not who Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art. And now thou goest up to mock the King, Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie." Unmockingly the mocker ending here Turn'd to the right, and past along the plain; Whom Gareth looking after said, " My men. Our one white lie sits like a little ghost Here on the threshold of our enter- prise. Let love be blamed for it, nor she, nor I: Well, we will make amends." With all good cheer He spake and laugh'd, then enter'd with his twain 214 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces And stately, rich in emblem and the work Of ancient kings who did their days in stone ; Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court, Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and everywhere At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessen- ing peak And pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaven. And ever and anon a knight would pass Outward, or inward to the liall : his arms Clash'd ; and the sound was good to Gareth's ear. And out of bower and casement sliyly glanced Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love ; And all about a healthful people stept As in the presence of a gracious king. Then into hall Gareth ascending heard A voice, the voice of Arthur, and be- held Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall The splendor of the presence of the King Throned, and delivering doom — and look'd no more — But felt his young heart hammering in his ears. And thought, "For this half-shadow of a lie The truthful King will doom me when I speak." Yet pressing on,tho'allin fear to find Sir Gawain or Sir Modred, saw nor one Nor other, but in all the listening eyes Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne. Clear honor shining like the dewy star Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure Affection, and the light of victory. And glory gain'd, and evermore to gain. Then came a widow crying to the King, "A boon. Sir King! Thy father, Uther, reft From my dead lord a field with vio- lence : For howsoe'cr at first he proffer'd gold, Yet, for the field w^as pleasant in our eyes, We yielded not; and then he reft us of it Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field." Said Arthur, " Whether would ye ? gold or field % " To whom the woman weeping, "Nay, my lord, The field was pleasant in my hus- band's eye." And Arthur, " Have thy pleasant field again. And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof. According to the years. No boon is here. But justice, so thy say be proven true. Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did Would shape himself a right ! " And w^hile she past, Came yet another widow crying to him, "A boon. Sir King! Thine enemy. King, am I. With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord, A knight of Uther in the Barons' war, When Lot and many another rose and fought Against thee, saying thou wert basely born. I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught. Yet lo ! my husband's brother had my son Thrall'd in his castle, and hath starved him dead ; And standeth seized of that inheritance GARETH AND LYNETTE. 215 "Which thou that slowest the sh'e hast left the son. So tho' I scarce can ask it thee for hate, Grant me some knight to do the battle for me, Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son." Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him, " A boon, Sir King ! I am her kins- man, I. Give me to right her wrong, and slay the man." Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried, " A boon. Sir King ! ev'n that thou grant her none. This railer, that hath mock'd thee in full hall — None ; or the wholesome boon of gy\(i and gag." But Arthur, "We sit King, to help the wrong'd Thro' all our realm. The woman loves her lord. Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates ! The kings of old had doom'd thee to the flames, Aurelius Emrj^s would have scourged thee dead. And Uther slit thy tongue : but get thee hence — Lest that rough humor of the kings of old Return upon me ! Thou that art her kin, Go likewise ; lay him low and slay him not. But bring him here, that I may judge the right, According to the justice of the King : Then, be he guilty, by that deathless King Who lived and died for men, the man shall die." Then came in hall the messenger of Mark, A name of evil savor in the land. The Cornish king. In either hand he bore What dazzled all, and shone far-off as sliines A field of charlock in the sudden sun Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold, Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt. Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king. Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot ; For having heard that Arthur of his grace Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight. And, for himself was of the greater state. Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord Would yield him this large honor all the more ; So pray'd him well to accept this cloth of gold. In token of true heart and fealty. Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. An oak-tree smoulder'd there. " The goodly knight! What ! shall the shield of Mark stand among these ? " For, midway down the side of that long hall A stately pile, — whereof along the front. Some blazon'd, some but carven, and some blank, There ran a treble range of stony shields, — Rose, and high-arching overbrow'd the hearth. And under every shield a knight was named : For this was Arthur's custom in his hall; When some good knight had done one noble deed. His arms were carven only ; but if twain 216 GARETH AND LYNETTE. His arms were blazon'd also; but if none The shield was blank and bare without a sign Saving the name beneath ; and Gareth saw The shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and bright, And Modred's blank as death; and Arthur cried To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth. " More like are Ave to reave him of his crown Than make him knight because men call him king. The kings we found, ye know we stay'd their hands From war among themselves, but left them kings ; Of whom were any bounteous, merci- ful, Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enroll'd Among us, and they sit within our hall. But Mark hath tarnish'd the great name of king. As Mark would sully the low^ state of churl : And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold. Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes. Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead, Silenced for ever — craven — a man of plots, Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings — No fault of thine : let Kay the senes- chal Look to thy wants, and send thee sat- isfied — Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen ! " And many another suppliant crying came With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man. And evermore a knight would ride away. Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, Approach'd between them toward the King, and ask'd, " A boon. Sir King (his voice was all ashamed). For see ye not how weak and hunger- worn I seem — leaning on these ? grant me to serve For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. Hereafter I will fight." To him the King, "A goodly youth and worth a good- lier boon ! But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, The master of the meats and drinks, be thine." He rose and past ; then Kay, a man of mien Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself Root-bitten by white lichen, " Lo ye now ! This fellow hath broken from some Abbey, where, God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow% However that might chance ! but an he work, Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, And sleeker shall he shine than any hog." Then Lancelot standing near, " Sir Seneschal, Sleuth-hound thou knowest, and gray. and all the hounds; A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know : GARETH AND LYNETTE. 217 Broad brows and fair, a fluent liair and fine, High nose, a nostril largo and fine, and hands Large, fair and fine! — some young lad's mystery — But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy Is noble-natured. Treat him with all grace, Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him." Then Kay, " What murmurest thou of mystery ? Think ye this fellow will poison the King's dish 1 Nay, for he spake too fool-like : mystery ! Tut, an the lad were noble, he had ask'd For horse and armor : fair and fine, forsooth ! Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands 1 but see thou to it That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some fine day Undo thee not — and leave my man to me." So Gareth all for glory underwent The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage ; Ate with young lads his portion by the door. And couch'd at night witli grimy kitchen-knaves. And Lancelot ever spake him pleas- antly, But Kay the seneschal who loved him not Would hustle and harry him, and labor him Beyond his comrade of the hearth, and set To turn the broach, draw water, or hew Avood, Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd himself With all obedience to the King, and wrought All kind of service with a noble ease Tliat graced the lowliest act in doing- it. And when the thralls had talk among themselves, And one would praise the love that linkt the King And Lancelot — how the King had saved his life In battle twice, and Lancelot once the King's — For Lancelot was the first in Tourna- ment, But Arthur mightiest on the battle- field— Gareth was glad. Or if some other told. How once the wandering forester at dawn, Far over tlie blue tarns and hazy seas, On Caer-Erj-ri's highest found the King, A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, " He passes to the Isle Avilion, He passes and is heal'd and cannot die " — Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul. Then would he whistle rapid as any lark, Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud That first they mock'd, but, after, reverenced him. Or Gareth telling some prodigious tale Of knights, who sliced a red life-bub- bling way Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, held All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good mates L3ing or sitting round him, idle hands, Charm'd; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. Or when the thralls had sport among themselves. So there Avere any trial of mastery, 218 CARET II AND lYNETTE. He, by two yards in casting bar or stone Was counted best; and if there chanced a joust, So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go, Would hurry tliither, and when he saw the knights Clash like the coming and retiring wave, And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. So for a montli he wrought among the thralls ; But in the weeks that foUow'd, the good Queen, Repentant of the word she made him swear, And saddening in her childless castle, sent, Between the in-crescent and de-cres- cent moon. Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow. This, Gareth hearing from a squire of Lot With whom he used to play at tourney once, When both were children, and in lonely haunts Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand, And each at either dash from either end — Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy. He laugh'd ; he sprang. " Out of the smoke, at once I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee — These news be mine, none other's — nay, the King's — Descend into the city : " whereon he sought The King alone, and found, and told him all. " I have stagger'd thy strong Ga- wain in a tilt For pastime; j'ea, he said it: joust can I. Make me thy knight — in secret! let my name Be hidd'n, and give me the first quest, I spring Like flame from ashes." Here the King's calm eye Fell on, and check'd, and made him flush, and bow Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'd him, " Son, the good mother let me know thee here. And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine. Make thee my knight ? my knights are SAvorn to vows Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness. And, loving, utter faithfulness in love. And uttermost obedience to the King." Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees, " My King, for hardihood I can prom- ise thee. For uttermost obedience make de- mand Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, No mellow master of the meats and drinks ! And as for love, God wot, I love not yet, But love I shall, God willing." And the King — " Make thee my knight in secret ? yea, but he. Our noblest brother, and our truest man. And one with me in all, he needs must know." " Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know. Thy noblest and thy truest ! " And the King — " But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you 1 GARETH AND LYNETTE. 219 Nay, rather for the sake of me, their King, And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed, Than to be noised of." Merrily Gareth ask'd, " Have I not earn'd my cake in baking of it? Let be my name until I make my name ! My deeds will speak : it is but for a day." So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm Smiled the great King, and half- unwillingly Loving his lusty youthhood yielded to him. Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, " I have given him the first quest : he is not proven. Look therefore when he calls for this in hall, Thou get to horse and follow him far away. Cover the lions on thy shield, and see Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain." Then that same day there past into the hall A damsel of high lineage, and a brow May-blossom, and a cheek of apple- blossom. Hawk-eyes ; and lightly was her slen- der nose Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower ; Slie into hall past with her page and cried, " O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, beset By bandits, everyone that owns a tower The Lord for half a league. AVhy sit ye there ? Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king, Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as free From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar- cloth From that best blood it is a sin to spill." "Comfort thyself," said Arthur, "I nor mine Rest : so my knighthood keep the vows they swore. The wastest moorland of our realm shall be Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. What is thy name % \hy need ? " " My name ? " she said — " Lynette my name ; noble ; ray need, a knight To combat for my sister, Lyonors, A lady of high lineage, of great lands, And comely, yea, and comelier than myself. She lives in Castle Perilous : a river Runs in three loops about her living- place; And o'er it are three passings, and tliree knights Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth And of tliat four the mightiest, holds her stay'd In her own castle, and so besieges her To break her will, and make her wed with him : And but delays his purport till thou send To do the battle with him, thy chief man ' Sir Lancelot whom he trusts to over- throw. Then wed, with glory : but she will not wed Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. Now therefore have I come for Lancelot." Then Arthur mindful of Sir Gareth ask'd, " Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush 220 GARETH AND LYNRTTE. All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four, Who he they ? What the fashion of the men ? " " They be of foolish fashion, O Sir King, The fashion of that old knight- errantry Who ride abroad and do but what they will; Courteous or bestial from the moment, such As have nor law nor king ; and three of these Proud in their fantasy call themselves the Day, Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star, Being strong fools ; and never a whit more wise The fourth who alway rideth arm'd in black, A huge man-beast of boundless sav- agery. He names himself the Night, and oftener Death, And wears a helmet mounted with a skull. And bears a skeleton figured on his arms, To show that who may slay or scape the three Slain by himself shall enter endless night. And all these four be fools, but mighty men. And therefore am I come for Lance- lot." Hereat Sir Gareth call'd from where he rose, \ head with kindling eyes above the throng, " A boon, Sir King — this quest ! " then — for he mark'd Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull — " Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen- knave am I, And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks am I, And I can topple over a hundred such. Thy promise. King," and Arthur glanc- ing at him. Brought down a momentary brow. " Rough, sudden, And pardonable, Avorthy to be knight — Go, therefore," and all hearers were amazed. But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath Slew the May-white : she lifted either arm, " Fie on thee. King ! I ask'd for thy chief knight. And thou liast given me but a kitchen- knave." Then ere a man in hall could stay her, turn'd. Fled down the lane of access to the King, Took horse, descended the slope street, and past The weird white gate, and paused with- out, beside The field of tourney, murmuring " kitchen-knave." Now two great entries open'd from the hall. At one end one, that gave upon a range Of level pavement where the King would pace At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood ; And down from this a lordl}' stairway sloped Till lost in blowing trees and tops of towers ; And out by this main doorway past the King. But one was counter to the hearth, and rose High that the highest-crested helm could ride Thercthro' nor graze : and by this entry fled The damsel in her wrath, and on to this Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door GARETH AND LYNETTE. 221 King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, A warhorse of the best, and near it stood The two that out of north had fol- low'd him ; This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; that held The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir Gareth loosed A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down. And from it like a fuel-smother 'd fire. That lookt half -dead, brake bright, and flash'd as those Dull-coated things, that making slide apart Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns A jeweird harness, ere they pass and fly. So Gareth ere he parted flash'd in arms. Then as he donn'd the helm, and took the shield And mounted horse and graspt a spear, of grain Storm-strengthen'd on a windy site, and tipt With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest The people, while from out of kitchen came The thralls in throng, and seeing who had work'd Lustier than any, and whom they could but love. Mounted in arms, threw up their caps and cried, "God bless the King, and all his fellowship ! " And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth rode Down the slope street, and past with- out the gate. So Gareth past with joy; but as the cur Pluckt from the cur he fights with, ere his cause Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being named. His owner, but remembers all, and growls Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he used To harry and hustle. " Bound upon a quest With horse and arms — the King hath past his time — My scullion knave ! Thralls to your work again. For an your fire be low ye kindle mine! Will there be dawn in West and eve in East ? Begone ! — my knave ! — belike and like enow Some old head-blow not heeded in his youth So shook his wits they wander in his prime — Crazed ! how the villain lifted up his voice. Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen- knave. Tut : he was tame and meek enow with me. Till peacock'd up with Lancelot's noticing. Well — I will after my loud knave, and learn Whether he know me for his master yet. Out of the smoke he came, and so ray lance Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire — Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, Into the smoke again." But Lancelot said, " Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King, For that did never he whereon ye rail, But ever meekly served the King in thee '? Abide : take counsel ; for this lad ia great 222 GARETH AND LYNETTE. And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword." " Tut, tell not me," said Kay, "ye are overfine To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies r " Then mounted, on thro' silent faces rode Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate. But by the field of tourney linger- ing yet Mutter'd the damsel, " Wherefore did the King Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least He might have yielded to me one of those Who tilt for lady's love and glory here. Rather than — sweet heaven ! fie upon him — His kitchen-knuve." To whom Sir Gareth drew ^ And there were none but few goodlier than he) Shining in arms, " Damsel, the quest is mine. Lead, and I follow." She thereat, as one That smells a f oul-flesh'd agaric in the liolt. And deems it carrion of some wood- land thing, Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, " Hence ! Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen- grease. And look who comes behind," for there was Kay. " Knowest thou not me ? thy master ■? I am Kay. We lack thee by the hearth." And Gareth to him, " Master no more ! too well I know thee, ay — The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall." " Have at thee then," said Kay : they shock'd, and Kay Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, " Lead, and I follow," and fast away she fled. But after sod and shingle ceased to fly Behind her, and the heart of her good horse Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat. Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken spoke. " What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship ? Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more Or love thee better, that by some device Full cowardly, or by mere unhappi- ness. Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master — thou ! — Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon \ — to me Thou smellest all of kitchen as be- fore." " Damsel," Sir Gareth answer'd gently, " say Whate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, I leave not till I finish this fair quest, Or die therefore." " Ay, wilt thou finish it ? Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks ! The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it. But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave, And then by such a one that thou for all Tlie kitchen brewis that was ever supt Shalt not once dare to look him in the face." GARETH AND LYNETTE. 223 " I shall assay," said Gareth with a smile That madden'd her, and away she flash'd again Down the long avenues of a boundless wood, And Gareth following was again be- knaved. " Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd the only way Where Arthur's men are set along the wood ; The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves : If both be slain, I am rid of thee ; but yet, Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine 1 Fight, an thou canst : I have miss'd the only way." So till the dusk that foUow'd even- song Rode on the two, reviler and reviled ; Then after one long slope was mounted, saw, Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thou- sand pines A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink To westward — in the deeps whereof a mere. Round as the red eye of an Eagle- owl, Under the half-dead sunset glared ; and shouts Ascended, and there brake a serving- man Flying from out the black wood, and crying, " They have bound ray lord to cast him in the mere." Then Gareth, " Bound am I to right the wrong'd. But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee." And when the damsel spake contempt- uously, " Lead, and I follow," Gareth cried again, " Follow, I lead ! " so down among the pines He plunged; and there, blackshadow'd nigh the mere, And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed. Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, A stone about his neck to drown him in it. Three with good blows he quieted, but three Fled thro' the pines ; and Gareth loosed the stone From off his neck, then in the mere beside Tumbled it; oilily bubbled up the mere. Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend. " Well that ye came, or else these caitiff rogues Had wreak'd themselves on me ; good cause is theirs To hate me, for my wont hath ever been To catch my thief, and then like ver- min here Drown hira, and with a stone about his neck ; And under this wan water many of them Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone. And rise, and flickering in a grimly light Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life Worth somewhat as the cleanser of this wood. And fain would I reward thee worship- fully. What guerdon will ye '? " Gareth sharply spake, "None! for the deed's sake have I done the deed. In uttermost obedience to the King. But wilt thou yield this damsel har- borage ? " 224 GARETH AND LYNETTE. "Whereat tlie Baron saying, " I well believe You be of Arthur's Table," a light laugli Broke from Lynette, " Ay, truly of a truth. And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen- knave ! — But deem not I accept thee aught the more. Scullion, for running sharply with thy spit Down on a rout of craven foresters. A thresher with his flail had scatter'd them. Nay — for thou smell est of the kitchen still. But an this lord will yield us harbor- age, Well." So she spake. A league beyond the wood, All in a full-fair manor and a rich. His towers wliere that day a feast had been Held in high wall, and many a viand left, And many a costly cate, received the three. And there they placed a peacock in his pride Before the damsel, and the Baron set Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. "Meseems, that here is much dis- courtesy, Setting this knave. Lord Baron, at my side. Hear me — this morn I stood in Arthur's hall, And pray'd the King would grant me Lancelot To fight the brotherhood of Day and Night — The last a monster unsubduable Of any save of him for whom I call'd — Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen- knave. ' The quest is mine ; thy kitchen- knave am I, And mighty thro' thy meats and drinks am I.' Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, ' Go therefore,' and so gives the quest to him — Him — here — a villain fitter to stick swine Than ride abroad redressing women's wrong. Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman." Then half -ashamed and part- amazed, the lord Now look'd at one and now at other, left The damsel by the peacock in his pride. And, seating Gareth at another board. Sat down beside him, ate and then began. " Friend, whether thou be kitchen- knave, or not, Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy. And whether she be mad, or else the King, Or both or neither, or thyself be mad, I ask not : but thou strikest a strong stroke, For strong thou art and goodly there- withal, And saver of my life ; and therefore now. For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh Whether thou wilt not with thy dam- sel back To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. Th}^ pardon; I but speak for thine avail, The saver of my life." And Gareth said, "Full pardon, but I follow up the quest, Despite of Day and Night and Death and Hell." GARETH AND LYNETTE. 225 So when, next morn, the lord whose life he saved Had, some brief space, convey'd them on their way And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, "Lead, and I follow." Haughtily she replied, " I fly no more : I allow thee for an hour. Lion and stoat have isled together, knave, In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methinks Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool ? For hard by here is one will overthrow And slay thee : then will I to court again, And shame the King for only yield- ing me My champion from the ashes of his hearth." To whom Sir Gareth answer'd cour- teously, " Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find My fortunes all as fair as hers who lay Among the ashes and wedded the King's son." Then to the shore of one of those long loops Wherethro' the serpent river coil'd, they came. Kough-thicketed were the banks and steep ; the stream Full, narrow ; this a bridge of single arc Took at a leap ; and on the further side Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue. Save that the dome was purple, and above. Crimson, a slender banneret fluttering. And therebefore the lawless warrior paced Unarm'd, and calling, "Damsel, is this he. The champion thou hast brought from Arthur's hall ? For whom we let thee pass." " Nay, nay," she said, " Sir Morning-Star. The King in utter scorn Of thee and thy much folly hath sent thee here His kitchen-knave : and look thou to thyself : See that he fall not on thee suddenly. And slay thee unarm'd : he is not knight but knave." Then at his call, " daughters of the Dawn, And servants of the Morning-Star, approach. Arm me," from out the silken curtain- folds Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls In gilt and rosy raiment came : their feet In dewy grasses glisten'd; and the hair All over glanced with dewdrop or with gem Like sparkles in the stone Avanturine. These arra'd him in blue arms, and gave a shield Blue also, and thereon the morning star. And Gareth silent gazed upon the knight, Who stood a moment ere his horse was brought, Glorying ; and in the stream beneath him, shone Immingled with Heaven's azure wav eringly. The gay pavilion and the naked feet, His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. Then she that watch'd him, " Wherefore stare ye so % 226 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Thou shakest in thy fear : there yet is time : Flee down the valley before he get to horse. Who will cry shame ? Thou art not knight but knave." Said Garetli, " Damsel, whether knave or knight, Far liefer had I fight a score of times Than hear thee so missay me and re- vile. Fair words were best for him who fights for thee ; But truly foul are better, for they send That strength of anger thro' mine arms, I know That I shall overthrow him." And he that bore The star, being mounted, cried from o'er the bridge, " A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me ! Such fight not I, but answer scorn with scorn. For this were shame to do him further wrong Than set him on his feet, and take his horse And arms, and so return him to the King. Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, knave. Avoid : for it beseemeth not a knave To ride with such a lady." "Dog, thou liest. I spring from loftier lineage than thine own." He spake , and all at fiery speed the two Shock'd on the central bridge, and either spear Bent but not brake, and either knight at once, Hurl'd as a stone from out of a cata- pult Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge. Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and drew, And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his brand He drave his enemy backward down the bridge. The damsel crying, " Well-stricken, kitchen-knave ! " Till Gareth's shield was cloven ; but one stroke Laid him that clove it grovelling on the ground. Then cried the fall'n, " Take not my life: I yield." And Gareth, " So this damsel ask it of me Good — I accord it easily as a grace." She reddening, " Insolent scullion : I of thee? I bound to thee for any favor ask'd! " "Then shall he die." And Gareth there unlaced His helmet as to slay him, but she shriek'd, "Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay One nobler than thyself." " Damsel, thy charge Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, Thy life is thine at her command. Arise And quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. Thy shield is mine — farewell ; and, damsel, thou, Lead, and I follow." And fast away she fled. Then when he came upon her, spake, " Methought, Knave, when I watch'd thee striking on the bridge The savor of thy kitchen came upon me GARETH AND LYNETTE. 227 A little f aintlier : but the wind hath changed : I scent it twenty-fold." And then she sang, "'O morning star' (not that tall felon there Whom thou by sorcery or unhappiness Or some device, hast foully over- thrown), '0 morning star that smilest in the blue, O star, my morning dream hath proven true, Smile sweetly, thou ! my love hath smiled on me.' " But thou begone, take counsel, and away, For hard by here is one that guards a ford — The second brother in their fool's parable — Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. Care not for shame : thou art not knight but knave." To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, laughingly, " Parables ? Hear a parable of the knave. When I was kitchen-knave among the rest Fierce was the hearth, and one of my co-mates Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat, * Guard it,' and there was none to meddle with it. And such a coat art thou, and thee the King Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, To worry, and not to flee — and — knight or knave — The knave that doth thee service as full knight Is all as good, meseems, as any knight Toward thy sister's freeing." " Ay, Sir Knave ! Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight. Being but knave, I hate thee all the more." *' Fair damsel, you should worship me the more. That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies." " Ay, ay," she said, " but thou shalt meet thy match." So when they touch'd the second river-loop. Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail Burnish'd to blinding, shone the Noon- day Sun Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower. That blows a globe of after arrowlets. Ten thousand-fold had grown, flash'd the fierce shield. All sun ; and Gareth's eyes had flying- blots Before them when he turn'd froti watching him. He from beyond the roaring shallow roar'd, " What doest thou, brother, in my marches here ? " And she athwart the shallow shrill'd again, " Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall Hath overtlirown thy brother, and hath his arms." " Ugh ! " cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red And cipher face of rounded foolish- ness, Push'd horse across the foamings of tlie ford. Whom Gareth met midstream : no room was there For lance or tourney-skill : four strokes they struck With sword, and these were mighty ; the new knight Had fear he might be shamed ; but as the Sun Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth. 228 GARETH AND LYNETTE. The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream Descended, and the Sun was wash'd away. Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford ; So drew him home ; but he that fought no more, As being all bone-batter'd on the rock, Yielded ; and Gareth sent him to the King. " Myself when I return will plead for thee." " Lead, and I follow." Quietly she led. " Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again ? " " Nay, not a point : nor art thou victor here. There lies a ridge of slate across the ford; His horse thereon stumbled — ay, for I saw it. " ' O Sun ' (not this strong fool whom thou, Sir Knave, Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappi- ness), ' O Sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, O moon, that layest all to sleep again. Shine sweetly: twice my love hath smiled on me.' " What knowest thou of lovesong or of love ? Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born, Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance, — " ' O dewy Howers that open to the sun, dewy flowers that close when day is done, Blow sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.' " What knowest thou of flowers, except, belike. To garnish meats with ? hath not our good King Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, A foolish love for flowers ? what stick ye round The pasty % wherewithal deck the boar's head 1 Flowers ? nay, the boar hath rose- maries and bay. " * O birds, that warble to the morn- ing sky, O birds that warble as the day goes by. Sing sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.' " What knowest thou of birds, lark, mavis, merle, Linnet ? what dream ye when thej^ utter forth May-music growing with the growing light, Their sweet sun-worship ? these be for the snare (So runs thy fancy) these be for the spit. Larding and basting. See thou have not now Larded thy last, except thou turn and fly- There stands the third fool of their allegory." For there beyond a bridge of treble bow. All in a rose-red from the west, and all Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the broad Deep-dimpled current underneath, the knight, That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. And Gareth, " Wherefore waits the madman there Naked in open dayshine ? " " Nay," she cried, " Not naked, only wrapt in harden'd skins GARETH AND LYNETTE. 229 That fit him like his own; and so ye cleave His armor off him, these will turn the blade." Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge, " O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? Thy ward is higher up : but have ye slain The damsel's champion ? " and the damsel cried, "No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven With all disaster unto thine and thee ! For both thy younger brethren have gone down Before this youth ; and so wilt thou, Sir Star; Art thou not old ? " " Old, damsel, old and hard, Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys." Said Gareth, " Old, and over-bold in brag ! But that same strength which threw the Morning Star Can throw the Evening." Then that other blew A hard and deadly note upon the horn. " Approach and arm me ! " With slow steps from out An old storm-beaten, russet, many- stain'd Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came, And arm'd him in old arms, and brought a helm With but a drying evergreen for crest. And gave a shield whereon the Star of Even Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his emblem, shone. But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle- bow, I They madly hurl'd together on the I bridge ; And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew, There met him drawn, and overthrew him again, But up like fire he started : and as oft As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees. So many a time he vaulted up again ; Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart, Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, Labor'd within him, for he seem'd as one That all in later, sadder age begins To war against ill uses of a life. But these from all his life arise, and cry, "Thou hast made us lords, and canst not put us down ! " He half despairs ; so Gareth seem'd to strike Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the while, " Well done, knave-knight, well stricken, O good knight- knave — knave, as noble as any of all the knights — Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied — Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Round — His arms are old, he trusts the hard- en'd skin — Strike — strike — the wind will never change again." And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote. And hew'd great pieces of his armor off him. But lash'd in vain against the harden'd skin, And could not wholly bring him under, more Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge, The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever ; till at length Sir Gareth's brand 230 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Clash'd his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. " I have thee now ; " but forth that other sprang, And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms Around him, till he felt, despite his mail. Strangled, but straining ev'n his utter- most Cast, and so liurl'd him headlong o'er the bridge Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, " Lead, and I follow." But the damsel said, " I lead no longer ; ride thou at my side ; Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen- knaves. " ' O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, rainbow with three colors after rain, Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath smiled on me.' " Sir, — and, good faith, I fain had added — Knight, But that I heard thee call thyself a knave, — Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, Missaid thee ; noble I am ; and thought the King Scorn'd me and mine ; and now thy pardon, friend, For thou hast ever answer'd cour- teously, And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave. Hast mazed my wit : I marvel what thou art. " Damsel," he said, "you be not all to blame. Saving that you mistrusted our good King Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one Not fit to cope your quest. You said your say ; Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth ! I hold He scarce is knight, yea but half-man, nor meet To fight for gentle damsel, he, who lets His heart be stirr'd with any foolish heat At any gentle damsel's waywardness. Shamed % care not ! thy foul sayings fought for me : And seeing noAv thy words are fair, methinks There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, Hath force to quell me." Nigh upon that hour When the lone hern forgets his mel- ancholy. Lets down his other leg, and stretch- ing, dreams Of goodly supper in the distant pool, Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling at him, And told liim of a cavern hard at hand, Where bread and baken meats and good red wine Of Southland, which the Lady Lyo- nors Had sent her coming champion, waited him. Anon they past a narrow comb wherein Were slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-wan- ing hues. " Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here. Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on the rock The war of Time against the soul of man. And yon four fools have suck'd their allegory GARETH AND LYNETTE. 231 From these damp walls, and taken but the form. Know ye not these 1 " and Gareth lookt and read — 'In letters like to those the vexillary Hath left crag-carven o'er the stream- ing Gelt — " Phosphorus," then " Meridies " — " Hesperus " — "Nox" — "Mors," beneath five fig- ures, armed men. Slab after slab, their faces forward all. And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair. For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. "Follow the faces, and Ave find it. Look, Who comes behind ? " For one — delay'd at first Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced. The damsel's headlong error thro' the wood — Sir Lancelot, having swum the river- loops — His blue shield-lions cover'd — softly drew Behind the twain, and when he saw the star Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried, " Stay, felon-knight, I avenge me for my friend." And Gareth crying prick'd against the cry; But when they closed — in a moment — at one touch Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of the world — Went sliding down so easily, and fell. That when he found the grass within his hands He laugh'd ; the laughter jarr'd upon Lynette : Harshly she ask'd him, " Shamed and overthrown. And tumbled back into the kitchen- knave. Why laugh ye 1 that ye blew your boast in vain ? " "Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son Of old King Lot and good Queen Bel- licent, And victor of the bridges and the ford. And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom I know not, all thro' mere unhappi- ness — Device and sorcery and unhappi- ness — Out, sword ; we are thrown ! " And Lancelot answer'd, "Prince, O Gareth — thro' the mere unhappi- ness Of one who came to help thee, not to harm, Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole. As on the day when Arthur knighted him." Then Gareth, " Thou— Lancelot ! — thine the hand That threw me ? An some chance to mar the boast Thy brethren of thee make — which could not chance — Had sent thee down before a lesser spear. Shamed had I been, and sad — O Lancelot — thou ! " Whereat the maiden, petulant, " Lancelot, Why came ye not, when call'd ? and wherefore now Come ye, not call'd ? I gloried in my knave, Who being still rebuked, would answer still Courteous as any knight — but now, if knight. The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd and trick'd, And only wondering wherefore play'd upon : 352 GARETH AND LYNETTE. And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn'd. Wliere sliould be truth if not in Arthur's hall, In Arthur's presence V Knight, knave, prince and fool, I hate thee and for ever." And Lancelot said, " Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth ! knight art thou To the King's best wish. ( ) damsel, be you wise To call him shamed, who is but over- thrown ? Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time. Victor from vanquish'd issues at the last, And overthrower from being over- thrown. With sword we have not striven ; and thy good horse And thou are weary ; yet not less I felt Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance of thine. Well hast thou done ; for all the stream is freed. And thou hast wreak'd his justice on his foes, And when reviled, hast answer'd graciousl}^ And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight, Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round ! " And then when turning to Lynette he told The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, " Ay well — ay well — for worse than being fool'd Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave. Sir Lancelot, is liard by, with meats and drinks And forage for the horse, and flint for fir^N But all about it flies a honeysuckle. Seek, till we find." And when they sought and found. Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden gazed. " Sound sleep be thine ! sound cause to sleep hast thou. AYake lusty ! seem I not as tender to him As any mother ? Ay, but such a one As all day long hath rated at her child. And vext his day, but blesses him asleep — Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle In the hush'd night, as if the world were one Of utter peace, and love, and gentle- ness ! Lancelot, Lancelot " — and she clapt her hands — " Full merry am I to find my goodly knave Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, Else yon black felon had not let me pass. To bring thee back to do the battle with him. Thus an thou goest, he will fight thee first; Who doubts thee victor 1 so will my knight-knave Miss the full flower of this accom- plishment." Said Lancelot, " Peradventure he, you name. May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as well As he that rides him." " Lancelot- like," she said, " Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all." GARETH AND LYNETTE. 233 And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch'd the shield ; " Ramp ye lance-splintering lions, on whom all spears Are rotten sticks ! ye seerii agape to roar ! Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord ! — Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you. noble Lancelot, from my hold on these Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that will not shame Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. Hence : let us go." Silent the silent field They traversed. Arthur's harp tho' summer-wan, In counter motion to the clouds, allured The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. A star shot : " Lo," said Gareth, " the foe falls ! " An owl whoopt: "Hark the victor pealing there ! " Suddenly she that rode upon his left Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying, " Yield, yield him this again : 'tis he must fight : 1 curse the tongue that all thro' yes- terday Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now To lend thee horse and shield : won- ders ye have done ; Miracles ye cannot : here is glory enow In having flung the three : I see thee maim'd. Mangled : I swear thou canst not fling the fourth." " And wherefore, damsel ? tell me all ye know. You cannot scare me ; nor rough face, or voice, Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery Appal me from tlie quest." "Nay, Prince," she cried, "God wot, I never look'd upon the face. Seeing he never rides abroad by day; But watch'd him have I like a phan- tom pass Chilling the night : nor have I heard the voice. Always he made liis mouthpiece of a page Who came and went, and still re- ported him As closing in himself the strength of ten, And when his anger tare him, mas- sacring Man, woman, lad and girl — yea, the soft babe ! Some hold that he hath swallow'd infant flesh. Monster ! Prince, I went for Lance- lot first. The quest is Lancelot's : give him back the shield." Said Gareth laughing, " An he fight for this. Belike he wins it as the better man : Thus — and not else ! " But Lancelot on him urged All the devisings of their chivalry When one might meet a mightier than himself; How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield, And so fill up the gap where force might fail With skill and fineness. Instant were his words. Then Gareth, "Here be rules. I know but one — To dash against mine enemy and to win. Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the joust, And seen tliy way." " Heaven help thee," sigh'd Lynette, 234 GARETH AND LYNETTE. Then for a space, and under cloud that grew To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode In converse till she made her palfrey halt, Lifted an arm, and softly vvhisper'd, "There." And all the three were silent seeing, pitch'd Beside the Castle Perilous on flat field, A huge pavilion like a mountain peak Simder the glooming crimson on the marge, Black, with black banner, and a long black horn Beside it hanging ; Avhich Sir Gareth graspt, And so, before the two could hinder him, ^ent all his heart and breath thro' all the horn, fclcho'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; anon Came lights and lights, and once again he blew ; Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down And muffled voices heard, and shadows past; Till high above him, circled with her maids. The Lady Lyonors at a window stood, Beautiful among lights, and waving to him White hands, and courtesy ; but when the Prince Three times had blown — after long hush — at last — The huge pavilion slowly yielded up, Thro' those black foldings, that which housed therein. High on a nightblack horse, in night- black arms, With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death, And crown'd withfleshless laughter — some ten steps — • In the half-light — thro' the dim dawn — advanced The monster, and then paused, and spake no word. But Gareth spake and all indig- nantly, "Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten. Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given, But must, to make the terror of thee more, Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod. Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers As if for pity ? " But he spake no word ; Which set the horror higlier : a maiden swoon'd ; The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands and wept. As doom'd to be the bride of Night and Death ; Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm ; And ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm blood felt Ice strike, and all that mark'd him were aghast. At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neigh'd, And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with him. Then those that did not blink the terror, saw That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose. But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull. Half fell to right and half to left and lay. Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm As throughly as the skull ; and out from this Issued the bright face of a blooming boy Fresh as a flower new-born, and crying, " Knight, Slay me not: my three brethren bade me do it. To make a horror all about the house. GERAINT AND ENID. 235 And stay the world from Lady Lyon- ors. They never dream'd the passes would be past." Answer'd Sir Gareth graciously to one Not many a moon his younger, " My fair child, What madness made thee challenge the chief knight Of Arthur's hall? " " Fair Sir, they bade me do it. They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend. They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream, They never dream'd the passes could be past." Then sprang the happier day from underground ; And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance And revel and song, made merry over Death, As being after all their foolish fears And horrors only proven a blooming boy. So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest. And he that told the tale in older times Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, But he, that told it later, says Lynette. GERAINT AND ENID. I. The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, A tributary prince of Devon, one Of that great Order of the Table Round, Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven. And as the light of Heaven varies, now At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night Witli moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint To make her beauty vary day by day. In crimsons and in purples and in gems. And Enid, but to please her husband's eye, Who first had found and loved her in a state Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him In some fresh splendor ; and the Queen herself, Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done. Loved her, and often with her own white hands Array'd and deck'd her, as the love- liest. Next after her own self, in all the court. And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart Adored her, as the stateliest and the best And loveliest of all women upon earth. And seeing them so tender and so close, Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint. B.ut when a rumor rose about the Queen, Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard The world's loud whisper breaking into storm, Not less Geraint believed it ; and there fell A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, Thro' that great tenderness for Guin- evere, Had suffer'd, or should suffer any taint In nature : wherefore going to the King, He made this pretext, that his prince- dom lay Close on the borders of a territory. Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff knights. Assassins, and all flyers from the hand Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law : 236 GERAINT AND ENID. And therefore, till the King himself should please To cleanse this common sewer of all his realm, He craved a fair permission to depart, And there defend his marches; and the King Mused for a little on liis plea, but, last. Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode, And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land; Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife True to her lord, mine shall be so to me. He compass'd her with sweet observ- ances And worship, never leaving her, and grew Forgetful of his promise to the King, Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, Forgetful of his glory and his name. Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. And this forgetfulness was hateful to her. And by and by the people, when they met In twos and threes, or fuller com- panies, Began to scoff and jeer and babble of him As of a prince whose manhood was all gone. And molten down in mere uxorious- ness. And this she gather'd from the peo- ple's eyes : This too the women who attired her head, To please her, dwelling on his bound- less love. Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more : And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, But could not out of bashful delicacy ; While he that watch'd her sadden, was the more Suspicious that her nature had a taint. At last, it chanced that on a summer morn (They sleeping each by either) the new sun Beat thro' the blindless casement of the room. And heated the strong warrior in his dreams ; Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside. And bared the knotted column of his throat. The massive square of his heroic breast, And arms on which the standing muscle sloped. As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it. And Enid woke and sat beside the couch, Admiring him, and thought within herself. Was ever man so grandly made as he? Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk And accusation of uxoriousness Across her mind, and bowing over him. Low to her own heart piteously she said: " O noble breast and all-puissant arms. Am I the cause, I the poor cause thaf men Reproach you, saying all your force is gone? I am the cause, because I dare not speak And tell him what I think and what they say. And yet I hate that he should linger here ; I cannot love my lord and not his name. Far liefer had I gird his harness on him, And ride with him to battle and stand by, GERAINT AND ENID. 237 And watch his mightful hand striking great blows At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. Far better were I laid in the dark earth, Not hearing anymore his noble voice, Not to be folded more in these dear arms. And darken'd from the high light in his eyes, Than that my lord thro' me should suffer shame. Am I so bold, and could I so stand And see my dear lord wounded in the strife. Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes, And yet not dare to tell him what I ^ think, And how men slur him, saying all his force Is melted into mere effeminacy "? O me, I fear that I am no true wife." Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke, And the strong passion in her made her weep True tears upon his broad and naked breast. And these awoke him, and by great mischance He heard but fragments of her later words, And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. And then he thought, "In spite of all my care. For all my pains, poor man, for al\ my pains, She is not faithful to me, and I see her Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall." Then tho' he loved and reverenced her too much To dream she could be guilty of foul act, Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang That makes a man, in the sweet face of her Whom he loves most, lonely and mis- erable. At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed. And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, " My charger and her palfrey ; " then to her, " I will ride forth into the wilderness ; For tho' it seems my spurs are yet to win, I have not f all'n so low as some would wish. And thou, put on thy worst and mean- est dress And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, amazed, "If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault." But he, " I charge thee, ask not, but obey." Then she bethought her of a faded silk, A faded mantle and a faded veil. And moving toward a cedarn cabinet, Wherein she kept them folded rever- ently Witli sprigs of summer laid between the folds, She took them, and array'd herself therein, Remembering when first he came on her Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, And all her foolish fears about the dress. And all his journey to her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court. For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. There on a day, he sitting high in hall. Before him came a forester of Dean, Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 238 GERAINT AND ENID. Taller than all his fellows, milky- white, First seen that day : these things he told the King. Then the good King gave order to let blow His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. And when the Queen petition'd for his leave To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. So with the morning all the court were gone. But Guinevere lay late into the morn, Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt ; But rose at last, a single maiden with her, Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood ; There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd ViTaiting to hear the hounds; but heard instead A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraint, Late also, wearing neither hunting- dress Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand. Came quickly flashing thro' the shal- low ford Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. A purple scarf, at either end whereof There swung an apple of the purest gold, Sway'd round about him, as he gal- lop'd up To join them, glancing like a dragon- fly In summer suit and silks of holiday. Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she. Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him : •' Late, late, Sir Prince," she said, " later than we ! " "Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, " and so late That I but come like you to see the hunt, Not join it." " Therefore wait with me," she said ; " For on this little knoll, if anywhere. There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds : Here often they break covert at our feet." And while they listen'd for the dis- tant hunt. And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode Full slowly by a knight, lady, and dwarf ; Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful face, Imperious, and of haughtiest linea- ments. And Guinevere, not mindful of his face In the King's hall, desired his name, and sent Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf ; Who being vicious, old and irritable, And doubling all his master's vice of pride, Made answer sharply that she should not know. " Then will I ask it of himself," she said. " Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," cried the dwarf ; " Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him ; " And when she put her horse toward the knight. Struck at her with Jiis whip, and she return'd Indignant to the Queen ; whereat Geraint Exclaiming, "Surely I will learn the name," Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him, GERAINT AND ENID. 239 Who answer'd as before; and when the Pnnce Had put his horse in motion toward the knight, Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf, Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive hand Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : But he, from his exceeding manful- ness And pure nobility of temperament. Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain'd From ev'n a word, and so returning said : "I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, Done in your maiden's person to your- self: And I will trr.ck this vermin to their earths : For tho' I ride unarm'd, I do not doubt To find, at some place I shall come at, arms On loan, or else for pledge ; and, being found. Then will I fight him, and will break Iiis pride, And on the third day will again be here, So that I be not fall'n in fight. Fare- well." "Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd the stately Queen. " Be prosperous in this journey, as in all; And may you light on all things that you love, And live to wed with her whom first you love : But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, And I, were she the daughter of a king, Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge. Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun." And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, A little vext at losing of the hunt, A little at the vile occasion, rode. By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade And valley, with fixt eye following the three. At last they issued from the world of wood, And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge, And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank. And thither came Geraint, and under neath Beheld the long street of a little town In a long valley, on one side whereof. White from the mason's hand, a for- tress rose ; 'And on one side a castle in decay. Beyond a bridge that spann'd a dry ravine : And out of town and valley came a noise As of a broad brook o'er a shingly bed Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks At distance, ere they settle for the night. And onward to the fortress rode the three. And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. "So," thought Geraint, "I have track'd him to his earth." And down the long street riding wearily. Found every hostel full, and every- where Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd His master's armor; and of such a one He ask'd, "AVhat means the tumult in the town { " 240 GERAINT AND ENID. AVho told him, scouring still, " The sparrow-hawk ! " Then riding close behind an ancient churl, Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam. Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here "^ Wlio answer'd gruflfly, " Ugh ! the sparrows-hawk." Then riding further past an armorer's, Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work, Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, He put the self-same query, but the man Not turning round, nor looking at him, said : " Friend, he that labors for the spar- row-hawk Has little time for idle questioners." Whereat Geraint fiash'd into sudden spleen : " A thousand pips eat up your spar- row-hawk ! Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead ! Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg The murmur of the world ! What is it to me '? wretched set of sparrows, one and all. Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow- hawks ! Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad. Where can I get me harborage for the night? And arms, arms, arms to fight my enemy ? Speak ! " Whereat the armorer turning all amazed And seeing one so gay in purple silks, Came forward with tlie helmet yet in hand And answer'd, " Pardon me, O stran- ger knight ; We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn, And there is scantly time for half the work. Arms ? truth ! I know not : all are wanted here. Harborage ? truth, good trutli, I know not, save, It may be, at Earl Yniol's, o'er the bridge Yonder." He spoke and fell to work again. Then rode Geraint, a little spleen- ful yet, Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. There musing sat the lioary-headed Earl, (His dress a suit of fray'd magnifi- cence, Once fit for feasts of ceremony) and said : " Whither, fair son "^ " to whom Ger- aint replied, " O friend, I seek a harborage for the night." Then Yniol, " Enter therefore and partake The slender entertainment of a house Once rich, now poor, but ever open- door'd." " Thanks, venerable friend," replied Geraint ; "So that you do not serve me spar- row-hawks For supper, I will enter, I will eat With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast." Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary- headed Earl, And answer'd, " Graver cause than yours is mine To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk : But in, go in ; for save yourself de- sire it, We will not touch upon him ev'n in jest." Then rode Geraint into the castle court, His charger trampling many a prickly star GERAINT AND ENID. 241 Of sprouted thistle on the broken stones. He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern ; And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers : And high above a piece of turret stair, AVorn by the feet that now were silent, wound Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy- stems Claspt the gray walls with hairy- fibred arms. And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd A. knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. And while he waited in the castle court. The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang Clear thro' the open casement of the hall. Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, Heard by the lander in a lonely isle, Moves him to think what kind of bird it is That sings so delicately clear, and make Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraint ; And made him like a man abroad at morn When first the liquid note beloved of men Comes flying over many a windy wave To Britain, and in April suddenly Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red. And he suspends his converse with a friend, Or it may be the labor of his hands, To think or say, " There is the night- ingale " ; So fared it with Geraint, who thought and said, " Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for me." It chanced the song that Enid sang was one Of Fortune and her wheel, and Enid sang : " Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud ; Turn thy wild Avheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. " Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown ; With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. " Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands ; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands ; For man is man and master of his fate. " Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud ; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate." " Hark, by the bird's song ye may learn the nest," Said Yniol ; " enter quickly." Enter- ing then. Right o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, The dusky-rafter'd many-cobweb'd hall. He found an ancient dame in dim brocade ; And near her, like a blossom vermeil- white. 242 GERAINT AND ENID. That lightly breaks a faded flower- sheath, Moved the fair Enid, all in faded silk, Her daughter. In a moment thought Geraint, " Here by God's rood is the one maid for me." But none spake word except the hoary Earl : " Enid, the good knight's horse stands in the court ; Take him to stall, and give him corn, and then Go to the town and buy us flesh and wine ; And we will make us merry as we may. Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great." He spake : the Prince, as Enid past him, fain To follow, strode a stride, but Yniol caught His purple scarf, and held, and said, " Forbear ! Rest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my son, Endures not that her guest should serve himself." And reverencing the custom of the house Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. So Enid took his charger to the stall ; And after went her way across the bridge, And reach'd the town, and while the Prince and Earl Yet spoke together, came again with one, A youth, that following with a costrel bore The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, And in her veil unfolded, manchet bread. And then, because their hall must also serve For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread tlie board, And stood behind, and waited on tho three. And seeing her so sweet and service- able, Geraint had longing in him evermore To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb. That crost the trencher as she laid it down : But after all had eaten, then Geraint, For now the wine made sununerin his veins, Let his eye rove in following, or rest On Enid at her lowly handmaid-work. Now here, now there, about the dusky hall ; Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl: " Fair Host and Earl, I pray your courtesy ; This sparrow-hawk, what is he 1 tell me of him. His name ? but no, good faith, I will not have it : For if he be the knight whom late I saw Ride into that new fortress by your town, White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn From his own lips to have it — I am Geraint Of Devon — for this morning when the Queen Sent her own maiden to demand the name, His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing. Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore That I would track this caitiff to his hold. And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. GERAINT AND ENID. 243 And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find Arms in your town, where all the men are mad ; They take the rustic murmur of their bourg For the great wave that echoes round the world ; They would not hear me speak : but if ye know Where I can light on arms, or if your- self Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn That I will break his pride and learn his name. Avenging this great insult done the Queen." Then cried Earl Yniol, "Art thou he indeed, Geraint, a name far-sounded among men For noble deeds ? and truly I, when first I saw you moving by me on the bridge, Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state And presence might have guess'd you one of those That eat in Arthur's hall at Camelot. Nor speak I now from foolish flat- tery; For this dear child hath often heard me praise Your feats of arms, and often when I paused Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear ; So grateful is the noise of noble deeds To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong : never yet had woman such a pair Of suitors as this maiden ; first Lim- ours, A creature wholly given to brawls and wine. Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he dead 1 know not, but he passed to the wild land. The second was your foe, the sparrow hawk, My curse, my nephew — I will not let his name Slip from my lips if I can help it — he. When I that knew him fierce and tur- bulent Refused her to him, then his pride awoke ; And since the proud man often is the mean. He sow'd a slander in the common ear, Afiirming that his father left him gold. And in my charge, which was not ren- der'd to him ; Bribed with large promises the men who served About my person, the more easily Because my means were somewhat broken into Thro' open doors and hospitality ; Raised my own town against me in the night Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house ; From mine own earldom foully ousted me; Built that new fort to overawe my friends. For truly there are those who love me yet ; And keeps me in this ruinous castle here. Where doubtless he would put me soon to death. But that his pride too much despises me : And I myself sometimes despise my- self; For I have let men be, and have their way; Am much too gentle, have not used ray power : Nor know I whether I be very base Or very manful, whether very wise Or very foolish ; only this I know, That whatsoever evil happen to me, I seem to suffer nothing heart or limb, But can endure it all most patiently." 244 GERAINT AND ENID. "Well said, true heart," replied Geraint, "but arms. That if the sparroAv-hawk, this nephew, fight In next day's tourney 1 may break his pride." And Yniol answer'd, " Arms, indeed, but old And rusty, old and rusty. Prince Geraint, Are mine, and therefore at thine ask- ing, thine. But in this tournament can no man tilt. Except the lady he loves best be there. Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground. And over these is placed a silver wand. And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, The prize of beauty for the fairest there. And this, what knight soever be in field Lays claim to for the lady at his side, And tilts with my good nephew there- upon, Who being apt at arms and big of bone Has ever won it for the lady with him, And toppling over all antagonism Has earn'd himself the name of spar- row-hawk. But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight." To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, Leaning a little toward him, " Thy leave ! Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host, For this dear child, because I never saw, Tho' having seen all beauties of our time. Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. And if T fall her name will yet remain Untarnish'd as before ; but if I live. So aid me Heaven when at mine ut- termost. As 1 will make her truly my true wife." Then, howsoever patient, Yniol's heart Danced in his bosom, seeing better days. And looking round he saw not Enid there, (Who hearing her own name had stol'n away) But that old dame, to whom full ten- derly And fondling all her hand in his he said, " Mother, a maiden is a tender thing, And best by her that bore her under- stood. Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince." So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she • With frequent smile and nod depart- ing found. Half disarray 'd as to her rest, the girl ; Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then On either shining shoulder laid a hand, And kept her off and gazed upon her face. And told her all their converse in the hall. Proving her heart : but never light and shade Coursed one another more on open ground Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale Across the face of Enid hearing her ; While slowly falling as a scale that falls. When weight is added only grain by grain, Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast ; GERAINT AXD ENID. 245 Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, Kapt in the fear and in the wonder of it; So moving without answer to lier rest She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw The quiet night into her blood, but lay Contemplating her own un worthiness ; And when the pale and bloodless east began To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised Her mother too, and hand in hand they moved Down to the meadow where the jousts were held, And waited there for Yniol and Geraint. And thither came the twain, and when Geraint Beheld her first in field, awaiting him, He felt, were she the prize of bodily force. Himself beyond the rest pushing could move The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms Were on his princely person, but thro' these Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights And ladies came, and by and by the town Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists. .\nd there they fixt the forks into the ground, And over these they placed the silver wand, And over that the golden sparrow- hawk. Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet blown. Spake to the lady with him and pro- claim'd, " Advance and take as fairest of the fair, For I these two years past have won it for thee, The prize of beauty." Loudly spake the Prince, " Forbear : there is a worthier," and the knight With some surprise and thrice as much disdain Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, So burnt he was with passion, crying out, " Do battle for it then," no more ; and thrice They clash'd together, and thrice they brake their spears. Tlien each, dishorsed and drawing, lash'd at each So often and with such blows, that all the crowd Wonder'd, and now and then from distant walls There came a clapping as of phantom hands. So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and still The dew of their great labor, and the blood Of their strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force. But cither's force was match'd till Yniol's cry, " Remember that great insult done the Queen," Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft, And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone, And fell'd him, and set foot upon his breast, And said, "Thy name'? " To whom the fallen man Made answer, groaning, " Edyrn, son of Nudd ! Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. My pride is broken : men have seen my fall." " Then, Edyrn, son of Nudd," replied Geraint, " These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. 246 GERAINT AND ENID. First, thou tliyself, witli damsel and with dwarf, Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and com- ing there, Crave pardon for that insult done the Queen, And shalt abide her judgment on it; next, Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die." And Edyrn answer'd, " These things will I do, For I have never yet been overthrown, And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall!" And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court, And there the Queen forgave him easily. And being young, he changed and came to loathe His crime of traitor, slowly drew him- self Bright from his old dark life, and fell at last In the great battle fighting for the King. But when the third day from the hunting-morn Made a low splendor in the world, and wings Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, Among the dancing shadows of the birds. Woke and bethought her of her promise given No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — So bent he seem'd on going the third day, He would not leave her, till her prom- ise given — To ride with him this morning to the court. And there be made known to the stately Queen, And there be wedded with all cere- mony. At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, And thought it never yet had look'd so mean. For as a leaf in mid-November is To what it was in mid-October, seem'd The dress that now she look'd on to the dress She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. And still she look'd, and still the terror grew Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court. All staring at her in her faded silk : And softly to her own sweet heart she said : " This noble prince who won our earldom back, So splendid in his acts and his attire, Sweet heaven, how much I shall dis- credit him ! Would he could tarry with us here awhile, But being so beholden to the Prince, It were but little grace in any of us. Bent as he seem'd on going this third day, To seek a second favor at his hands. Yet if he could but tarry a day or two. Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame. Far liefer than so much discredit him." And Enid fell in longing for a dress All branch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift Of her good mother, given her on the night Before her birth day, three sad years ago. That night of fire, when Edyrn sack'd their house. And scatter'd all they had to all the winds : For while the mother sliow'd it, and the two GERAINT AND ENID. 247 Were turning and admiring it, the work To both appeared so costly, rose a cry That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled With little save the jewels they had on. Which being sold and sold had bought them bread : And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight. And placed them in this ruin ; and she wish'd The Prince had found her in her ancient home ; Then let her fancy flit across the past, And roam the goodly places that she knew ; And last bethought her how she used to watch. Near that old home, a i^ool of golden carp ; And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless Among his burnish'd brethren of the pool; And half asleep she made comparison Of that and these to her own faded self And the gay court, and fell asleep again ; And dreamt herself was such a faded form Among her burnish'd sisters of the pool; But this was in the garden of a king ; And tho' she lay dark in the pool, she knew That all was bright ; that all about were birds Of sunny plume in gilded trellis-work ; That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd Each like a garnet or a turkis in it ; And lords and ladies of the high court went In silver tissue talking things of state ; And children of the King in cloth of gold Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks ; And while she thought " They will not see me," came A statel}'^ queen whose name was Guinevere, And all the children in their cloth of gold Ran to her, crying, " If we have fish at all Let tliem be gold ; and charge tlie gardeners now To pick the faded creature from the pool. And cast it on the mixen that it die." And therewithal one came and seized on her. And Enid started waking, with her heart All overshadow 'd by the foolish dream, And lo ! it was her mother grasping her To get her well awake ; and in her hand A suit of bright apparel, which she laid Flat on the couch, and spoke exult- ingly : " See here, my child, how fresh the colors look. How fast they hold like colors of a shell That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. Why not? It never yet was worn, I trow: Look on it, child, and tell me if ye know it." And Enid look'd, but all confused at first. Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream : Then suddenly she knew it and re- joiced. And answer'd, " Yea, I know it ; your good gift. So sadly lost on that unhappy night; Your own good gift ! " " Yea, surely," said the dame, " And gladly given again this happy morn. For when the jotists were ended yes- terday, 248 GEKAINl' AND ENID. Went Yniol thro' the town, and every- where He found the sack and plunder of our house All scatter'd thro' the houses of the town ; And gave command that all which once was ours Should now be ours again : and yes- ter-eve, While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince, Came one with this and laid it in my hand. For love or fear, or seeking favor of us. Because we have our earldom back again. And yester-eve I would not tell you of it, But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. Yea, truly is it not a sweet surprise % For I myself unwillingly have worn My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, And howsoever patient, Yniol his. Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house. With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare. And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal. And pastime both of hawk and liound, and all That appertains to noble maintenance. Yea, and he brought me to a goodly house ; But since our fortune swerved from sun to shade. And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need Constrain'd us, but a better time has come ; So clothe yourself in this, that better fits ( )ur mended fortunes and a Prince's bride : For tho' ye won the prize of fairest fair, And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair, Let never maiden think, however fair, She is not fairer in new clothes than old. And should some great court-lady say, the Prince Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge, And like a madman brought her to the court, Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the Prince To whom we are beholden; but I know. When my dear child is set forth at her best, That neither court nor country, tho' they sought Thro' all the provinces like those of old That lighted on Queen Esther, has her match." Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath ; And Enid listen'd brightening as she lay; Then, as the white and glittering star of morn Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose. And left her maiden couch, and robed herself, Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye. Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown ; Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, and said, She never yet had seen her half so fair ; And call'd her like that maiden in the tale. Whom Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers, And sweeter than the bride of Cas- sivelaun, Flur, for whose love the Roman Caesar first Invaded Britain, " But we beat him back, GERAINT AND ENID. 249 As this great Prince invaded us, and we, Not beat him hack, but welcomed him with joy. And I can scarcely ride with you to court, For old am I, and rough the ways and wild ; But Yniol goes, and I full oft shall dream I see my princess as I see her now, Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay." But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd For Enid, and when Yniol made report Of that good mother making Enid In such apparel as might well beseem His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, He answer'd : " Earl, entreat her by my love, Albeit I give no reason but my wish, That she ride with me in her faded silk." Yniol with that hard message went; it fell Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn : For Enid, all abash'd she knew not why. Dared not to glance at her good mother's face. But silently, in all obedience, Her mother silent too, nor helping her. Laid from her limbs the costly-broid- er'd gift. And robed them in her ancient suit again. And so descended. Never man re- joiced More than Geraint to greet her thus attired ; And glancing all at once as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil. Made her cheek burn and either eye- lid fall. But rested with her sweet face satis- fied ; Then seeing cloud upon the mother's brow. Her by both hands he caught, and sweetly said, " O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved At thy new son, for my petition to her. When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet. Made promise, that whatever bride I brought, Herself would clothe her like the sun in Heaven. Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hall. Beholding one so bright in dark estate. I vow'd that could I gain her, our fair Queen, No hand but hers, should make j^our Enid burst Sunlike from cloud — and likewise thought perhaps. That service done so graciously would bind The two together; fain I would the two Should love each other: how can Enid find A nobler friend ? Another thought was mine ; I came among you here so suddenly, That tho' her gentle presence at the lists Might well have served for proof tliat I was loved, I doubted whether daughter's tender- ness. Or easy nature, might not let itself Be moulded by your wishes for her weal; Or whether some false sense in her own self Of my contrasting brightness, over- bore Her fancy dwelling in this dusky hall ; 250 GERAINT AND ENID. And such a sense might make lier long for court And all its perilous glories : and I thought, That could I someway prove such force in her Link'd with such love for me, that at a word (No reason given her) she could cast aside A splendor dear to Avomen, new to her, And tlierefore dearer; or if not so new, Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power Of intermitted usage ; then I felt That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, Fixt on her faith. Now, tlierefore, I do rest, A prophet certain of my prophecy, That never shadow of mistrust can cross Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts : And for my strange petition I will make Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. When your fair child shall wear your costly gift Beside your own warm hearth, with, on her knees, Who knows ? another gift of the high God, Which, maybe, shall have learn'd to lisp you thanks." He spoke: the mother smiled, but lialf in tears. Then brought a mantle down and wrapt her in it, And claspt and kissM her, and they rode away. Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb'd The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, Men saw the goodly liills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea ; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, By the flat meadoAv, till she saw them come ; And then descending met them at the gates. Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, And did her honor as the Prince's bride. And clothed her for her bridals like the sun; And all that week was old Caerleon gay, For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint, They twain were wedded with all ceremony. And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. But Enid ever kept the faded silk, liemembering how first he came on her, Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it. And all her foolish fears about the dress. And all Ids journey toward her, as himself Had told her, and their coming to the court. And now this morning when he said to her, " Put on your worst and meanest dress," she found And took it, and array'd herself therein. O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at tliis very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for our- selves. By taking true for false, or false for true ; Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world GERAINT AND ENID. 251 Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are So fared it with Geraint, who issu- ing forth That morning, when they both had got to horse, Perhaps because he loved her passion- ately, And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce Upon a head so dear in thunder, said : " Not at my side. I charge thee ride before. Ever a good way on before ; and this I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife, Whatever happens, not to speak to me. No, not a word ! " and Enid was aghast ; And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on. When crying out, "Effeminate as I am, I will not fight my way with gilded arms, All shall be iron ; " he loosed a mighty purse, Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire. So the last sight that Enid had of home Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire Chafing his shoulder : then he cried again, " To the wilds ! " and Enid leading down the tracks Thro' which he bade her lead him on, they past The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds. Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern. And *vildernesses, perilous paths, they rode : Round was their pace at first, but slacken'd soon : A stranger meeting them had surely thought They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale. That each had suffer'd some exceed- ing wrong. For he was ever saying to himself, "01 that wasted time to tend upon her. To compass her with sweet obser- vances. To dress her beautifully and keep her true " — And there he broke the sentence in his heart Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue May break it, wlien his passion mas- ters him. And she was ever praying the sweet heavens To save her dear lord whole from any wound. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold ; Till the great plover's human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste slie fear'd In every wavering brake an ambus- cade. Then thought again, " If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, If he would only speak and tell me of it." But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall knights On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all ; And heard one crying to his fellow, " Look. 252 GERAINT AND ENID. Here comes a laggard hanging down his head, Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound ; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armor, and his damsel shall be om's." Then Enid pondcr'd in her heart, and said: " I will go back a little to my lord. And I will tell him all their caitiff talk; For, be he wroth even to slaying me, Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame." Then she went back some paces of return, Met his full frown timidly firm, and said ; " My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armor, and your damsel should be theirs." He made a wrathful answer : " Did I wish Your warning or your silence ? one command I laid upon you, not to speak to me. And thus ye keep it! Well then, look — for now. Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my deatir, Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost." Then Enid waited pale and sorrow- ful, And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit tliro' his breast And out beyond ; and then against his brace Of comrades, each of whom had broken on 1dm A lance that spliuter'd like an icicle, Swung from his Ijrand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd the twain Or slew them, and dismoimting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The tliree gay suits of armor which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armor on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, " Drive them on Before you ; " and she drove them thro' the waste. He f ollow'd nearer : ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watch'd The being he loved best in all the world. With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her. And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all within ; But evermore it seem'd an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead, Than to cry " Halt," and to her own bright face Accuse her of the least immodesty : And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more That she could speak whom his own ear had heard GERAINT AND ENID. 253 Call herself false : and suffering thus he made Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, Before he turn to fall seaward again, Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, be- hold In the first shallow shade of a deep wood. Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks. Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd. Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord, And shook her pulses, crying, " Look, a prize ! Three horses aijd three goodly suits of arms, And all in charge of whom % a girl : set on." " Nay," said the second, "yonder comes a knight." The third, " A craven ; how he hangs his head." The giant answer'd merrily, "Yea, but one ? Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him." And Enid ponder'd in her heart and said, "I will abide the coming of m}^ lord, And I will tell him all their villany. My lord is weary with the fight before. And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must ' disobey him for his good ; How should I dare obey him to his harm ? Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine." And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, " Have I leave to speak ? " He said, "Ye take it, speaking," and she spoke. " There lurk three villains yonder in the wood. And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass." To which he flung a wrathful an- swer back : " And if there were an hundred in the wood. And every man were larger-limb'd than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside. And if I fall, cleave to the better man." And Enid stood aside to wait the event. Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. . And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but Geraint's, A little in the late encounter strain'd, Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corse- let home. And then brake short, and down his enemy roll'd, And there lay still; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promon- tory. That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew : So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades making slowlier at th« Prince, 254 GERAINT AND ENID. When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood ; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain- brook, All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, And foemen scared, like that false pair who turn'd Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armor, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, " Drive them on Before you," and she drove them thro' the wood. He follow'd nearer still : the pain she had To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms. Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart : And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long By bandits groom 'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt Her low firm voice and tender govern- ment. So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past. And issuing under open heavens be- held A little town with towers, upon a rock, And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mow- ing in it : And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers : and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale Then, moving downward to the meadow ground. He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, said, " Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint." " Yea, willingly," replied the youth ; " and thou. My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse. And only meet for mowers ; " then set down His basket, and dismounting on the sward They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. And Enid took a little delicately, Less having stomach for it than desire To close with her lord's pleasure; but Geraint Ate all the mowers' victual unawares. And when he found all empty, was amazed ; And, "Boy," said he, "I have eaten all, but take A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose the best." He, reddening in extremity of delight, " My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold." " Ye will be all the wealthier," cried the Prince. " I take it as free gift, then," said the hoy. GERAINT AND ENID. 255 " Not guerdon ; for myself can easily, While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl; For these are his, and all the field is his, And I myself am his ; and I will tell him How great a man thou art : he loves to know When men of mark are in his terri- tory : And he will have thee to his palace here, And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare." Then said Geraint, "I wish no better fare : I never ate with angrier appetite Than when I left your mowers dinner- less. And into no Earl's palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces ! And if he want me, let him come to me. But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and re- turn With victual for these men, and let us know." " Yea, my kind lord," said the glad youth, and went. Held his head high, and thought him- self a knight. And up the rocky pathway disap- pear'd, Leading the horse, and they were left alone. But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt : his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd ; Then with another humorous ruth re- mark'd The lusty mowers laboring dinnerless, And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe. And after nodded sleepily in the heat. But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, And all the windy clamor of the daws About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass There growing longest by the mead- ow's edge, And into many a listless annulet. Now over, now beneath her marriage ring. Wove and unwove it, till the boy re- turn'd And told them of a chamber, and they went ; Where, after saying to her, "If ye will, Call for the woman of the house," to which She answer'd, " Thanks, my lord ; " the two remain'd Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield. Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield. On a sudden, many a voice along the street. And heel against the pavement echo ing, burst Their drowse ; and eitlier started whilfc the door, Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall, And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours. 256 GERAINT AND ENID. He moving up with pliant courtli- ness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand. Found Enid with the corner of his eye, And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sump- tuously According to his fashion, bade the host Call in what men soever were his friends. And feast with these in honor of their Earl; "And care not for the cost; the cost is mine." And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours Drank till he jested with all ease, and told Free tales, and took the word and play'd upon it. And made it of two colors ; for his talk, When wine and free companions kindled him, Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the Prince To laughter and his comrades to ap- plause. Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours, " Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak To your good damsel there who sits apart, And seems so lonely ? " " My free leave," he said ; " Get her to speak : she doth not speak to me." Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet. Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisper- ingly : " Enid, the pilot star of ray lone life, Enid, my early and my only love, Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'd me wild — What chance is this ? how is it I see you here ? Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. Yet fear me not : I call mine own self wild, But keep a touch of sweet civility Here in the heart of waste and wilder- ness. I thought, but that your father came between. In former days you saw me favorably. And if it were so do not keep it back : Make me a little happier: let me know it : Owe you me nothing for a life half- lost ? Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy, Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him, You come with no attendance, page or maid, To serve you — doth he love you as of old? For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know Tho' men may bicker with the things they love, They would not make them laughable in all eyes. Not while they loved them ; and your wretched dress, A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks Your story, that this man loves you no more. Your beauty is no beauty to him now : A common chance — right well I know it — pall'd — For I know men : nor will ye win him back. For the man's love once gone never returns. GERAINT AND ENID. 257 But here is one who loves you as of old ; With more exceeding passion than of old: Good, speak the word : my followers ring him round : He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; They understand : nay ; I do not mean blood : Nor need ye look so scared at what I say : My malice is no deeper than a moat, No stronger than a wall : there is the keep; He shall not cross us more ; speak but the word : Or speak it not ; but then by Him that made me Tlie one true lover whom you ever own'd, I will make use of all the power I have. ( ) pardon me ! the madness of that hour, When first I parted from thee, moves me yet." At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast ; And answer'd with such craft as women use. Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance That breaks upon them perilously, and said : " Earl, if you love me as in former years. And do not practise on me, come with morn, And snatch me from him as by violence ; Leave me to-night : I am weary to the death." Low at leave-taking, with his bran- dish'd plume Brushing his instep, bow'd the all- amorous Earl, And the stout Prince bade him a loud good-night. He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, Debating his command of silence given, And that she now perforce must vio- late it, Held commune with herself, and while she held He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased To find him yet unwounded after fight, And hear him breathing low and equally. Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd The pieces of his armor in one place, All to be there against a sudden need ; Then dozed awhile herself, but over- toil'd By that day's grief and travel, ever- more Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then Went slipping down horrible prec- ipices. And strongly striking out her limbs awoke ; Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, With all his rout of random followers , Sound on a dreadful trumpet, sum- moning her ; Which was the red cock shouting to the light. As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy Avorld, And glimmer'd on his armor in the room. And once again she rose to look at it, But touch'd it unawares: jangling, the casque Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 25S GERATNT AND ENID. Then breaking his command of silence given, She told him all that Earl Liraours had said, Except the passage that he loved her not ; Nor left untold the craft herself had used ; But ended with apology so sweet. Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seeni'd So justified by that necessity, That tho' he thought "was it for him she wept In Devon ? " he but gave a Avrathf ul groan, Saying, " Your sweet faces make good fellows fools And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring Charger and palfrey." So she glided out Among the heavy breathings of the house. And like a household Spirit at the walls Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return'd : Tlien tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd. In silence, did him service as a squire ; Till issuing arm'd lie found the host and cried, "Thy reckoning, friend 1 " and ere he learnt it, " Take Five horses and their armors " ; and the host Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, "My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one ! " "Ye will be all the wealthier," said the Prince, And then to Enid, "Forward! and to-day I charge you, Enid, more especially. What thing soever ye may hear, or see. Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use To charge you) that ye speak not but obey." And Enid answer'd, " Yea, my lord, I know Your vrish, and would obey ; but rid- ing first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see : Then not to give you warning, that seems hard ; Almost beyond me: yet I would obey." " Yea so," said he, " do it : be not too wise ; Seeing that ye are wedded to a man, Not all mismated with a yawning clown. But one with arms to guard his head and j^ours. With eyes to find you out however far. And ears to hear you even in his dreams." With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; And that within her, which a wanton fool, Or hasty judger would havecaU'd her guilt. Made her cheek burn and either eye- lid fall. And Geraint look'd and was not satis- fied. Then forward by a way which, beaten broad, Led from the territory of false Limours To the waste earldom of another earl, Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, Went Enid with her sullen follower on. Once she look'd back, and when she saw liim ride More near by many a rood than yes- term orn. It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till Geraint Waving an angry hand as who should say GERAINT AND ENID. 259 "Ye watch me," sadden'd all her heart again. But while the sun yet beat a dewy- blade, The sound of many a heavily-gallop- ing hoof Smote on her ear, and turning round she saw Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. Then not to disobey her lord's behest, And yet to give him warning, for he rode As if he heard not, moving back she held Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. At which the warrior in his obstinacy, Because she kept the letter of his word, Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. And in the moment after, wild Limours, Borne on a black horse, like a thun- der-cloud Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm, Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore Down by the length of lance and arm beyond The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead, And overthrew the next that follow'd him. And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind. But at the flash and motion of the man They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand. But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower ; So, scared but at the motion of the man. Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way ; So vanish friendships only made in wine. Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyers. " Horse and man," he said, "All of one mind and all right-honest friends ! Not a hoof left : and I methinks till now Was honest — paid with horses and with arms ; I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : And so what say ye, shall we strip him there Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armor "? shall we fast, or dine ? No ? — then do thou, being right hon- est, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, I too would still be honest." Thus he said : And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. And answering not a word, she led the way. But as a man to whom a dreadful loss Falls in a far land and he knows it not. But coming back he learns it, and the loss So pains him that he sickens nigh tu death ; 260 GERAINT AND ENID. So fared it \vith Geraint, who being prick'd In combat with the follower of Limours, Bled underneath his armor secretly, And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself, Till his eye darkened and his helmet wagg'd ; And at a sudden swerving of the road, Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell. And Enid heard the clashing of his fall. Suddenly came, and at liis side all pale Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms, Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, And tearing oft' her veil of faded silk Had bared her forehead to the blister- ing sun. And swathed the hurt that drain'd her dear lord's life. Then after all was done tliat hand could do, She rested, and her desolation came Upon her, and she wept beside the way. And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbu- lence, A woman weeping for her raurder'd mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower : One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him : Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, He drove the dust against her veilless eyes : Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long way smoke beneath him in his fear ; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, • Broad-faced with under-fringe of rus- set beard. Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey, Came riding with a hundred lances up; But ere he came, like one that hails a ship. Cried out with a big voice, " What, is he dead ? " " No, no, not dead ! " she answer'd in all haste- "Would some of your kind people take him up. And bear him hence out of this cruel sun? Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead." Then said Earl Doorm: " Well, if he be not dead. Why wail ye for him thus ? ye seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool; Your wailing will not quicken him : dead or not. Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. Yet, since the face is comely — some I of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall : An if he live, we will have him of our band ; GERAINT AND ENID. 261 And if he die, why earth has earth enougli To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A noble one." He spake, and past away. But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his good bone Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians growl'd. Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man. Their chance of booty from the morn- ing's raid, Yet raised and laid him on a litter- bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out For those that might be wounded ; laid him on it All in the hollow of his shield, and took And bore him to the naked liall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before. And cursing their lost time, and the dead man. And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. They might as well have blest her : she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one. So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, There in the naked hall, propping his head, And chafing his pale hands, and call- ing to him. Till at the last he waken'd from his swoon, And found his own dear bride prop- ping his head. And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him ; And felt the warm tears falling on his face ; And said to his own heart, " She weeps for me " : And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead. That he might prove her to the utter- most. And say to his own heart, " She weeps for me." But in the falling afternoon returned The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise : Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against the pavement, cast his lance aside. And dofl"d his helm : and then there flutter'd in. Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes, A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues. And mingled with the spearmen : and Earl Doorm Struck with a knife's haft hard against the board, And caird for flesh and wine to feed his spears. And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves. And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh : And none spake word, but all sat down at once. And ate with tumult in the naked hall, 262 GERAINT AND ENID. Feeding like horses when you hear them feed; Till Enid shrank far back into herself, To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, He roll'd his eyes about the hall, and found A damsel drooping in a corner of it. Then he remember'd her, and how she wept; And out of her there came a power upon him ; And rising on the sudden he said, " Eat ! I never yet beheld a thing so pale. God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man, For were I dead wlio is it would weep for me ? Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath Have I beheld a lily like yourself. And so there lived some color in your cheek. There is not one among my gentle- women Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove. But listen to me, and by me be ruled. And I will do the thing I have not done, For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, And we will live like two birds in one nest. And I will fetch you forage from all fields, For I compel all creatures to my will." He spoke: the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and turning stared ; While some, whose souls the old ser- pent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear What shall not be recorded — women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things, But now desired the humbling of their best, Yea, would have help'd him to it : and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them. But answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, " I pray you of your cour- tesy, He being as he is, to let me be." She spake so low he hardly heard her speak, But like a mighty patron, satisfied With what himself had done so gra- ciously. Assumed that she had thank'd him, adding, " Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine." She answer'd meekly, " How should I be glad Henceforth in all the world at any- thing. Until my lord arise and look upon me?" Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk. As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing; suddenly seized on her. And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, cry- ing, " Eat." " No, no," said Enid, vext, " I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise, And eat with me." "Drink, then," he answer'd. " Here ! " (And fiU'd a horn with wine and held it to her,) GERAINT AND ENID. 263 '' Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, God's curse, with anger — often I myself, Before I well have drunken, scarce can eat : Drink therefore and the wine will change your will." "Not so," she cried, "By Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it. And drink with me ; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die." At this he turn'd all red and paced his hall, Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip. And coming uji close to her, said at last: " Girl, for I see ye scorn my courte- sies. Take warning : yonder man is surely dead ; And I compel all creatures to my will. Not eat nor drink? And wherefore wail for one. Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye butt against my wish. That I forbear you thus : cross me no more. At least put off to please me this poor gown. This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : I love that beauty should go beauti- fully : For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves tha.t beauty should go beautifully ? Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : obey.*' He spoke, and one among his gen- tle women Displayed a splendid silk of foreign loom. Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue Play'd into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew. When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung: so thickly shone the gems. But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power. With life-long injuries burning un- avenged, And now their hour has come ; and Enid said : " In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in ray father's hall : In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen array'd me like the sun : In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honor, where no honor can be gain'd : And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man, And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough : Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be: I never loved, can never love but him : Yea, God, I pray you of your gentle- ness. He being as he is, to let me be." 264 GERAINT AND ENID. Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, And took his russet beard between his teeth ; Last, coming up quite close, and in liis mood Crying, " I count it of no more avail, Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you; Take my salute," unknightly with flat hand. However lightly, smote her on the cheek. Then Enid, in her utter helplessness. And since she thought, " He had not dared to do it. Except he surely knew my lord was dead," Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry. As of a wild thing taken in the traj), AVhich sees the trapper coming thro' the wood. This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword, (It lay beside him in the hollow shield). Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor. So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. And all the men and women in the hall Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled Yelling as from a spectre, and the two Were left alone together, and he said : " Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man ; Done you more wrong : we both have undergone That trouble which has left me thrice your own : Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. And here I lay this penance on my- self, Not, tlio' mine own ears heard you yestermorn — You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true wife : I swear I will not ask your meaning in it : I do believe j'ourself against yourself, And will henceforward rather die than doubt." And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : She only pray' d him, " Fly, they will return And slay you ; fly, your charger is without, My palfrey lost." " Then, Enid, shall you ride Behind me." " Yea," said Enid, " let us go." And moving out they found the stately horse, Who now no more a vassal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and stoop'd With a low whinny toward the pair : and she Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front. Glad also; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd his face And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away. And never yet, since high in Para- dise O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, GERAINT AND ENID. 265 Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived thro' her, who in that per- ilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her hus- band's heart, And felt him hers again : she did not weep, But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain : Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. Then, fearing for his hurt and loss of blood. She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shriek'd to the stranger " Slay not a dead man ! " " The voice of Enid," said the knight ; but she, Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd again, " O cousin, slay not him who gave you life." And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake : " My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love; 1 took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him. Who love you. Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. For once, when I was up so high in pride That I was half-way down the slope to Hell, By overthrowing me you threw me higher. Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, And since I knew this Earl, when I myself Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers. Submit, and hear the judgment of the King." " He hears the judgment of the King of kings," Cried the wan Prince; "and lo, the powers of Doorm Are scatter'd," and he pointed to the field, Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, Were men and women staring and aghast. While some yet fled ; and then he plainlier told How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. But when the knight besought him, " Follow me. Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured Strange chances here alone ; " that other flush'd. And hung his head, and halted in reply. Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, And after madness acted question ask'd : Till Edyrn crying, " If ye will not go To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you." "Enough," he said, "I follow," and they went. But Enid in their going had two fears. One from the bandit scatter'd in the field, And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, 266 GERAINT AND ENID. When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side, She shrank a little. In a hollow land, From which old fires have broken, men may fear Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said : "Fair and dear cousin, j^ou that most had cause To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. Yourself were first the blameless cause to make My nature's prideful sparkle in tlie blood Break into furious flame ; being re- pulsed By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought Until I overturn'd him ; then set up ( With one main purpose ever at my heart) My haughty jousts, and took a para- mour ; Did her mock-honor as the fairest fair. And, toppling over all antagonism, So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad : And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, I should have slain your father, seized yourself. I lived in hope that sometime you would come To these my lists with him whom best you loved ; And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes, The truest eyes that ever answer'd Heaven, Behold me overturn and trample on him. Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to me, I should not less have kill'd liim. And you came, — But once you came, — and with your own true eyes Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one Speaks of a service done him) over- throw My proud self, and my purpose three years old, And set his foot upon me, and give me life. There was I broken down ; tliere was I saved : Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. And all the penance the Queen laid upon me Was but to rest awhile within her court ; Where first as sullen as a beast new- caged, And waiting to be treated like a wolf. Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn. Such fine reserve and noble reticence, Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace Of tenderest courtesy, that I began To glance behind me at my former life, And find that it had been the wolf's indeed : And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the higli saint, Who, with mild heat of holy oratory. Subdued me somewhat to that gentle- ness, Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. And you were often there about tlie Queen, But saw me not, or mark'd not if you saAv ; Nor did I care or dare to speak with you, But kept myself aloof till I was changed ; And fear not, cousin; lam changed indeed." He spoke, and Enid easily believed. Like simple noble natures, credulous GEKAINT AND ENID. 26/ Of what they long for, good in friend or foe, There most in those who most have done them ill. And when they reach'd the camp tlie King himself Advanced to greet them, and behold- ing her Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her not a word. But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held In converse for a little, and return'd. And, gravely smiling, lifted her from horse. And kiss'd her with all pureness, brother-like. And show'd an empty tent allotted her. And glancing for a minute, till he saw her Pass into it, tuniM to the Prince, and said : "Prince, when of late ye pray'd me for my leave To move to your own land, and there defend Your marches, I was prick'd with some reproof. As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, By having look'd too much thro' alien eyes. And wrought too long with delegated hands, Not used mine own : but now behold me come To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm. With Edyrn and witJi others : have ye look'd At Edyrn ? have ye seen how nobly changed ? This work of his is great and wonder- ful. His very face Avith change of heart is changed. The world will not believe a man repents : And this wise world of ours is mainly right. Full seldom doth a man repent, or use Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and custom wholly out of him. And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart As I will weed this land before I go. I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, Not rashly, but have proved him everyway One of our noblest, our most valorous, Sanest and most obedient : and indeed This work of Edj'rn wrouglit upon himself After a life of violence, seems to me A thousand-fold more great and won- derful Than if some knight of mine, risking his life. My subject with my subjects under him, Should make an onslaught single on a realm Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one, And were himself nigh wounded to the death." So spake the King ; low bow'd the Prince, and felt His Avork was neither great nor won- derful. And past to Enid's tent ; and thither came The King's own leech to look into his hurt ; And Enid tended on him there ; and there Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love. As the south-west that blowing Bala lake 268 MERLIN AND VIVIEN. Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. But while Geraint lay healing of jiis hurt, The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes ( )n each of all whom Uther left in charge Long since, to guard the justice of the King : lie look'd and found them wanting ; and as now Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills To keep him bright and clean as here- tofore, He rooted out the slothful officer Dr guilty, which for bribe liad wink'd at wrong, And in their chairs set up a stronger race With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men To till the wastes, and moving every- where Clear'd the dark places and let in tlie law. And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. There the great Queen once more em- braced her friend. And clothed her in apparel like the day. And tho' Geraint could never take again That comfort from their converse which he took Before the Queen's fair name Avas breathed upon, He rested well content that all was well. Thence after tarrying for a space they ^ rode, And fifty knights rode with them to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land. And there he kept the justice of the King- So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died : And being ever foremost in the chase, And victor at the tilt and tournament, They call'd him the great Prince and man of men. But Enid, whom the ladies loved to call Enid the Fair, a grateful people named Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose The cry of children, Enids and Geraints Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more, t But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd | A happy life with a fair deatl), and \ fell I Against the heathen of the Northern I Sea ^ In battle, fighting for the blameless King. MERLIN AND VIVIEN. A STORM was coming, but the Avinds were still. And in the wild woods of Broceliande, Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork. At Merlin's feet the wily \^ivien lay. Whence came she ? One that bare in bitter grudge The scorn of Arthur and his Table, Mark The Cornish King, had heard a wan- dering voice, A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say That out of naked knightlike purity Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 269 But the great Queen herself, fought in her name, Sware by her — vows like tlieirs, that high in heaven Love most, but neither marry, nor are given In marriage, angels of our Lord's re- port. He ceased, and then — for Vivien sweetly said (She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark), " And is the fair example follovv'd, Sir, In Arthur's household ? " — answer'd innocently : "Ay, by some few — ay, truly — youths that hold It more beseems the perfect virgin knight To worship ^voman as true wife be- yond All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl. They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen. So passionate for an utter purity Beyond the limit of their bond, are these, Por Arthur bound tliem not to single- ness. Brave hearts and clean! and yet — God guide them — young." Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup Straight at the speaker, but forbore : he rose To leave the hall, and, Vivien follow- ing him, Turn'd to her : " Here are snakes within the grass; And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting." And Vivien answer'd, smiling scorn- fully, " Why fear ? because that foster'd at thij court I savor of thy — virtues '<: fear them ? no. As Love, if Love be perfect, casts out fear. So Hate, if Hate be perfect, casts out fear. My father died in battle against the King, My mother on his corpse in open field ; She bore me there, for born from death was I Among the dead and sown upon the wind — And then on thee! and shown the truth betimes, That old true filth, and bottom of the well. Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine And maxims of the mud ! ' This Arthur pure ! Great Nature thro' the flesh herself hath made Gives him the lie ! There is no being pure, • My cherub ; saith not Holy Writ the same ? ' — If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood. Thy blessing, stainless King ! I bring thee back, When I have ferreted out their bur- rowings. The hearts of all this Order in mine hand — Ay — so that fate and craft and folly close, Perchance, one curl of Arthur's golden beard. To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine Is cleaner-f ashion'd — Well, I loved thee first, That warps the wit," Loud laugh'd the graceless Mark. But Vivien into Camelot stealing, lodged 270 MERLIN AND VIVIEN. Low in the city, and on a festal day When Guinevere was crossing the great hall Cast herself down, knelt to the Queen, and wail'd. " Why kneel ye there ? What evil have ye wrought ? Rise ! " and the damsel bidden rise arose And stood with folded hands and downward eyes Of glancing corner, and all meekly said, " None wrought, but suffer'd much, an orphan maid ! My father died in battle for thy King, My mother on his corpse — in open field. The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyon- esse — Poor wretch — no friend ! — and now by Mark the King /or that small charm of feature mine, pursued — If any such be mine — I fly to thee. Save, save me thou — Woman of women — thine The wreath of beauty ,«thine the crown of power, Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's own white Earth-angel, stainless bride of stain- less King — Help, for he follows ! take me to thy- self! yield me shelter for mine innocency Among thy maidens ! " Here her slow sweet eyes Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen who stood All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves In greeii and gold, and plumed with green replied, " Peace, child ! of overpraise and over- blame We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. Nay — we believe all evil of thy Mark — Well, we shall test thee farther ; but this hour We ride a-hawking with Sir Lancelot. He hath given us a fair falcon which he train'd ; We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while." She past ; and Vivien murmur'd after " Go ! I bide the while." Then thro' the portal-arch Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise. As one that labors with an evil dream. Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse. "Is that the Lancelot? goodly — ay, but gaunt : Courteous — amends for gauntness — takes her hand — That glance of theirs, but for the street, had been A clinging kiss — how hand lingers in hand! Let go at last ! — they ride away — to hawk For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine. For such a supersensual sensual bond As that gray cricket chirpt of at our hearth — Touch flax with flame — a glance wiP serve — the liars ! Ah little rat that borest in the dyke Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep Down upon far-off cities while they dance — Or dream — of thee they dream'd not — nor of me These — ay, but each of either : ride, and dream The mortal dream that never yet was mine — Ride, ride and dream until ye wake — to me! MERLIN AND VIVIEN 271 Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell ! For Lancelot will be gracious to the rat. And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know, Will hate, loathe, fear — but honor me the more." Yet while they rode together down the plain, Their talk was all of training, terms of art. Diet and seeling, jesses, leash and lure. " She is too noble " he said " to check at pies, Kor will she rake : there is no base- ness in her." Here when the Queen demanded as by chance " Know ye the stranger woman ? " " Let her be," Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off The goodly falcon free ; she tower'd ; her bells, Tone imder tone, shrill'd; and they lifted up Their eager faces, wondering at the strength. Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time As once — of old — among the flowers — they rodcc But Vivien lialf-forgotten of the Queen Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watch'd And whisper'd : thro' the peaceful court she crept And Avhisper'd : then as Arthur in the hioliest Leaven 'd the world, so Vivien in the lowest, Arriving at a time of golden rest. And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear. While all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet. And no quest came, but all was joust and play, Leaven'd his hall. They heard and let her be. Thereafter as an enemy that has left Death in the living waters, and with- drawn, The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court. She hated all the knights, and heard in thought Their lavish comment when her name was named. For once, when Arthur walking all alone, Vext at a rumor issued from herself Of some corruption crept among his knights. Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice, ' And flutter'd adoration, and at last With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more Than who should prize him most ; at which the King Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: But one had watch'd, and had not held his peace : It made the laughter of an afternoon That Vivien should attempt the blameless King. And after that, she set herself to gain Him, the most famous man of all those times. Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts. Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls. Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens ; The people call'd him Wizard; whom at first She play'd about with slight and sprightly talk, 272 MERLIN AND VIVIEN And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom'd points Of slander, glancing here and grazing there ; And yielding to liis kindlier moods, the Seer Would watch lier at her petulance, and play, Ev'n when they seem'd unloveable, and laugh As those that watch a kitten ; thus he grew Tolerant of what he half disdain'd, and she, Perceiving that she was but half dis- dain'd. Began to break her sports with graver fits. Turn red or pale, would often when they met Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him With such a fixt devotion, that the old man, Tho' doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times Would flatter his own wish in age for love. And half believe her true : for thus at times He waver'd ; but that other clung to him, Fixt in her will, and so tlie seasons went. Then fell on Merlin a great melan- choly ; He walk'd with dreams and darkness, and he found A doom that ever poised itself to fall. An ever-moaning battle in the mist. World-war of dying flesh against the life, Death in all life and lying in all love, The meanest having power upon the highest. And the high purpose broken by the worm. So leaving Arthur's court he gain'd the beach ; There found a little boat, and stept into it ; And Vivien foUow'd, but lie mark'd her not. She took the helm and he the sail , the boat Drave with a sudden wind across tlic deeps. And touching Breton sands, they dis- embark'd. And then she follow'd Merlin all tlie way, Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. For Merlin once had told her of a charm, The which if any wrought on anyone Witli woven paces and with waving arms, The man so wrought on ever seem'd to lie Closed in the four walls of a hollow *ower. From which was no escape for ever- more ; And none could find that man for evermore. Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm Coming and going, and he lay as dead And lost to life and use and name and fame. And Vivien ever sought to work the charni Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, As fancying that her glory would be great According to his greatness whom she quench'd. There lay she all her length and kiss'd his feet. As if in deepest reverence and in love. A twist of gold was round her hair ; a robe Of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In color like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March : And while she kiss'd them, crying, " Trample me, MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 273 Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' the world, And I will pay you worship ; tread me down And I will kiss you for it ; " he was mute : So dark a forethought roll'd about his brain, As on a dull day in an Ocean cave The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall In silence : wherefore, when she lifted up \A. face of sad appeal, and spake and said, " Merlin, do ye love me ? " and again, ' Merlin, do ye love me ? " and once more, ' Great Master, do ye love me 1 " he was mute. And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet Together, curved an arm about his neck. Clung like a snake ; and letting her left hand Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf, Made with her right a comb of pearl to part The lists of such a beard as youth gone out Had left in ashes : then he spoke and said, Not looking at her, " Who are wise in love Love most, say least," and Vivien answer'd quick, " I saw the little elf-god eyeless once In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot : But neither eyes nor tongue — O stupid child ! Yet you are wise who say it ; let me think Silence is wisdom : I am silent then. And ask no kiss ; " then adding all at once, " And lo, I clothe myself with wis- dom," drew The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard Across her neck and bosom to her knee. And eall'd herself a gilded summer fly Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web, Who meant to eat her up in that wild wood Without one word. So Vivien eall'd herself, But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star Veil'd in gray vapor ; till he sadly smiled : "To what request for what strange boon," he said, "Are these your pretty tricks and fooleries, Vivien, the preamble ? yet my thanks, For these have broken up ray melan- choly." And Vivien answer'd smiling sau- cily, " What, my Master, have ye found your voice '? 1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last! But yesterday you never open'd lip, Except indeed to drink : no cup had we : In mine own lady palms I cull'd the spring That gather'd trickling dropwise from the cleft, And made a pretty cup of both my hands And offer'd you it kneeling : then you drank And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word ; no more thanks than might a goat have given With no more sign of reverence than a beard. And when we halted at that other well. And I was faint to swooning, and you lay 274 MERLIN AND VTVIEN. Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know That Vivien bathed your feet before her own ? And yet no thanks : and all ihro' this wild wood And all this morning when I fondled you: Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange — How had I wrong'd 3^ou ? surely ye are wise. But such a silence is more wise than kind." And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said : " did ye never lie upon the shore. And watch the curl'd white of the coming wave Glass'd in the slippery sand before it breaks ? Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasur- able. Dark in the glass of some presageful mood, Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court To break the mood. You follow'd me unask'd ; And when I look'd, and saw you fol- lowing still. My mind involved j^ourself the nearest thing In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you truth ? You seem'd that wave about to break upon me And sweep me from ray hold upon the world, My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child. Your pretty sports have brighten'd all again. And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, Once for wrong done you by confusion, next For thanks it seems till now neglected, last For these your dainty gambols : wherefore ask; And take this boon so strange and not so strange." And Vivien answer'd smiling mourn- fully : " not so strange as my long asking it, Not yet so strange as you j^ourself are strange. Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. I ever fear'd ye were not wholly mine ; And see, yourself have own'd ye did me wrong. The people call vou prophet : let it be: But not of tliosc that can expound themselves. Take Vivien for expounder ; she will call That three-days-long presageful gloom of yours No presage, but the same mistrustful mood That makes you seem less noble than yourself. Whenever I have ask'd this very boon. Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear love. That such a mood as that, which lately gloom'd Your fancy when ye saw me follow- ing you. Must make me fear still more you are not mine, Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine. And make me wish still more to learn this charm Of woven paces and of waving hands, As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. For, grant me some slight power upon your fate, MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 275 I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust, Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. And therefore be as great as ye are named, Not muffled round with selfish reti- cence. How hard you look and how deny- ingly ! O, if you think this wickedness in me, That I should prove it on you una- wares, That makes me passing wrathful ; then our bond Had best be loosed for ever : but think or not, By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth. As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk ; O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream, Have tript on such conjectural treach- ery- May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat. If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon, Till which I scarce can yield you all I am ; And grant my re-reiterated wish. The great proof of your love : because I think, However wise, ye hardly know me yet." And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, " I never was less wise, however wise. Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of trust, Than when I told you first of such a charm. Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell you this, Too much I trusted when I told you that. And stirr'd this vice in you whicli ruin'd man Thro' woman the first hour ; for howsoe'er In children a great curiousness be well, Who have to learn themselves and all the world. In you, that are no child, for still I find Your face is practised when I spell the lines, I call it, — well, I will not call it vice : But since you name yourself the summer fly, I well could wish a cobweb for the gnat, That settles, beaten back, and beaten back Settles, till one could yield for weari- ness: But since I will not yield to give you power Upon my life and use and name and fame. Why will ye never ask some other boon ? Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much." And Vivien, like the tenderest- hearted maid That ever bided tryst at village stile, Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears : "Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your maid ; Caress her : let her feel herself for- given Who feels no heart to ask another boon. I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme Of ' trust me not at all or all in all.' I heard the great Sir Lancelot sing it once, And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. ' In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, MERLIN AND VIVIEN. Faith and vinfaith can ne'er be equal powers : Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. ' It is tlie little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all. ' The little rift within the lover's lute Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, That rotting inward slowly moulders all. ' It is not worth the keeping : let it go: But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all or all in all.' Master, do ye love my tender rhyme ? " And Merlin look'd and half believed her true, So tender was her voice, so fair her face, So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind her tears Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower : And yet he answer'd half indignantly : " Far other was the song that once I heard By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit : For here we met, some ten or twelve of us. To chase a creature that was current then In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. It was the time when first the ques- tion rose About the founding of a Table Round, That was to be, for love of God and men And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. And each incited each to noble deeds And while we waited, one, the young- est of us, We could not keep him silent, out he flash'd. And into such a song, such tire for fame. Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down To such a stern and iron-clashing close, That when he stopt we long'd to hurl together. And should have done it; but the beauteous beast Scared by the noise upstarted at our feet. And like a silver shadow slipt away Thro' the dim land ; and all day long we rode Thro' the dim land against a rushing wind. That glorious roundel echoing in our ears. And chased the flashes of his golden horns Until they vanish'd by the fairy well That laughs at iron — as our warriors did— Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, ' Laugh, little well ! ' but touch it with a sword. It buzzes fiercely round the point ; and there We lost him : such a noble song was that. But, Vivien, when you sang me that sweet rhyme, I felt as tho' you knew this cursed charm. Were proving it on me, and that I lay And felt them slowly ebbing, name and fame." And Vivien answer'd 'smiling mournfully : " O mine have ebb'd away for ever- more, And all thro' following you to this wild wood, MERLIN AND VIVIEN. II'J Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. Lo now, what hearts have men ! they never mount As high as woman hi l\er selfless mood. And touchmg fame, howe'er ye scorn my song, Take one verse more — the lady speaks it — this : " ' My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine. And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine. So trust me not at all or all in all.' " Says she not well ? and there is more — this rhyme Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen, That burst in dancing, and the pearls were spilt ; Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. But nevermore the same two sister pearls Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other On her white neck — so is it with this rhyme : It lives dispersedly in many hands, And every minstrel sings it differ- ently ; Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls : ' !Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.' Yea ! Love, tho' Love were of the grossest, carves A portion from the solid present, eats And uses, careless of the rest; but Fame, The Fame that follows death is noth- ing to us ; And what is Fame in life but half- disfame, A.nd counterchanged with darkness 1 ye yourself Know well that Envy calls you Devil's son. And since ye "seem the Master of all Art, They fain would make you Master of all vice." And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said, " I once was looking for a magic weed. And found a fair young squire who sat alone. Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood. And then was painting on it fancied arms. Azure, an Eagle rising or, the Sun In dexter chief ; the scroll ' I follow fame.' And speaking not, but leaning over him, I took his brusli and blotted out the bird, And made a Gardener putting in graff. With this for motto, ' Rather use than fame.' You should have seen him blush ; but afterwards He made a stalwart knight. O Vivien, For you, methinks you think you love me well ; For me, I love you somewhat ; rest : and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself. Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him ye say ye love : but Fame with men. Being but ampler means to serve mankind. Should have small rest or pleasure in herself. But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon ! 278 MERLIN AND VIVIEN. What other ? for men sought to prove me vile, Because I fain had given them greater wits : And then did Envy call me Devil's son : The sick weak beast seeking to help lierself By striking at her better miss'd, and brought Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Kight well know I that Fame is half- disfame, Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, To one at least, who hath not children, vague, The cackle of the unborn about the grave, I cared not for it : a single misty star, Which is tlie second in a line of stars That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, I never gazed upon it but I dreamt Of some vast charm concluded in that star To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear, Giving you power upon me thro' this charm. That you might play me falsely, hav- ing power. However well ye think ye love me now (As sons of kings loving in pupilage Have turn'd to tyrants when they came to power) I rather dread the loss of use than fame; If you — and not so much from wickedness, As some wild turn of anger, or a mood Of overstrain'd affection, it may be, To keep me all to your own self, — or else A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy,— Should try this charm on whom ye say ye love." And Vivien answer'd smiling as in wrath : '' Have I not sworn ? I am not trusted. Good ! Well, hide it, hide it ; I shall find it out; And being found take heed of Vivien. A woman and not trusted, doubtless I Might feel some sudden turn of anger born Of your misfaith; and your fine epithet Is accurate too, for this full love of mine Without the full heart back may merit well Your term of overstrain'd. So used as I, My daily wonder is, I love at all. And as to woman's jealousy, O why not? to what end, except a jealous one. And one to make me jealous if I love, Was this fair charm invented by your- self ? 1 well believe that all about this world Ye cage a buxom captive here and there. Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower From which is no escape for ever- more." Then the great Master merrily an- swer'd her : " Full many a love in loving youth was mine ; I needed then no charm to keep them mine But youth and love ; and that full heart of yours Whereof ye prattle, may now assure you mine ; So live uncharm'd. For those who wrought it first. The wrist is parted from the hand that waved. The feet unmortised from their ankle- bones MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 279 Who paced it, ages back : but will ye hear The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme % "There lived a king in the most Eastern East, Less old than I, yet older, for my blood Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port. Whose bark had plunder'd twenty nameless isles ; And passing one, at the high peep of dawn, He saw two cities in a thousand boats All fighting for a woman on the sea. And pushing his black craft among them all, He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought her off, With loss of half his people arrow- slain ; A maid so smooth, so white, so won- derful. They said a light came from her when she moved : And since the pirate would not yield her uji. The King impaled him for his piracy; Then made her Queen : but those isle- nurtured eyes Waged such unwilling tho' successful war On all the youth, they sicken'd ; coun- cils thinn'd. And armies waned, for magnet-like she drew The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; And beasts themselves would worship ; camels knelt Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back That carry kings in castles, bow'd black knees Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands. To make her smile, her golden ankle- bells. What wonder, being jealous, that he sent His horns of proclamation out thro' all The hundred under-kingdoms that he sway'd To find a wizard who might teach the King Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen Might keep her all his own : to such a one He promised more than ever king has given, A league of mountain full of golden mines, A province with a hundred miles of coast, A palace and a princess, all for him : But on all those who tried and fail'd, the King Pronounced a dismal sentence, mean- ing by it To keep the list low and pretenders back. Or like a king, not to be trifled with — Their heads should moulder on the city gates. And many tried and fail'd, because the charm Of nature in her overbore their own : And many a wizard brow bleach 'd on the walls : And many weeks a troop of carrion crows Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers." And Vivien breaking in upon him, said: "I sit and gather honey; yet, me- thinks. Thy tongue has tript a little : ask thy- self. The lady never made unwilling war With those fine eyes : she had her pleasure in it, And made her good man jealous with good cause. And lived there neither dame nor damsel then Wroth at a lover's loss ? were all as tame, 280 MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 1 mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair? Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes, Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink, Or make her paler with a poison'd rose? Well, those were not our days : but did they find A wizard 'i Tell me, was he like to thee '2 " She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his neck Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's On her new lord, her own. the first of men. He answer'd laughing, " Nay, not like to me. At last they found — Ids foragers for charms — A little glassy-headed hairless man. Who lived alone in a great wild on grass ; Read but one book, and ever reading grew So grated down and filed away witli tliought. So lean his eyes were monstrous ; while the skin Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. And since he kept liis mind on one sole aim, Nor ever touch'd fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him tlie wall That sunders ghosts and shadow-cast- ing men Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it, And heard their voices talk behind the wall. And learnt their elemental secrets, powers And forces ; often o'er the sun's bright eye Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud. And lash'd it at the base with slanting storm ; Or in the noon of mist and driving rain, When the lake whiten'd and the pine- wood roar'd, And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, sunn'd The world to peace again : here was the man. And so by force they dragg'd him to the King. And then he taught the King to charm the Queen In such-wise, that no man could see her more. Nor saw she save the King, who wrought the charm, Coming and going, and she lay as dead. And lost all use of life : but when the King Made proffer of the league of golden mines, The province with a hundred miles of coast. The palace and the princess, that old man Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass. And vanish'd, and his book came down to me." And Vivien answer'd smiling sau- cily : " Ye have the book : tlie cliarm is written in it : Good : take my counsel : let me know it at once: For keep it like a puzzle chest in chest, With each chest lock'd andpadlockM thirty-fold. And whelm all this beneath as vast a mound As after furious battle turfs the slain On some wild down above the windy deep, I yet should strike upon a sudden means MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 281 To dig, pick, open, find and read the cliarm : Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then ? " And smiling as a master smiles at one That is not of his school, nor any school Hut that where blind and naked Ignorance Delivers brawling judgments, una- shamed, On all things all day long, he answer'd her : "Thou read the book, my pretty Vivien ! O ay, it is but twenty pages long, But every page having an ample marge. And every marge enclosing in the midst iV square of text that looks a little blot. The text no larger than the limbs of fleas ; And every square of text an awful charm, AVrit in a language that has long gone by. So long, that mountains have arisen since With cities on their flanks — thou read the book ! And every margin scribbled, crost, and cramm'd With comment, densest condensation, hard To mind and eye ; but the long sleep- less nights Of my long life have made it easy to me. And none can read the text, not even I; And none can read the comment but myself ; And in the comment did I find the charm. O, the results are simple; a mere child Might use it to the harm of any one, And never could undo it : ask no more : For tho' you should not prove it upon me, But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance, Assay it on some one of the Tabic Kound, And all because ye dream they babble of you." And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said : " What dare the full-fed liars say Qf me? Thetj ride abroad redressing human wrongs ! They sit with knife in meat and wine in horn ! Theij bound to holy vows of chastity ! AVere I not woman, I could tell a tale. But you are man, you well can under- stand The shame that cannot l)e explain'd for shame. Not one of all the drove sliould touch me : swine ! " Then answer'd Merlin careless of her words : " You breathe but accusation vast and vague, Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye know, Set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall ! " And Vivien answer'd frowning wrathf uUy : " Ci ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife And two fair babes, and went to dis- tant lands ; Was one year gone, and on returning found Not two but three ? there lay the reckling, one But one hour old! What said the happy sire ? 282 MERLIN AND VIVIEN A seven-months' babe had been a truer gift. Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood." Then answer'd Merlin, "Nay, I know the tale. Sir Valence wedded with an outland dame : Some cause had kept him sunder'd from his wife : One child they had : it lived with her : she died : His kinsman travelling on his own affair Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. He brought, not found it therefore : take the truth." "O ay," said Vivien, "overtrue a tale. What say j-e then to sweet Sir Sag- ramore, That ardent man ? ' to pluck the flower in season,' So says the song, ' I trow it is no treason.' Master, shall we call him overquick To crop his own sweet rose before the hour ? " And Merlin answer'd, " Overquick art thou To catch a loathly plume fall'n from the wing Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey Is man's good name : lie never wrong'd his bride. 1 know the tale. An angry gust of wind Puff'd out his torch among the myriad- room'd And many-corridor'd complexities Of Arthur's palace : then lie found a door, And darkling felt tlie sculptured ornament That wreathen round it made it seem his own ; And wearied out made for the couch and slept, A stainless man beside a stainless maid ; And either slept, nor knew of other there; Till the high dawn piercing the royal rose In Arthur's casement glimmer'd chastely down. Blushing upon them blushing, and at once He rose without a word and parted from her : But when the thing was blazed about the court. The brute world howling forced them into bonds. And as it chanced they are happy, being pure." " O ay," said Vivien, " that were likely too. What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale And of the horrid foulness that he wrought. The saintly youth, the spotless laml) of Christ, Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. What, in the precincts of the chapel- yard. Among the knightly brasses of the graves. And by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead ! " And Merlin answer'd careless of her charge, " A sober man is Percivale and pure ; But once in life was fluster'd with new wine. Then paced for coolness in the chapel- yard ; Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught And meant to stamp him with her master's mark ; And that he sinn'd is not believable ; For, look upon his face ! — but if he sinn'd, MERLIN AND VIVIEN 283 The sin that practice burns into the blood, And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be: Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. But is your spleen f roth'd out, or have ye more ? " And Vivien answer'd frowning yet in wrath : "O ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend Traitor or true 1 that commerce with tlip Queen, I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child, Or whisper'd in the corner 7 do ye know it? " To which he answer'd sadly, " Yea, I know it. Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at first. To fetch her, and she watch'd him from her walls. A rumor runs, she took him for the King, So fixt her fancy on him : let them be. But have ye no one word of loyal praise For Arthur, blameless King and stain- less man ? " She answer'd with a low and chuck- ling laugh : " Man ! is he man at all, who knows and winks ? Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks ? By which the good King means to blind himself. And blinds himself and all the Table Round To all the foulness that they work. Myself Could call him (were it not for womanhood) The pretty, popular name such man- hood earns. Could call him the main cause of all their crime ; Yea, were he not crown'd King, coward, and fool." Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said : " true and tender ! my liege and King ! selfless man and stainless gentle- man. Who wouldst against thine own eye- witness fain Have all men true and leal, all women pure ; How, in the mouths of base inter- preters. From over-fineness not intelligible To things with every sense as false and foul As the poach'd filth that floods the middle street. Is thy white blamelessness accounted blame ! " But Vivien, deeming Merlin over- borne By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue Rage like a fire among the noblest names, Polluting, and imputing her whole self, Defaming and defacing, till she left Not even Lancelot brave, nor Galahad clean. Her words had issue other than she will'd. He dragg'd his eyebrow bushes down, and made A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, And mutter'd in himself, " Tell her the charm ! So, if she had it, would she rail on me To snare the next, and if she have it not So will she rail. Wliat did the wan- ton say ? 284 MERLIN AND VIVIEN. * Not mount as high ; " we scarce can sink as low : For men at most differ as Heaven and earth, But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell. I know the Table Round, my friends of old ; All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. She cloaks the scar of some repulse with lies ; I well believe she tempted them and fail'd. Being so bitter : for fine plots may fail, Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as face With colors of the heart that are not theirs. I will not let her know : nine tithes of times Face-flatterer and backbiter are the same. And they, sweet soul, that most im- pute a crime Are pronest to it, and impute them- selves, Wanting the mental range ; or low desire Not to feel lowest makes them level all; Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain. To leave an equal baseness ; and in this Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find Some stain or blemish in a name of note, Not grieving that their greatest are so small, Inflate themselves with some insane delight, And judge all nature from her feet of So love be true, and not as yours is — clay, i nothing He spoke in words part lieard, in whispers part, Half-suffocated in the hoary fell And many-winter'd fleece of throat and chin. But Vivien, gathering somewhat of his mood. And hearing "harlot" mutter'd twice or thrice, Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood Stiff as a viper frozen ; loatlisome .sight. How from the rosy lips of life and love, Flash'd the bare-grinning skeleton of death ! White was her cheek; sharp breaths of anger puff 'd Her fairy nostril out ; her hand half- clench'd Went faltering sideways downward to her belt, And feeling; had she found a dagger there (For in a wink the false love turns to hate) She would have stabb'd him ; but she found it not : His eye was calm, and suddenly she took To bitter weeping like a beaten child, A long, long weeping, not consolable. Then her false voice made way, broken with sobs : " O crueller than was ever told in tale. Or sung in song ! vainly lavish'd love ! O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange, Or seeming shameful — for what shame in love. Without the will to lift their eyes, and see Her godlike head crown'd with spir- itual fire. And touching other worlds. I am weary of her." Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust Who call'd her what he call'd her — all her crime. All — all — the wish to prove him wholly hers." MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 285 She mused a little, and then clapt her hands Together witli a wailing shriek, and said : *' Stabb'd through the heart's affec- tions to the heart! Seethed like the kid in its own mother's milk ! Kill'd with a word worse than a life of blows ! I thought that he was gentle, being great : God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 1 should have found in him a greater heart. O, I, that flattering my true passion, saw The knights, the court, the King, dark in your light, Who loved to make men darker than they are. Because of that high pleasure which I had To seat you sole upon my pedestal Of worship — I am answer'd, and henceforth The course of life that seem'd so flowery to me With you for guide and master, only you. Becomes the sea-cliff pathway broken short. And ending in a ruin — nothing left. But into some low cave to crawl, and there. If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, Kill'd with inutterable unkindliness." She paused, she turn'd away, she hung her head, The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid Slipt and uncoil'd itself, she wept afresh, And the dark wood grew darker toward the storm In silence, while his anger slowly died AVithin him, till he let his wisdom go For ease of heart, and half believed her true : Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, " Come from the storm," and having no reply. Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame ; Then thrice essay 'd, by tenderest- touching terms. To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vain. At last she let herself be conquer'd by him, And as the cageling newly flown re- turns, The seeming-injured, simple-hearted thing Came to her old perch back, and set- tled there. There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, Ilalf-nestled at his heart, and since he saw The slow tear creep from her closed eye-lid yet. About her, more in kindness than in love. The gentle wizard cast a shielding arm. But she dislink'd herself at once and rose. Her arms upon her breast across, and stood, A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd, Upright and flush'd before him : then she said : " There must be now no passages of love Betwixt us twain henceforward ever- more; Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd, What should be granted which your own gross heart Would reckon worth the taking ? I will go. In truth, but one thing now — better have died Thrice than have ask'd it once — could make me stay — That proof of trust — so often ask'd in vain ! 286 MERLIN AND VIVIEN. How justh% after that vile term of yours, I find with grief ! I might believe you then, Who knows ? once more. Lo ! what was once to me Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown The vast necessity of heart and life. Farewell ; think gently of me, for I fear My fate or folly, passing gayer youth For one so old, must be to love thee still. But ere I leave thee let me swear once more That if I schemed against thy peace in this, May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send One flash, that, missing all things else, may make My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie." Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt (For now the storm was close above them) struck. Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining With darted spikes and splinters of the wood The dark earth round. He raised his ej^es and saw The tree that shone white-listed thro' the gloom. But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork. And deafen'd with the stammering cracks and claps That follow'd, flying back and crying out, " Merlin, tho' you do not love me, save. Yet save me ! '^ clung to him and hugg'd him close ; And call'd him dear protector in her fright. Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright,' But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd him close. The pale blood of the wizard at her touch Took gayer colors, like an opal warm'd. She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales : She shook from fear, and for her faui she wept Of petulancy ; she call'd him lord and liege. Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, Her God, her Merlin, the one passion- ate love Of her whole life ; and ever overhead Bellow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain Above them ; and in change of glare and gloom Her eyes and neck glittering went and came ; Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent. Moaning and calling out of other lands, Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more To peace ; and what should not have been had been. For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn. Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm Of woven jjaces and of waving hands,' And in the hollow oak he lay as dead. And lost to life and use and name and fame. Then crying " I have made his glory mine," And shrieking out " O fool ! " the har- lot leapt Adown the forest, and the thicket closed Behind her, and the forest echo'd " fool." LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 287 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east Guarded the sacred shield of Lance- lot; Which first she placed where morn- ing's earliest ray Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; Then fearing rust or soilure fashion'd for it A case of silk, and braided thereupon All the devices blazon'd on the shield In their own tinet, and added, of her wit, A border fantasy of branch and flower. And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. Nor rested thus content, but day by day. Leaving her household and good father, climb'd That eastern tower, and entering barr'd her door, Stript off the case, and read the naked shield. Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms. Now made a pretty history to herself Of every dint a sword had beaten in it, And every scratch a lance had made upon it, Conjecturing when and where : this cut is f resli ; That ten years back ; this dealt him at Caerlyle ; That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : And ah God's mercy, what a stroke was there ! And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God Broke the strong lance, and roU'd his enemy down, And saved him : so she lived in fan- tasy. How came the lily maid by that good shield Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name ? He left it with her, when he rode to tilt For the great diamond in the diamond jousts. Which Artlmr had ordain'd, and by that name Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. For Arthur, long before they crown'd liim King, Roving the trackless realms of Lyon- nesse. Had found a glen, gray boulder and black tarn. A horror lived about the tarn, and clave Like its own mists to all the mountain side : For here two brothers, one a king, had met And fought together ; but their names were lost; And each had slain his brother at a blow ; And down tliey fell and made the glen abhorr'd : And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd. And lichen'd into color with the crags : And lie, that once was king, had on a crown Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass. All in a misty moonshine, unawares Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown Roll'd into light, and turning on its rims Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, And set it on his head, and in his heart Heard murmurs, "Lo, thou likewise shalt be King." 288 LANCELOT AND ELALYE. Thereafter, when a King, lie had the gems Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his knights, Saying " These jewels, whereupon I chanced Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's — For public use : henceforward let there be. Once CA-ery year, a joust for one of these : For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow In use of arms and manhood, till we drive The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the land Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus he spoke : And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year, With purpose to present them to the Queen, When all were won ; but meaning all at once To snare her royal fancy with a boon AVorth half her realm, had never spoken word. Now for the central diamond and the last And largest, Arthur, holding then his court Hard on the river nigh the place which now Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere, " Are you so sick, my Queen, you can- not move To these fair jousts ? " "Yea, lord," she said, "ye know it." "Then will ye miss," he answer'd, " the great deeds Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, A sight ye love to look on." And the Queen Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt lan- guidly On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. He thinking that he read her meaning there, " Stay with me, I am sick ; my love is more Than many diamonds," yielded; and a heart Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen (However much he yearn'd to make complete The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, " Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole, And lets me from the saddle ; " and the King Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. No sooner gone than suddenly she began : " To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame ! Why go ye not to these fair jousts ? the knights Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd Will murmur, ' Lo the shameless ones, who take Their pastime now the trustful King is gone ! ' " Then Lancelot vext at having lied in vain : " Are ye so wise ? ye were not once so wise, IMy Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. Then of the crowd ye took no more account Than of the myriad cricket of the mead. LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 289 When its own voice clings to each blade of grass, And every voice is nothing. As to knights, Them surely can I silence with all ease. But now my loyal worship is allow'd Of all men: many a bard, without offence. Has link'd our names together in his lay, Lancelot, the flower of bravery, Guinevere, The pearl of beauty : and our knights at feast Have pledged us in this union, while the King Would listen smiling. How then ? is there more ? Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would yourself, Xow weary of my service and devoir. Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord ? " She broke into a little scornful laugh : " Arthur, my lord, Arthur, the fault- less King, That passionate perfection, my good lord — But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaven ? He never spake word of reproach to me. He never had a glimpse of mine un- truth, He cares not for me : only here to-day There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes: Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with him — else Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, And swearing men to vows impossible. To make them like himself : but, friend, to me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth ; The low sun makes the color : I am yours, Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond. And therefore hear my words : go to the jousts : The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream When sweetest; and the vermin voices here May buzz so loud — we scorn them, but they sting." Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights : " And with what face, after my pre- text made, Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I Before a King who honors his own work, As if it were his God's ? " " Yea," said the Queen, " A moral child without the craft to rule, Else had he not lost me : but listen to me. If I must find you wit : we hear it said That men go down before your spear at a touch. But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great name. This conquers : liide it therefore ; go unknown : Win ! by this kiss you will : and our true King Will then allow your pretext, my knight, As all for glory ; for to speak him true. Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem. No keener hunter after glory breathes. He loves it in his knights more than himself : They prove to him his work : win and return." Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse, Wroth at himself. Not wilhng to be known, 290 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. He left the barren-beaten thorough- fare, Chose the green path that show'cl the rarer foot, And there among the solitary downs, Full often " lost in fancy, lost his way ; Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track, That all in loops and links among tlie dales Ran to the Castle of Astolat, he saw- Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. Thither he made, and blew the gate- way horn. Then came an old, dumb, myriad- wrinkled man. Who let him into lodging and dis- arm'd. And Lancelot marvell'd at the word- less man ; And issuing found the lord of Astolat With two strong sons, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, Moving to meet him in the castle court ; And close behind them stept the lily maid Elaine, his daughter : mother of the house There was not : some light jest among them rose With laughter dying down as the great knight Approach'd them : then the Lord of Astolat: " Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name Livest between tlie lips ? for by thy state And presence I might guess thee chief of those. After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. Him have I seen : the rest, his Table Round, Known as they are, to me they are unknown." Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights : " Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known. What I \iy mere mischance have brought, my shield. But since I go to joust as one un- known At Camelot for the diaiuond, ask me not. Hereafter ye shall know me — and the shield — I pray you lend me one, if such you have. Blank, or at least with some device not mine." Then said the Lord of Astolat, " Here is Torre's : Hurt in his first tilt was my son. Sir Torre. And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. His ye can have." Then added plain Sir Torre, " Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it." Here laugh'd the father saying, "Fie, Sir Churl, Is that an answer for a noble knight ? Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger here. He is so full of lustihood, he will ride. Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour, And set it in this damsel's golden hair, To make her thrice as wilful as be- fore." "Nay, father, nay good father, shame me not Before this noble knight," said young Lavaine, " For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre : He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go : A jest, no more ! for, knight, the maiden dreamt That some one put this diamond in her hand. And that it was too slippery to 1)6 held, LANCELOT AND ELALWE. 291 And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, The castle-well, belike; and then I said That {/ I went and if I fought and won it (But all was jest and joke among our- selves) Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. But, father, give me leave, an if he will, To ride to Camelot with this noble knight : Win shall I not, but do my best to win : Young as I am, yet would I do my best." " So ye will grace me," answered Lancelot, Smiling a moment, "with your fellow- ship O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, Then were I glad of you as guide and friend : And you shall win this diamond, — as I hear It is a fair large diamond, — if ye may, And yield it to this maiden, if ye will." " A fair large diamond," added plain Sir Torre, " Such be for queens, and not for sim- ple maids." Then she, wdio held her eyes upon the ground, Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, Flush'd slightly at the slight dispar- agement Before the stranger knight, who, look- ing at her. Full courtly, yet not falsely, thus return'd : " If what is fair be but for what is fair, And only queens are to be counted so, Eash were my judgment then, who deem this maid Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth. Not violating the bond of like to like." He spoke and ceased : the lily maid Elaine, Won by the mellow voice before sho look'd, Lifted her eyes, and read his linea- ments. The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, In battle witli the love he bare lii.-^ lord. Had marr'd his face, and mark'd it ere his time. Another sinning on such heights with one, The flower of all the west and all the world. Had been the sleeker for it: but in him His mood was often like a fiend, and rose And drove him into wastes and soli- tudes For agony, who Avas yet a living soul. Marr'd as he wns, lie seem'd the good- liest man That ever among ladies ate in hall. And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. However marr'd, of more than twice her years, Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the cheek. And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes And loved him, with that love which was her doom. Then the great knight, the darling of the court, Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall Stept with all grace, and not with half disdain Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, But kindly man moving among his kind: Whom they with meats and vintage of their best 292 LANCELOT AND ELALVE. And talk and minstrel melody enter- tain'd. And much they ask'd of court and Table Bound, And ever well and readily answer'd he: But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, Suddenly speaking of the wordless man, Heard from the Baron that, ten years before. The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. " He learnt and warn'd me of their fierce design Against my house, and him they caught and maim'd ; But I, my sons, and little daughter fled From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods By the great river in a boatman's hut. Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke The Pagan yet once more on Badon hill." "0 there, great lord, doubtless," Lavaine said, rapt By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth Toward greatness in its elder, " you have fought. O tell us — for we live apart — you know Of Arthur's glorious wars." And Lancelot spoke And answer'd him at full, as having been With Arthur in the fight which all day long Rang by the white mouth of the vio- lent Glem ; And in the four loud battles by the shore Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts Of Celidon the forest ; and again By castle Gurnion, where the glorious King Had on his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, Carved of one emerald center'd in a sun Of silver rays, that lighten'd as he breathed ; And at Caerleon had he helped his lord. When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; And up in Agned-Cathregonion too. And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, Where many a heathen fell ; " and on the mount Of Badon I mj-self beheld the King Charge at the head of all his Table Round, And all his legions crying Christ and him. And break them ; and I saw him, after, stand High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, And seeing me, with a great voice he cried, ' They are broken, they are broken ! ' for the King, However mild he seems at home, nor cares For triumph in our mimic wars,, tlu' jousts — For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs Saying, his knights are better men than he — Yet in this heathen war the fire of God Fills him : I never saw his like : there lives No greater leader." While he utter'd this, Low to her own heart said the lily maid, "Save your great self, fair lord;" and when he fell LANCE LOT AND ELAINE. 293 From talk of war to traits of pleas- antry — Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind — She still took note that when the living smile Died from his lips, across him came a cloud Of melancholy severe, from which again, Whenever in her hovering to and fro The lily maid had striven to make him cheer. There brake a sudden-beaming ten- derness Of manners and of nature : and she thought That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. And all night long his face before her lived. As when a painter, poring on a face. Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man Behind it, and so paints him that his face. The shape and color of a mind and life, Lives for his children, ever at its best And fullest ; so the face before her lived, Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. First as in fear, step after step, she stole Down the long tower-stairs, hesitat- ing : Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, " This shield, my friend, where is it ? " and Lavaine Past inward, as she came from out the tower. There to his proud horse Lancelot turn'd, and smooth'd The glossy shoulder, liumming to himself. Half-envious of the flattering hand, she drew Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more amazed Than if seven men had set upon him, saw The maiden standing in the dewy light. He had not dream'd she was so beau- tiful. Then came on him a sort of sacred fear, For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood Rapt on his face as if it were a God's. Suddenly flash'd on her a wild desire, That he should wear her favor at the tilt. She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. " Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it is, I well believe, the noblest — will you wear My favor at this tourney % " " Nay," said he, " Fair lady, since I never yet have worm Favor of any lady in the lists. Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know." " Yea, so," she answer'd ; " then in wearing mine Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, That those who know should know you." And he turn'd Her counsel up and down within his mind, And found it true, and answer'd " True, my child. Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me: What is it % " and she told him '* A red sleeve Broider'd with pearls," and brought it : then he bound Her token on his helmet, with a smile Saying, " I never yet have done so much 294 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. For any maiden living," and the blood Sprang to her face and fiU'd her with delight ; But left lier all the paler, when LaA^aine Keturning brought the yet-unblazon"d sliield, His brotlier's ; whicli he gave to Lancelot, Who parted witli liis own to fair Elaine : '• Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield In keeping till I come." " A grace to me," She answer'd, " twice to-day. I am your squire ! " Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, " Lily maid, For fear our people call you lily maid In earnest, let me bring your color back ; Once, twice, and thrice : now get you hence to bed : " So kiss'd lier, and Sir Lancelot his own hand. And thus they moved away : she stay'd a minute, Then made a sudden step to the gate, and there — Her bright hair blown about the serious face Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss — Paused by the gateway, standing near tlie shield In silence, while she watch'd their arms far-off Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield, There kept it' and so lived in fantasy. Meanwhile the new companions past away Far o'er the long backs of the bushless downs, To where Sir Lancelot knew there lived a knight Not far from Camelot, now for forty years A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd and pray'd. And ever laboring had scoop'd him- self In the white rock a chapel and a hall On massive columns, like a shorecliff cave, And cells and chambers : all were fair and dr}"- ; The green light from the meadows underneath Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; And in the meadows tremulous aspen- trees And poplars made a noise of falling showers. And thither wending there that night they bode. But when the next day broke from underground. And shot red fire and shadows thro' the cave, They rose, heard mass, broke fast, and rode away : Then Lancelot saying, " Hear, but hold my name Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake." . Abash'd Lavaine, whose instant rev- erence, Dearer to true young hearts than their own praise. But left him leave to stammer, " Is it indeed ? " And after muttering "The great Lancelot," At last he got his breath and answer'd, " One, One have I seen — that other, our liege lord. The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of kings. Of whom the people talk myst iously, He will be there — then were I stricken • blind That minute, I might say that I had seen." So spake Lavaine, and when they reach'd the lists LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 295 By Camelot in the meadow, let his eyes Run thro' the j^eopled gallery which half round Lay like a rainbow fall'n upon the grass, Until they found the clear-faced King, who sat Robed in red samite, easily to be known. Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, And down his robe the dragon writhed in gold, And from the carven-work behind him crept Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them Thro' knots and loops and folds innu- merable Fled ever thro' the woodwork, till they found The new design wherein they lost themselves, Yet with all ease, so tender was the work : And, in the costly canopy o'er him set. Blazed the last diamond of tlie name- less king. Then Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine and said, •' Me you call great : mine is the firmer seat. The truer lance : but there is many a youth Now crescent, who will come to all I am And overcome it; and in me there dwells No greatness, save it be some far-off touch Of greatness to know well I am not great : There is the man." And Lavaine gaped upon him As on a thing miraculous, and anon The trumpets blew ; and then did either side, They that assail'd, and they that held the lists, Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move. Meet in the midst, and there so furiously Shock, tliat a man far-of£ might well perceive. If any man that day were left afield, The hard earth shake, and a low thun- der of arms. And Lancelot bode a little, till he saw Which were the weaker ; then he hurl'd into it Against the stronger : little need to speak Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, duke, earl, Count, baron — whom he smote, he overthrew. But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin, Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists. Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight Should do and almost overdo the deeds Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, " Lo ! What is he ? I do not mean the force alone — The grace and versatility of the man ! Is it not Lancelot ? " " When has Lancelot worn Favor of any lady in the lists ? Not such his wont, as we, that know him, know." " How then ? who then ? " a fury seized them all, A fiery family passion for the name Of Lancelot, and a glory one with theirs. They couch'd their spears and prick'd their steeds, and thus. Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind they made In moving, all together down upon him Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, 2% LANCELOT AND ELALNE. Green-glimmering toward tlie summit, bears, with all Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, Down on a bark, and overbears the bark. And him that helms it, so they over- bore Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear Down-glancing lamed the charger, and a spear Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head Pierced thro' his side, and there snapt, and remain'd. Then Sir Lavaine did well and wor- shipf uUy ; He bore a knight of old repute to the earth, And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. He up the side, sweating with agony, got, But thought to do while he might yet endure. And being lustily holpen by the rest, His party, — tho' it seem'd half- miracle To those he fought with, — drave his kith and kin. And all the Table Round that held the lists. Back to the barrier ; then the trum- pets blew Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve Of scarlet, and the pearls ; and all the knights. His party, cried " Advance and take thy prize The diamond ; " but he answer'd, "Diamond me No diamonds ! for God's love, a little air! Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! Hence will I, and I charge you, follow me not." He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the field AVith young Lavaine into the poplar grove. There from his charger down he slid, and sat, Gasping to Sir Lavaine, "Draw the lance-head : " " Ah my sweet lord Sir Lancelot," said Lavaine, "I dread me, if I draw it, you will die." But he, " I die already with it : draw — Draw," — and Lavaine drew, and Sir Lancelot gave A marvellous great shriek and ghastly groan. And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank For the pure pain, and wholly swoon'd away. Then came the hermit out and bare him in. There stanch'd his wound ; and there, in daily doubt Whether to live or die, for many a week Hid from the wide world's rumor by the grove Of poplars with their noise of falling showers. And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, His party, knights of utmost North and West, Lords of waste marches, kings of des- olate isles. Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, " Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we won the day, ; Hath gone sore wounded, and hath left his prize Untaken, crying that his prize is death." " Heaven hinder," said the King, " that such an one, So great a knight as we have seen to-day — He seem'd to me another Lancelot — LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 297 Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot — He must not pass uncared for. Wherefore, rise, Gawain, and ride forth and find the kniglit. Wounded and wearied needs must he be near. 1 charge you that you get at once to horse. And, knights and kings, there breathes not one of you Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given : His prowess was too wondrous. We will do him No customary honor : since the knight Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take This diamond, and deliver it, and return, And bring us where he is, and how he fares. And cease not from your quest until ye find." So saying, from the carven flower above, To which it made a restless heart, he took, And gave, the diamond : then from where he sat At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose. With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince In the mid might and flourish of his May, Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong, And after Lancelot, Tristram, and Geraint And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot, Nor often loyal to his word, and now Wroth that the King's command to sally forth In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave The banquet, and concourse of knights and kings. So all in wrath he got to horse and went ; While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood. Past, thinking "Is it Lancelot who hath come Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain Of glory, and hath added wound to wound. And ridd'n away to die ? " So fear'd the King, And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd. Then when he saw the Queen, em- bracing ask'd, *' Love, are you yet so sick ? " " Nay, lord," she said. " And where is Lancelot ? " Then the Queen amazed, " Was he not Avith you % won he not your prize ? " " Nay, but one like him." " Why that like was he." And when the King demanded how she knew. Said, " Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us. Than Lancelot told me of a common talk That men went down before his spear at a touch, But knowing he w^as Lancelot; his great name Conquer'd ; and therefore would he hide his name From all men, ev'n the King, and to this end Had made the pretext of a hindering wound, That he might joust unknown of all, and learn If his old prowess were in aught decay'd ; And added, 'Our true Arthur, when he learns, 298 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. Will well allow my pretext, as for gain Of purer glory.' " Then replied the King : " Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been, In lieu of idly dallying with the truth. To have trusted me as he hath trusted thee. Surely his King and most familiar friend Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed, Albeit I know my knights fantastical, So fine a fear in our large Lancelot Must needs have moved my laughter : now remains But little cause for laughter : his own kin — 111 news, my Queen, for all who love him, this ! — His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; So that he went sore wounded from the field : Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are mine That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. He wore, against his wont, upon his helm A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with great pearls. Some gentle maiden's gift." " Yea, lord," she said, " Thy hopes are mine," and saying that, she choked, And sharply turn'd about to hide her face, Past to her chamber, and there flung herself Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it, And clcnch'd her fingers till they bit the palm. And shriek'd out "Traitor" to the unhearing wall, Then flash'd into wild tears, and rose again. And moved about her palace, proud and pale. Gawain the while thro' all the region round Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, Touch'd at all points, except the pop- lar grove. And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat : Whom glittering in enamell'd arms the maid Glanced at, and cried, " What news from Camelot, lord ? What of the knight with the red sleeve 1 " " He won." " I knew it," she said. " But parted from the jousts Hurt in the side," whereat she caught her breath ; Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go ; Thereon slie smote her hand : wellnigh she swoon'd : And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince Reported who he was, and on what quest Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find The victor, but had ridd'n a random round To seek him, and had wearied of the search. To whom the Lord of Astolat, " Bide with us. And ride no more at random, noble Prince ! Here was the knight, and here he left a shield; This will he send or come for : fur- thermore Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon. Needs must we hear." To this the courteous Prince Accorded with his wonted courtesy, Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : Where could be found face daintier? then her shape LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 299 From forehead down to foot, perfect — again From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : " Well — if I bide, lo ! this wild flower for me ! " And oft they met among the garden yews, And there he set himself to play upon her With sallying wit, free flashes from a height Above her, graces of the court, and songs, Sighs, and slow smiles, and golden eloquence And amorous adulation, till the maid Rebell'd against it, saying to him, " Prince, O loyal nephew of our noble King, Why ask you not to see the shield he left, Whence you might learn his name ? Why slight your King, And lose the quest he sent you on, and prove No surer than our falcon yesterday, Who lost the hern we slipt her at, and went To all the winds ? " " Nay, by mine head," said he, *'I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, O damsel, in the light of your blue eyes ; But an ye will it let me see the shield." And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold, Kamp in the field, he smote his thigh, and mock'd : " Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! that true man ! " "And right was I," she answer'd merrily, " I, Who dream'd my knight the greatest knight of all." " And if / dream'd," said Gawain, " that you love This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, ye know it ! Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in vain ? " Full simple was her answer, "What know I % My brethren have been all my fellow- ship ; And I, when often they have talk'd of love, Wish'd it had been my mother, for they talk'd, Meseem'd, of what they knew not ; so myself — I know not if I know what true love is, But if I know, then, if I love not him, I know there is none other I can love." "Yea, by God's death," said he, "ye love him well, But would not, knew ye what all others know, And whom he loves." " So be it," cried Elaine, And lifted her fair face and moved away : But he pursued her, calling, " Stay a little ! One golden minute's grace ! he wore your sleeve : Would he break faith with one I may not name ? Must our true man change like a leaf at last ? Nay — like enow : why then, far be it from me To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves! And, damsel, for I deem you know full well Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave My quest with you ; the diamond also ; here ! For if you love, it will be sweet to give it ; And if he love, it will be sweet to have it From your own hand ; and whether he love or not, A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 300 LANCELOT AND ELAINE. A thousand times ! — a thousand times farewell ! Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two May meet at court hereafter : there, I think, So ye will learn the courtesies of the court, We two shall know each other." Then he gave. And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he gave. The diamond, and all wearied of the quest Leapt on his horse, and carolling as he went, A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. Thence to the court he past ; there told the King What the King knew, " Sir Lancelot is the knight." And added, " Sire, my liege, so much I learnt ; But fail'd to find him, tho' I rode all round The region : but I lighted on the maid Whose sleeve he wore ; slie loves him ; and to her. Deeming our courtesy is the^ truest law, I gave the diamond : she will render it ; For by mine head she knows his hid- ing-place." The seldom-frowning King f rown'd, and replied, "Too courteous truly ! ye shall go no more On quest of mine, seeing that ye for- get Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." He spake and parted. Wroth, but all in awe, For twenty strokes of the blood, with- out a word, Linger'd that other, staring after him ; Then shook his hair, strode off, and buzz'd abroad About the maid of Astolat, and her love. All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues were loosed : " The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lance- lot, Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Asto- lat." Some read the King's face, some the Queen's, and all Had marvel what the maid might be, but most Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old dame Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. She, that had heard the noise of it before, But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop 'd so low, Marr'd her friend's aim with pale tranquillity. So ran the tale like fire about the court, Fire in dry stubble a nine-days' won- der flared : Till ev'n the knights at banquet twice or thrice Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat With lips severely placid, felt the knot Climb in her throat, and with her feet unseen Crush'd the wild passion out against the floor Beneath the banquet, where the meats became As wormwood, and she hated all who pledged. But far away the maid in Astolat, Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept The one-day-seen Sir Lancelot in her heart, Crept to her father, while he mused alone. Sat on his knee, stroked his gra> face and said. LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 301 *' Father, you call me wilful, and the fault Is yours who let me have my will, and now, Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits ? " " Nay," said he, " surely." " Where- fore, let me hence," She answer'd, " and find out our dear Lavaine." " Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine : Bide," answer'd he: "we needs must hear anon Of him, and of that other." " Ay," she said, " And of that other, for I needs must hence And find that other, wheresoe'er he be. And with mine own hand give his dia- mond to him, Lest I be found as faithless in the quest As yon proud Prince who left the quest to me. Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- self, Death -pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. The gentler-born the maiden, the more bound. My father, to be sweet and service- able To noble knights in sickness, as ye know When these have worn their tokens : let me hence I pray you." Then her father nod- ding said, "Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child. Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole. Being our greatest : yea, and you must give it — And sure I think this fruit is hung too high For any mouth to gape for save a queen's — Nay, I mean nothing : so then, get you gone. Being so very wilful you must go." Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away, And while she made her ready for her ride, Her father's latest word humm'd in her ear, " Being so very wilful you must go," And changed itself and echo'd in her heart, " Being so very wilful you must die." But she was happy enough and shook it off. As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; And in her heart she answer'd it and said, " What matter, so I help him back to life ? " Then far away with good Sir Torre for guide Rode o'er the long backs of the bush- less downs To Camelot, and before the city-gates Came on her brother with a happy face Making a roan horse caper and curvet For pleasure all about a field of flowers : Whom when she saw, "Lavaine," she cried, "Lavaine, How fares my lord Sir Lancelot ? " He amazed, " Torre and Elaine ! why here ? Sir Lancelot ! How know ye my lord's name is Lan- celot ? " But when the maid had told him all her tale. Then turn'd Sir Torre, and being in his moods Left them, and under the strange- statued gate, Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystically, Past up the still rich city to his kin, His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot ; 502 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. And her, Lavaine across the poplar grove Led to the caves : there first she saw the casque Of Lancelot on the wall : her scarlet sleeve, Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away, Stream'd from it still ; and in her heart she laugh'd, Because he had not loosed it from his helm, But meant once more perchance to tourney in it. And when they gain'd the cell wherein he slept. His battle-writhen arms and mighty hands Lay naked on the wolfskin, and a dream Of dragging down his enemy made them move. Then she that saw liim lying unsleek, unshorn, Gaunt as it were the skeleton of him- self, Utter'd a little tender dolorous cry. The sound not wonted in a place so still Woke the sick knight, and while he roird his eyes Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, " Your prize the diamond sent you by the King : " His eyes glisten'd : she fancied " Is it for me ? " And wlien the maid had told him all the tale Of King and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest Assign'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt Full lowly by the corners of his bed, And laid the diamond in his open hand. Her face was near, and as we kiss the child That does the task assign'd, he kiss'd her face. At once she slipt like water to the floor. " Alas," he said, "your ride hath wearied you. Rest must you have." " No rest for me," she said ; " Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest." What might she mean by that ? his large black eyes. Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon her, Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself In the heart's colors on her simple face ; And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in mind. And being weak in body said no more ; But did not love the color ; woman's love, Save one, he not regarded, and so turn'd Sighing, and feign'd a sleep until he slept. Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields, And past beneath the weirdly-sculp- tured gates Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; There bode the night : but woke with dawn, and past Down thro' the dim rich city to the the fields, Thence to the cave : so day by day she past In either twilight ghost-like to and fro Gliding, and every day she tended him. And likewise many a night : and Lancelot Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurt Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem Uncourteous, even he : but the meek maid Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him INIeeker than any child to a rough nurse, LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 503 Milder than any mother to a sick child, And never woman yet, since man's first fall, Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love Upbore her; till the hermit, skill'd in all The simples and the science of that time, Told him that her fine care had saved his life. And the sick man forgot her simple blush, Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine, Would listen for her coming and regret Her parting step, and held her ten- derly, And loved her with all love except the love Of man and woman when they love their best, Closest and sweetest, and had died the death In any knightly fashion for her sake. And peradventure had he seen her first She might have made this and that other world Another world for the sick man ; but now The shackles of an old love straiten'd him, His honor rooted in dishonor stood. And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. Yet the great knight in his mid-sick- ness made Full many a holy vow and pure re- solve. These, as but born of sickness, could not live : For when the blood ran lustier in him again, Full often the bright image of one face. Making a treacherous quiet in his heart. Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not, Or short and coldly, and she knew right well What the rough sickness meant, but what this meant She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her sight. And drave her ere her time across the fields Far into the rich city, where alone She murmur'd, " Vain, in vain : it cannot be. He will not love me : how then ? must I die 1 " Then as a little helpless innocent bird, That has but one plain passage of few notes, Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er For all an April morning, till the ear Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid Went half the night repeating, " Must I die ? " And now to right she turn'd, and now to left. And found no ease in turning or in rest ; And "Him or death," she mutter'd, " death or him," Again and like a burthen, " Him or death." But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole. To Astolat returning rode the three. Tliere morn by morn, arraying her sweet self In that wherein she deem'd she look'd her best. She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought " If I be loved, these are my festal robes. If not, the victim's flowers before he fall." And Lancelot ever prest upon the maid That she should ask some goodly gift of him 304 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. For her own self or hers ; " and do not shun To speak the wish most near to j^our true heart ; Such service have ye done me, tliat I make My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I In mine own land, and what I will I can." Then like a ghost she lifted up her face. But like a ghost without the power to speak. And Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, And bode among tliem yet a little space Till he should learn it ; and one morn it chanced Ke found her in among the garden yews, And said, "Delay no longer, speak your wish. Seeing I go to-day " : then out she brake : " Going ? and we shall never see you more. And I must die for want of one bold word." " Speak : that I live to hear," he said, "is yours." Then suddenly and passionately she spoke : " I have gone mad. I love you : let me die." " Ah, sister," answer'd Lancelot, " what is this ? " And innocently extending her white arms, " Your love," she said, " your love — to be your wife." And Lancelot answer'd, " Had I chosen to wed, I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine : But now there never will be Avife of mine." " No, no," she cried, " I care not to be wife, But to be with you still, to see 3'our face, To serve 3^ou, and to follow you thro' the world." And Lancelot answer'd, "Nay, the world, the world, All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue To blare its own interpretation — nay. Full ill then should I quit your brother's love, And your good father's kindness." And she said, " Not to be with you, not to see your face — Alas for me then, my good days are done." "Nay, noble maid," he answer'd, "ten times nay ! This is not love : but love's first flash in youth. Most common : yea, I know it of mine own self : And you yourself will smile at your own self Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age : And then will I, for true you are and sweet Beyond mine old belief in woman- hood. More specially should your good knight be poor, Endow you with broad land and ter- ritory Even to the half my realm beyond the seas. So that would make you happy : furthermore, Ev'n to the death, as tho' ye were my blood, \\\ all your quarrels will I be yoiu- knight. This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake, And more than this I cannot." While he spoke She neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly-pale LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 305 Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied : "Of all this will I nothing;" and so fell, And thus they bore her swooning to her tower. Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls of yew Their talk had pierced, her father : " Ay, a flash, I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lance- lot. I pray you, use some rough dis- courtesy To blunt or break her passion." Lancelot said, "That were against me: what I can I will ; " And there that day remain'd, and toward even Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the maid, Stript off the case, and gave the naked shield ; Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, Unclasping flung the casement back, and look'd Down on his helm, from which her sleeve had gone. And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound ; And she by tact of love was well aware That Lancelot knew that she was look- ing at him. And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand. Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. This was the one discourtesy that he used. So in her tower alone the maiden sat : His very shield was gone ; only the case, Her own poor work, her empty labor, left. But still she heard him, still his picture form'd And grew between her and the pic- tured Avail. Then came her father, saying in low tones, " Have comfort," whom she greeted quietl3\ Then came her brethren saying, " Peace to thee, Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with all calm. But when they left her to herself again, Death, like a friend's voice from a dis- tant field Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd ; the owls Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms Of evening, and the meanings of the wind. And in those days she made a little song, And call'd her song " The Song of Love and Death," And sang it : sweetly could she make and sing. " Sweet is true love tho' given in vai«, in vain ; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : I know not which is sweeter, no, not L "Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death must be : Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to me. Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. " Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, 1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 306 LANCELOT AND ELALVE. " I fain would follow love, if that could be ; 1 needs must follow death, wlio calls for me ; Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die." High with the last line scaled her voice, and this, AH in a fiery dawning wild with wind That shook the tower, the brothers heard, and thought With shuddering, " Hark the Phan- tom of the house That ever shrieks before a death," and call'd The father, and all three in hurry and fear Kan to her, and lo ! the blood-red light of dawn Flared on her face, she shrilling, " Let me die ! " As when we dwell upon a word we know, Repeating, till the word we know so well Becomes a wonder, and we know not why. So dwelt the father on her face, and thought " Is this Elaine 1 " till back the maiden fell, Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay, Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes'. At last she said, " Sweet brothers, yes- ter-night 1 seem'd a curious little maid again, As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, And when ye used to take me with the flood Up the great river in the boatman's boat. Only ye would not pass beyond the cape That has the poplar on it: there ye fixt Your limit, oft returning with the tide, And yet I cried because ye would not pass Beyond it, and far up the shining flood Until we found the palace of the King. And yet ye would not : but this night I dream 'd That I was all alone upon the flood. And then I said, ' Now shall I have my will : ' And there I woke, but still the wish remain'd. So let me hence that I may pass at last Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, Until I find the palace of the King. There will 1 enter in among them all. And no man there will dare to mock at me ; But there the fine Gawain will wonder at me. And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me ; Gawain, who bade a thousand fare- wells to me, Lancelot, who coldly went, nor bade me one : And there the King will know me and my love. And there the Queen herself will pity me. And all the gentle court will welcome me. And after my long voyage I shall rest ! " "Peace," said her father, "O my child, ye seem Light-headed, for what force is yours to go So far, being sick ? and wherefore would ye look • On this proud fellow again, who scorns us all "? " Then the rough Torre began to heave and move, And bluster into stormy sobs and say, LANCELOT AND ELAINJU. 307 " I never loved him : an I meet with him, I care not howsoever great he be, Then will I strike at him and strike him down. Give me good fortmie, I will strike him dead, For this discomfort he hath done the house." To whom the gentle sister made reply, " Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault Not to love me, than it is mine to love Him of all men who seems to me the highest." " Highest % " the father answer'd, echoing " highest ? " (He meant to break the passion in lier) "nay. Daughter, I know not what you call the highest ; But this I know, for all the people know it. He loves the Queen, and in an open shame : And she returns his love in open shame ; If this be high, what is it to be low ? " Then spake the lily maid of Asto- lat: " Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I For anger : these are slanders : never yet Was noble man but made ignoble talk. He makes no friend who never made a foe. But now it is my glory to have loved One peerless, without stain : so let me pass. My father, howsoe'er I seem to you. Not all unhappy, having loved God's best And greatest, tho' my love had no return : Yet, seeing you desire your child to live. Thanks, but you work against your own desire ; For if I could believe the things you say I should but die the sooner ; wlieref ore cease. Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die." So when the ghostly man had come and gone, She with a face, bright as for sin for- given, Besought Lavaine to write as she devised A letter, word for word ; and Avhen he ask'd " Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? Then will I bear it gladly ; " she re- plied, "For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world. But I myself must bear it." Then he wrote The letter she devised ; which being writ And folded, " sweet father, tender and true, Deny me not," she said — "ye never yet Denied my fancies — this, however strange, My latest : lay the letter in my hand A little ere I die, and close the hand Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. And when the heat is gone from out my lieart. Then take the little bed on which I died For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's For richness, and me also like the Queen In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 308 LANCELOT AND ELALWE. And let there be prepared a chariot- bier To take me to the river, and a barge Be ready on the river, clothed in black. I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. There surely I shall speak for mine own self, And none of you can speak for me so well. And therefore let our dumb old man alone Go with me, he can steer and row, and he Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." She ceased : her father promised ; whereupon Slie grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh Her father laid the letter in her hand, And closed the hand upon it, and she died. So that day there was dole in Astolat. But when the next sun brake from underground, Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. There sat the lifelong creature of the house. Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck. Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. So those two brethren from the chariot took And on the black decks laid her in her bed, Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung The silken case with braided blazon ings. And kiss'd her quiet brows, and saying to her " Sister, farewell for ever," and again " Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears. Then rose the dumb old servitor, and tlie dead, Oar'd by the dumb, went upward witli the flood — In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter — all her bright hair stream- ing down — And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-fea- tured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead. But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved Audience of Guinevere, to give at last The price of half a realm, his costly gift. Hard-won and hardly won with bruise and blow. With deaths of others, and almost his own. The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : for he saw One of her house, and sent him to the Queen Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed With such and so unmoved a majesty She might have seem'd her statue, but that he. Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her feet For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye The shadow of some piece of pointed lace. In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls. And parted, laughing in his courtly heart. LANCELOT AND ELALNE. 309 All in an oriel on the summer side, Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream, rhey met, and Lancelot kneeling utter'd, " Queen, Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy, Take, what I had not won except for f, you, I These jewels, and make me happy, making them An armlet for the roundest arm on * earth. Or necklace for a neck to which the ' swan's Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are words : Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin In speaking, yet O grant my worship of it Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words Perchance, we both can pardon : but, my Queen, I hear of rumors flying thro' your court. Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife. Should have in it an absoluter trust To make up that defect : let rumors be: When did not rumors fly? these, as I trust Tliat you trust me in your own noble- ness, I may not well believe that you be- lieve." While thus he spoke, half turn'd away, the Queen Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine Leaf after leaf, and tore, and cast them off, Till all the place whereon she stood was green ; Then, when he ceased, in one cold passive hand Received at once and laid aside the gems There on a table near her, and replied : " It may be, I am quicker of belief Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. Our bond is not the bond of man and wife. This good is in it, whatsoe'er of ill. It can be broken easier. I for you This many a year have done despite and wrong To one whom ever in my heart of hearts I did acknowledge nobler. What are these ? Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice their worth Being your gift, had you not lost your own. To loyal hearts the value of all gifts Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! For her! for your new fancy. Only this Grant me, I pray you : have your joys apart. I doubt not that however changed, you keep So much of what is graceful : and myself Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy In which as Arthur's Queen I move and rule : So cannot speak my mind. An end to this ! A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls ; Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines me down : An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck O as much fairer — as a faith once fair Was richer than these diamonds — hers not mine — Nay, by the mother of our Lord him- self. Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will — She shall not have them." 110 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. Saying which she seized, And, thro' the casement standing wide for heat, Flung them, and down they flash 'd, and smote the stream. Then from the smitten surf ace flash'd, as it were. Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. Then while Sir Lancelot leant, in half disdain At love, life, all things, on the window ledge. Close underneath his eyes, and right across Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge Whereon the lily maid of Astolat Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge. On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. There two stood arm'd, and kept the door ; to whom. All up the marble stair, tier over tier, Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that ask'd •' What is it ? " but that oarsman's haggard face. As hard and still as is the face that men Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks On some cliff -side, appall'd them, and they said, " He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she, Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queen, so fair! Yea, but how pale ! what are they 1 flesli and blood ? Or come to take the King to Fairy- land ? For some do hold our Arthur cannot die. But that he passes into Fairyland." While thus they babbled of the King, the King Came girt with knights : then turn'd the tongueless man From the half-face to the full eye, and rose And pointed to the damsel, and the doors. So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid ; And reverently they bore her into hall. Then came the fine Gawain and won- der'd at her. And Lancelot later came and mused at her, And last the Queen herself, and pitied her: But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; this was all : " Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, Come, for you left me taking no fare- well, Hither, to take my last farewell of you. I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death. And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, And to all other ladies, I make moan. Pray for ray soul, and yield me burial. Pray for my soul thou too. Sir Lan- celot, As thou art a knight peerless." Thus he read ; And ever in the reading, lords and dames Wept, looking often from his face who read To hers which lay so silent, and at times, So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her lips, LANCELOT AND ELALNE. Ill Who had devised the letter, moved a gam. Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all : " My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, Know that for this most gentle maiden's death Right heavy am I ; for good she was and true, But loved me with a love beyond all love In women, whomsoever I have known. Yet to be loved makes not to love again ; Not at my years, however it hold in youth. I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave No cause, not willingly, for such a love : To this I call my friends in testimony. Her brethren, and her father, who himself Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use. To break her passion, some discourtesy Against my nature : what I could, I did. I left her and I bade her no farewell ; Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would have died, I might have put my wits to some rough use. And help'd her from herself." Then said the Queen (Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm) " Ye might at least have done her so much grace. Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her death." He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell, He adding, "Queen, she would not be content Save that I wedded her, which could not be. Then might she follow me thro' the world, she ask'd* It could not be. I told her that her love Was but the flash of youth, would darken down To rise hereafter in a stiller flame Toward one more worthy of her — then would I, More specially were he, she wedded, Ijoor, Estate them with large land and ter- ritory In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas, To keep them in all joyance : more than this I could not; this she would not, and she died." He pausing, Arthur answer'd, "O my knight. It will be to thy worship, as my knight, And mine, as head of all our Table Round, To see that she be buried worship- fully." So toward that shrine which then in all the realm Was richest, Arthur leading, slowly went The marshall'd Order of their Table Round, And Lancelot sad beyond his wont, to see, The maiden buried, not as one un- known. Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obse- quies. And mass, and rolling music, like a queen. And when the knights had laid her comely head Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings, Then Arthur spake among them. " Let her tomb Be costly, and her image thereupon, And let the shield of Lancelot at hei feet Be carven, and her lily in her hand- ;i2 LANCELOT AND ELALNE. And let the story of her dolorous voyage For all true hearts be blazon'd on her tomb In letters gold and azure! " which was wrought Thereafter; but when now the lords and dames And people, from the high door streaming, brake Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, AA^lio mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved apart, Drew near, and sigh'd in i^assing, " Lancelot, Forgive me; mine was jealousy in love." lie answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, " That is love's curse ; pass on, my Queen, forgiven." But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, Approach'd him, and with full affec- tion said. "Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have Most joy and most affiance, for I know What thou hast been in battle by my side. And many a time have watch'd thee at the tilt Strike down the lusty and long prac- tised kniglit. And let the younger and unskill'd goby To win his honor and to make his name, And loved tliy courtesies and thee, a man Made to be loved ; but now I would to God, Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, Thou couldst have loved tliis maiden, shaped, it seems, By God for thee alone, and from her face. If one may judge the living by the dead, Delicately pure and marvellously fair, Who might liave brought thee, now a lonely man Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons Born to the glory of thy name and fame, My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake." Then answer'd Lancelot, " Fair she was, my King, Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. To doubt her fairness were to want an eye. To doubt her pureness were to want a heart — Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love Could bind him, but free love will not be bound." "Free love, so bound, were freest," said the King. " Let love be free ; free love is for the best : ' And, after heaven, on our dull side of death. What should be best, if not so pure a i love j Clothed in so pure a loveliness 1 yet thee She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think, Unbound as yet, and gentle, as I know." And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he went, And at the inrunning of a little brook Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd The high reed wave, and lifted Tip his eyes And saw the barge that brought her moving down, Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said Low in himself, " Ah simple heart and sweet. THE HOLY GRAIL. 313 Ye loved me. damsel, surely with a love Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul ? Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now at last — Farewell, fair lily. 'Jealousy in love ? ' Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride ? Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love. May not your crescent fear for name and fame Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes ? Why did the King dwell on my name to me ? Mine own name shames me, seeming a reproach, Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake Caught from his mother's arms — the wondrous one Who passes thro' the vision of tlie night — She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns Heard on the winding waters, eve and morn She kiss'd me saying, ' Thou art fair, my child. As a king's son,' and often in her arms She hare me, pacing on the dusky mere. Would she had drown'd me in it, where'er it he ! For what am I ? what profits me my name Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, and have it : Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain ; Now grown a part of me : but what use in it ? To make men worse by making my sin known ? Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great ? Alas for Arthur's greatest kniglit, a man Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must break These bonds that so defame me : not without She wills it : would I, if she will'd it ' nay, Who knows ? but if I would not, then may God, I pray him, send a sudden Angel down To seize me b}' the hair and bear me far. And fling me deep in that forgotten mere. Among the tumbled fragments of the hills." So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorse- ful pain. Not knowing he should die a holy man. THE HOLY GRAIL. From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, Whom Arthur and his knighthood call'd The Pure, Had pass'd into the silent life of prayer, Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl The helmet in an abbey far away From Camelot, there, and not long after, died. And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, Ambrosius, loved him nnich beyond the rest, And honor'd him, and wrought into his heart A way by love that waken'd love within. To answer that which came : and as they sat Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darken- ing half The cloisters, on a gustful April morn That puff' d the swaying branches into smoke Above them, ere the summer when he died, 314 THE HOLY GRAIL. The monk Ambrosius question'd Percivale : " brother, I have seen this yew- tree smoke, Spring after spring, for half a liun- dred years : For never have I known the world without, Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale : but thee. When first thou earnest — sucli a courtesy Spake thro' the limbs and in the voice — I knew For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall; For good ye are and bad, and like to coins, Some true, some light, but every one of you Stamp'd with the image of the King ; and now Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round, My brother ? was it earthly passion crost 1 " " Nay," said the knight ; " for no such passion mine But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail Drove me from all vainglories, rival- ries, And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out Among us in the jousts, while women watch Who wins, who falls ; and waste the spiritual strength Within us, better offer'd up to Heaven." To whom the monk : " The Holy Grail ! — I trust We are green in Heaven's eyes ; but here too much We moulder — as to things without I mean — Yet one of your own knights, a guest \ of ours. Told us of this in our refectory, But spake witli such a sadness and so low We heard not half of what he said. What is it ? The phantom of a cup that comes and goes ? " " Nay, monk ! what phantom ? " answer'd Percivale. a " The cup, the cup itself, from which | our Lord \ Drank at the last sad supper with his own. This, from the blessed land of Aro- ma t — After the day of darkness, when the dead Went wandering o'er Moriah — the good saint Arimatha3an Joseph, journeying brought To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. And there awhile it bode ; and if a ' man Could touch or see it, he was heal'd at once. By faith, of all his ills. But then the times Grew to such evil that the holy cup Was caught away to Heaven, and disappear'd." To whom the monk : '• From our old books I know That Joseph came of old to Glaston- bury, And there the heathen Prince, Arvi- ragus. Gave him an isle of marsh whereon to build ; And there he built with wattles from the marsh A little lonely church in days of yore, For so they say, these books of ours, but seem Mute of this miracle, far as I have read. But who first saw the holv thing to- day ^ " THE HOLY GRAIL. 315 "A woman," answer'd Percivale, "a nun, And one no further off in blood from me Than sister; and if ever holy maid With knees of adoration wore the stone, A holy maid ; tho' never maiden glow'd. But tliat was in her earlier maiden- hood, With sucli a fervent flame of human love, Which being rudely blunted, glanced and shot Only to holy things ; to prayer and praise She gave herself, to fast and alms. And yet, Nun as she was, the scandal of tlie Court, Sin against Arthur and the Table Round, And the strange sound of an adulter- ous race. Across the iron grating of her cell Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all the more. " And he to whom she told her sins, or what Her all but utter whiteness held for sin, A man wellnigh a hundred winters old, Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, A legend handed down thro' five or six, And each of these a hundred winters old. From our Lord's time. And when King Arthur made His Table Round, and all men's hearts became Clean for a season, surely he had thought That now the Holy Grail would come again ; But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it would come, And heal the world of all their wicked- ness ! ' O Father ! ' ask'd the maiden, ' miglit it come To me by prayer and fasting 1 ' ' Nay,' said he, ' I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow." And so she pray'd and fasted, till the sun Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, and I thought She might have risen and floated when I saw her. "For on a day she sent to speak with nie. And when she came to speak, behold her e}' es Beyond my knowing of them, beauti- ful. Beyond all knowing of them, won- derful, Beautiful in the light of holiness. And ' O my brother Percivale,' she said, ' Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail : For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound As of a silver horn from o'er the hills Blown, and I thought, " It is not Arthur's use To hunt by moonlight ; " and the slen- der sound As from a distance beyond distance grew Coming upon me — O never harp nor horn, Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand. Was like that music as it came ; and then Stream'd tliro' my cell a cold and silver beam, And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive. Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed With rosy colors leaping on the wall; And then the music faded, and the Grail Past, and the beam decay'd, and from the walls 316 THE HOLY GRAIL. The rosy quiverinc^s died into the night. So now the Holy Thing is here again Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, And tell th}-- brother knights to fast and pray, That so percliance the vision may be seen ^y thee and those, and all the world be heal'd.' "■ Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of this To all men ; and myself fasted and pray'd Always, and many among us many a week Fasted and pray'd even to the utter- most, Expectant of the wonder that would be. " And one there was among us, ever moved Among us in white armor, Galahad. ' God make thee good as thou art beautiful,' Said Arthur, Avlien he dubb'd him knight ; and none, In so young youth, was ever made a knight Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when he heard My sister's vision, fiU'd me with amaze; His eyes became so like her own, they seem'd Hers, and himself her brother more than I. " Sister or brother none had he ; but some Call'd him a son of Lancelot, and some said Begotten by enchantment — chatterers they. Life birds of passage piping up and down, That gape for flies — we know not whence they come ; For when was Lancelot wanderingly lewd '? " But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair Which made a silken mat-woi'k for her feet ; And out of this she plaited broad and long A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread And crimson in the belt a strange device, A crimson grail within a silver beam ; And saw the bright boy-knight, and bound it on him. Saying, ' jNIy knight, my love, my knight of heaven, O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, I, maiden, round thee, maiden, ])ind my belt. Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have seen. And break thro' all, till one will crown thee king Far in the spiritual city : ' and as she spake She sent her deathless passion in her eyes Thro' him, and made him hers, and laid her mind On him, and he believed in her belief. " Then came a year of miracle : O brother. In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, Fashion'd by Merlin ere he past away. And carven with strange figures ; and in and out The figures, like a serpent, ran a scroll Of letters in a tongue no man could read. And Merlin call'd it ' The Siege peril- ous.' Perilous for good and ill ; ' for there,' he said, ' No man could sit but he should lose himself : ' And once by misadvertence Merlin sat In his own chair, and so was lost ; but he, THE HOLY GRAIL. 317 Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom, Cried, 'If I lose myself, I save my- self!' " Then on a summer night it came to pass, Whils the great banquet lay along the hall. That Galahad would sit down in Mer- lin's chair. " And all at once, as there we sat, we heard A cracking and a riving of the roofs, And rending, and a blast, and over- head Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. And in the blast there smote along the hall A beam of light seven times more clear than day : And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail All over cover'd with a luminous cloud, And none might see who bare it, and it past. But every knight beheld his fellow's face As in a glory, and all the knights arose, And staring each at other like dumb men Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow. "I sware a vow before them all, that I, Because I had not seen the Grail, would ride A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it. Until I found and saw it, as the nun My sister saw it ; and Galahad sware the vow. And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, sware. And Lancelot sware, and many among the knights^ And Gawain sware, and louder than the rest." Then spake the monk Ambrosius, asking him, " What said the King % Did Arthur take the row % " " Nay, for my lord," said Percivale, "the King, Was not in hall : for early that same day, Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit hold. An outraged maiden sprang into the hall Crying on help : for all her shining hair Was smear'd with earth, and either milky arm Red-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she wore Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn In tempest: so the King arose and went To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild bees That made such honey in his realm. Howbeit Some little of this marvel he too saw, Returning o'er the plain that then began To darken under Camelot ; whence the King Look'd up, calling aloud, ' Lo, there ! the roofs Of our great hall are roU'd in thunder- smoke ! Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the bolt.' For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours, As having there so oft with all his knights Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaven. "O brother, had you known our mighty hall, Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago ! For all the sacred mount of Camelot, And all the dim ricli city, roof by roof, Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 318 THE HOLY GRAIL. By grove, and garden-lawn, and rush- ing brook, Climbs to tlie mighty hall that Merlin built. And four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall : And in the lowest beasts are slaying men. And in the second men are slaying beasts, And on the third are warriors, perfect men, And on the fourth are men with grow- ing wings. And over all one statue in the mould Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown, And peak'd wings pointed to the Northern Star. And eastward fronts the statue, and the crown And both the wings are made of gold, and flame At sunrise till the people in far fields, Wasted so often by the heathen hordes, Behold it, crying, ' We have still a King.' " And, brother, had you known our hall within. Broader and higher than any in all the lands ! Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur's wars. And all the light that falls upon the board Streams thro' the twelve great battles of our King. Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end, Wealthy with wandering lines of mount and mere. Where Arthur finds the brand Excali- bur. And also one to the west, and counter to it. And blank : and who sliall blazon it ? when and how ? — there, perchance, when all cur wars are done. The brand Excalibur will be cast away. " So to this hall full quicklj rode the King, In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought. Dreamlike, should on the sudden van- ish, wrapt In unremorseful folds of rolling fire. And in he rode, and up I glanced, and saw The golden dragon sparkling over all : And many of those who burnt the hold, their arms Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed with smoke, and sear'd, FoUow'd, and in among bright faces, ours. Full of the vision, prest : and then the King Spake to me, being nearest, 'Perci- vale,' (Because the hall was all in tumult — some Vowing, and some protesting), ' what is this \ ' " O brother, when I told him what had chanced. My sister's vision, and the rest, his face Darken'd, as I have seen it more than once. When some brave deed seem'd to be done in vain, Darken ; and ' Woe is me, my knights,' he cried, ' Had I been here, ye had not sworn the vow.' Bold was mine answer, * Had thyself been here, My King, thou wouldst have sworn.' ' Yea, yea,' said he, ' Art thou so bold and hast not seen the Grail ? ' " ' Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I saw the light, THE HOLY GRAIL. 319 But since I did not see the Holy Thing, I sware a vow to follow it till I saw.' " Then when he ask'd us, knight by knight, if any Had seen it, all their answers were as one : 'Nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn our vows.' " ' Lo now,' said Arthur, ' have ye seen a cloud ? What go ye into the wilderness to see 1 ' " Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a voice Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, call'd, 'But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry — " O Galahad, and Galahad, follow me." ' " * Ah, Galahad, Galahad,' said the King, ' for such As thou art is the vision, not for these. Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign — Holier is none, my Percivale, than she — A sign to maim this Order which I made. But ye, that follow but the leader's beir (Brother, the King was hard upon his knights) * Taliessin is our fullest throat of song, And one hath sung and all the dumb will sing. Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath over- borne Five knights at once, and every younger knight, Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, Till overborne by one, he learns — and ye, What are ye ? Galahads ? — no, nor Percivales ' (For thus it pleased the King to range me close After Sir Galahad); 'nay,' said he, ' but men With strength and will to right the wrong'd, of power To lay the sudden heads of violence flat, Knights that in twelve great battles splash'd and dyed The strong White Horse in his own heathen blood — But one liath seen, and all the blind will see. Go, since your vows are sacred, being made : Yet — for ye know the cries of all my realm Pass thro' this hall — how often, my knights. Your places being vacant at my side. This chance of noble deeds will come and go Unchallenged, while ye follow wan- dering fires Lost in the quagmire ! Many of you, yea most. Return no more : ye think I show my- self Too dark a prophet : come now, let us meet The morrow morn once more in one full field Of gracious pastime, that once more the King, Before ye leave him for this Quest, may count The yet-unbroken strength of all his knights. Rejoicing in that Order which he made.' " So when the sun broke next from under ground. All the great table of our Arthur closed And clash'd in such a tourney and so full. So many lances broken — never yet Had Camelot seen the like, since Arthur came; 320 THE HOLY GRAIL. And I myself and Galahad, for a strength Was in us from the vision, overthrew So many knights that all the people cried, And almost burst the barriers in their heat. Shouting, ' Sir Galahad and Sir Per- civale ! ' ** But when the next day brake from under ground — O brother, had you known our Came- lot, Built by old kings, age after age, so old The King himself had fears that it would fall. So strange, and rich, and dim ; for where the roofs Totter'd toward each other in the sky. Met foreheads all along the street of those Who watch'd us pass ; and lower, and where the long Rich galleries, lady-laden, weigh'd the necks Of dragons clinging to the crazy walls. Thicker than drops from thunder, sliowers of flowers Fell as we past; and men and boys astride On wyvern, lion, dragon, grifSn, swan, At all the corners, named us each by name. Calling ' God speed ! ' but in the ways below The knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor Wept, and the King himself could hardly speak For grief, and all in middle street the Queen, Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and shriek'd aloud, ' This madness has come on us for our sins.' So to the Gate of the three Queens we came, "Where Arthur's wars are render'd mystically, And thence departed every one his way. " And I was lifted up in heart, and thought Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists, How my strong lance had beaten down the knights. So many and famous names; and never yet Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor eartli so green, For all my blood danced in me, and 1 knew That I should light upon the Holy Grail. " Thereafter, the dark warning of our King, That most of us would follow wander- ing fires. Came like a driving gloom across my mind. Then every evil word I had spoken once. And every evil thought I had thought of old. And every evil deed I ever did. Awoke and cried, * This Quest is not for thee.' And lifting up mine eyes, I found my- self Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns. And I was thirsty even unto death ; And I, too, cried, ' This Quest is not for thee.' " And on I rode, and when I thought my thirst Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a brook, With one sharp rapid, where the crisp- ing white Play'd ever back upon the sloping wave. And took both ear and eye; and o'er the brook Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook THE HOLY GRAIL. 321 Fallen, and on the lawns. ' I will rest here,' I said, ' I am not worthy of the Quest ; ' But even while I drank the brook, and ate The goodly apples, all these things at once Fell into dust, and I was left alone, And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns. "And then behold a woman at a door Spinning ; and fair the house whereby she sat, And kind the woman's eyes and inno- cent. And all her bearing gracious ; and she rose Opening her arms to meet me, as who should say, ' Rest here ; ' but when I touch'd her, lo ! she, too, Fell into dust and nothing, and the house Became no better than a broken shed. And in it a dead babe ; and also this Fell into dust, and I was left alone. "And on I rode, and greater was my thirst. Then flash'd a yellow gleam across the world. And where it smote the plowshare in the field. The plowman left his plowing, and fell down Before it ; where it glitter'd on her pail. The milkmaid left her milking, and fell down Before it, and I knew not why, but thought ' The sun is rising,' tho' the sun had risen. Then was I ware of one that on me moved In golden armor with a crown of gold About a casque all jewels ; and his horse In golden armor jewell'd everywhere : And on the splendor came, flashing me blind ; And seem'd to me the Lord of all the world, Being so huge. But when I thought he meant To crush mc, moving on me, lo ! he, too, Open'd his arms to embrace me as he came, And up I went and touch'd him, and he, too. Fell into dust, and I was left alone And wearying in a land of sand and thorns. " And I rode on and found a mighty hill. And on the top, a city wall'd : the spires Prick'd with incredible pinnacles into heaven. And by the gateway stirr'd a crowd ; and these Cried to me climbing, ' Welcome, Per- civale ! Thou mightiest and thou purest among men ! ' And glad was I and clomb, but found at top No man, nor an}' voice. And thence I past Far thro' a ruinous city, and I saw That man had once dwelt there ; but there I found Only one man of an exceeding age. * Where is that goodly company,' said I, * That so cried out upon me ? ' and he had Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasp'd, ' Whence and what art thou ? ' and even as he spoke Fell into dust, and disappear'd, and I Was left alone once more, and cried in grief, 'Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself And touch it, it will crumble into dust.' "And thence I dropt into a lowly vale, ^ 322 THE HOLY GRAIL. Low as the hill was high, and where the vale Was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby A holy hermit in a hermitage, To whom I told my pliantoms, and he said: " * O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all ; For when the Lord of all things made Himself Naked of glory for His mortal change, " Take thou my robe," she said, " for all is thine," And all her form shone forth with sudden light So that the angels were amazed, and she Follow'd Him down, and like a flying star Led on the gray-hair'd Avisdom of the east ; But her thou hast not known : for what is this Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins ? Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself As Galahad.' When the hermit made an end. In silver armor suddenly Galahad shone Before us, and against the chapel door Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt in prayer. And there the hermit slaked my burn- ing thirst. And at the sacring of the mass I saw The holy elements alone ; but he, ' Saw ye no more ? I, Galahad, saw the Grail, The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine : I saw the fiery face as of a child That smote itself into the bread, and went; And hither am I come ; and never yet Hath what thy sister taught me first to see, This Holy Thing, f ail'd from my side, nor come Cover'd, but moving with me night and day, Fainter by day, but always in the night Blood-red, and sliding down the black- en'd marsh Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below Blood-red, And in the strength of this I rode, Shattering all evil customs every- where. And past thro' Pagan realms, and made them mine, And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and bore them down, And broke thro' all, and in the strength of this Come victor. But my time is hard at hand, And hence I go ; and one will crown me king Far in the spiritual city; and come thou, too. For thou shalt see the vision when I go.' " While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine. Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew One with him, to believe as he be- lieved. Then, w^hen the day began to wane, we went. "There rose a hill that none but man could climb, Scarr'd with a hundred wintry water- courses — Storm at the top, and when we gain'd it, storm Round us and death; for every mo- ment glanced His silver arms and gloom'd : so quick and thick The lightnings here and there to left and right Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead, THE HOLY GRAIL. 323 Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death, Sprang into fire : and at the base we found On either hand, as far as eye could see, A great black swamp and of an evil smell. Part black, part whiten'd with the bones of men. Not to be crost, save that some ancient king Had built a way, where, link'd with many a bridge, A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, And every bridge as quickly as he crost Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I yearn'd To follow ; and thrice above him all the heavens Open'd and blazed with thunder such as seem'd Shoutings of all the sons of God : and first At once I saw him far on the great Sea, In silver-shining armor starry-clear ; And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud. And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat. If boat it were — I saw not whence it came. And when the heavens open'd and blazed again Koaring, I saw him like a silver star — And had he set tlie sail, or had the boat Become a living creature clad with wings 1 And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung Redder than any rose, a joy to me. For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. Then in a moment when they blazed again Opening, I saw the least of little stars Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star I saw the spiritual city and all her spires And gateways in a glory like one pearl — No larger, tho' the goal of all the saints — Strike from the sea ; and from the star there shot A rose-red sparkk' to the city, and there Dwelt, and I know it was the Holy Grail, Which never eyes on earth again shall see. Then fell the floods of heaven drown- ing the deep. And how my feet recrost the death- ful ridge No memory in me lives ; but that I touch'd The chapel-doors at dawn I know; and thence Taking my war-horse from the holy man. Glad that no phantom vext me more, return'd To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's wars." "0 brother," ask'd Ambrosius, — "for in sooth These ancient books — and they would win thee — teem, Only I find not there this Holy Grail, With miracles and marvels like to these. Not all unlike ; which of tentime I read, Who read but on my breviary with ease, Till my head swims ; and then go f ort]^' and pass Down to the little thorpe that lies so close. And almost plaster'd like a martin's nest To these old walls — and mingle with our folk ; And knowing every honest face of theirs .?24 rill: ll()l. )■ CK.MI Am vvi'll iiH cvrr Mlicplicid luicw Ink hIhm'I), Ami t'vri'v lionicly Hccr.'l in llicir IichiMh, DcliK^lit inyNcir with ^oHnip atid old wivcH, And IIIn mid jk-Iich, mid hTlhiiif^N, lyiii^H ill, And iiiirlliriil hii yiiiKH, cliildrcn ol llic |>lll('C, 'riiiit liiivc no nii'miin^'. Iiiill' ii l('ii).',ii(' iiwiiy : Or InlliiiK nindotn siiniilddcH when IIk'V I'iHC, (>li)inrriiigN mid cliiilli'iingH iit Mic imirkri rroMM, Ucjoici'.Hiniill nimi, in IIiIh hjiiiiII world ol' mine, Veil, <>V('n in llicir liriiH iind in llnir O hrotlicr, Having lliiN Sir (liiliilitid, ('mnc vc on none Inil plimihnns in your (|iH'Hl, No nimi, no woinmi ' " 'riicii Sir I'tTcivalc : " All iin>n, (o (»nc HO hound l»y kiicIi ii vow, And wonu'n were an plianlonis. (), \\\y lir«)llu ol Ihc snail and A\ and Hnalv(>, In jfi'iiKH and l)iird(M It, I wan chaiiKt'd to wan And nu were hers. And while I tarried, every day she set /\ |ian<|net rielu'r than the day hel'ore \\\ me; lor all her lon^in^' and her will Was toward nie as ol' old; till one fair morn, I walking to and I'ro heside a stream That llash'd a<'ross her orchard under- neatli Her castle walls, slic stole upon \\\\ walk. And calling nic the ^n'catcst of all knights, I'lmhraccd nu', and so kiss'd me IIm' first time, And ^ave herself and all her wealth to me. Then 1 reinemher'd Arthur's warnin)^ word. That most of ns would follow ^^all dcriii^' (Ires, And the (^hiest faded in my heai't. Anon, The heaHt knight, Our Lady says it, and wi' well helicvc: U't'd thou our liady.and rule over Ufl, And tlnni shall he as Arthur in our land.' O me, my lirothcr! hut one ni^ht iny vow yy/A HOLY i,i cure I'or inc Isvcr so litll to lliis poor lioiis(> (d' ours VVIicic nil llic hrflliicn iirc so liiird, (o wiiriii My cold lictit-t with ii rticnd : hiit (> the pity To iind thine own llrst love one*' more — to hold, Hold her a. wealthy lii'ide within thine amis. Or all hilt hold, and then - cast her aside, I''ore};()inn' all her sweetness, like a. weed. I<'or we that want the warmth (d' donhle life. We thai are planned with dr<'ams of soinethinn' sweet I5e\()iid all sweetness ill a life so rich,- Ah.hleNsed Lord, I speak loo earthly wise, Seeing I never slray'd lM>yoiid the e(dl, Uiil live like an old had^er in his earth, With earlli alioiit him everywhere, .lespite All last and penance. Saw ye none heside. None of your knights ' " Vea so," said I'ercivale : "<)ne iiiKhl. my pathway swervini^i, east, I saw The pelican on tlie cas(Hie ol" our Sir Hors All In the middle (d' the rising' moon : And toward him Hpnrr'd, and hail'd him, and he me, And I'Mcli made joy of either ; then he nsk'd, ' Where is he/ hast thou seen him — liiincelot '. — ( )nce.' Said I'.ood Sir llors, ' he dasli'd across me — mad, And maddening vvluil he rode; and when I cried, " h'ldest thou then so holly on a <|iiest So holy," liiineelot shouted. " Stay me not ! I ha\(' heen the slug).',nr(l, niid I ridt* apace, h'or now there is a lion in the way." S() vanish'd.' "I'hcn Sir Kors had ridden on Softly, and sorrowing lor our lian- cclot, because his former niiidne^s, once the talk And scandal of our tahle, had ri'- t urn'd : l''or Lancelot's kith and kin so wor ship him That ill to him is ill lo them ; to Hors Iteyoiid the rest: he well had heen content Not to have seen, so 1/aiicelol might have seen, The ll(dy (*up of healing; and, indeed, IScing so clouded with his griid' and love, Sniiill li Well might I wish to veil her wicked* ness. But were I such a King, it could not be." Then to her own sad heart mutterM the Queen, " Will the child kill me with her inno- cent talk % " But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, If this false traitor have displaced his lord, Grieve with the common grief of all the realm ? " " Yea," said the maid, " this is all woman's grief, That she is woman, whose disloyal life Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round Which good King Arthur founded, years ago. With signs and miracles and wonders, there At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen." Then thought the Queen within her- self again, " Will the child kill me with her fool- ish prate ? " But openly she spake and said to her, " little maid, shut in by nunnery walls. What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? " GUINEVERE. 361 To whom the little novice garru- lously, " Yea, but I know : the land was full of signs And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. So said my father, and himself was knight Of the great Table — at the founding of it; And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain After the sunset, down the coast, he heard Strange music, and he paused, and turning — there, All down the lonely coastof Lyonnesse, Each with a beacon-star upon his head, And with a wild sea-light about his feet. He saw them — headland after head- land flame Far on into the rich heart of the west : And in the light the white mermaiden swam. And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the land, To which the little elves of chasm and cleft Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. So said my father — yea, and further- more. Next morning, while he past the dim- lit woods, Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower. That shook beneath them, as the this- tle shakes When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed : And still at evenings on before his horse The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke Flying, for all the land was full of life. And when at last he came to Camelot, A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; And in the hall itself was such a feast As never man had dream'd ; for every knight Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served By hands unseen ; and even as he said Down in the cellars merry bloated things Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and men Before the coming of the sinful Queen." Tlien spake the Queen and some- what bitterly, " Were they so glad ? ill prophets were they all. Spirits and men : could none of them foresee, Not even thy wise father with his signs And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm % " To wiiom the novice garrulously again, " Yea, one, a bard ; of whom my father said, Full many a noble war-song had he sung, Ev'nin the presence of an enemy's fleet, Between the steep cliff and the com- ing wave ; And many a mystic lay of life and death Had chanted on the smoky mountain- tops. When round him bent the spirits of the hills With all their dewy hair blown back like flame : So said my father — and that night the bard Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King 362 GUINEVERE. As wellnigh more than man, and rail'd at those Who call'd him the false son of Gor- loi's : For there was no man knew from whence lie came ; But after tempest, when the long wave broke All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, There came a day as still as heaven, and then They found a naked child upon the sands Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea ; And that was Arthur ; and they fos- ter'd him Till he by miracle was approven King : And that his grave should be a mystery From all men, like his birth ; and could he find A woman in her womanhood as great As he was in his manhood, then, he sang. The twain together well might change the world. But even in the middle of his song He f alter'd, and his hand fell from the harp. And pale he turn'd, and reel'd, and would have fall'n, But that they stay'd him up ; nor would he tell His vision ; but what doubt that he foresaw This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ? " Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! they have set her on, Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns. To play upon me," and bow'd lier head nor spake. Whereat the novice crying, witli clasp'd hands. Shame on her own garrulity garru- lously. Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue Full often, " and, sweet lady, if I seem To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales Which my good father told me, check me too Nor let me shame my fatlier's mem- ory, one Of noblest manners, tho' liimself would say Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he died, Kiird in a tilt, come next, five sum- mers back, And left me ; but of others who remain, And of the two first-famed for courtesy — And pray you check me if I ask amiss — Hut pray you, which had noblest, while you moved ^Vmong them, Lancelot or our lord tlie King ? " Then the pale Queen look'd up and answer'd her, " Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, AVas gracious to all ladies, and the same In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and the King In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and these two Were the most nobly-manner'd men of all; For manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature, and of noble mind." " Yea," said the maid, "be manners such fair fruit ? Then Lancelot's needs must be a thou- sand-fold Less noble, being, as all rumor runs. The most disloyal friend in all the world." To which a mournful answer made the Queen : " () closed about ])y narrowing nun nerv-walls, GUINEVERE. 363 What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe ? If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight. Were for one hour less noble than himself. Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, And weep for her who drew him to his doom." "Yea," said the little novice, "I pray for both ; But I should all as soon believe that his, Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen." So she, like many another babbler, hurt Whom she would soothe, and harm'd where she would heal ; For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, " Such as thou art be never maiden more For ever ! thou their tool, set on to plague And play upon, and harry me, petty spy And traitress." When that storm of anger brake From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, White as her veil, and stood before the Queen As tremulously as foam upon the beach Stands in a wind, readv to break and fly, And when the Queen had added " Get thee hence," Fled frighted. Then that other left alone Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, Saying in herself, " The simple, fear- ful child Meant nothing, but my own too-fear- ful guilt, Simpler than any child, betrays itself. But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. For what is true repentance but in thought — Not ev'n in inmost thought to think again The sins that made the past so pleasant to us : And I have sworn never to see him more. To see him more." And ev'n in saying this, Her memory from old habit of the mind AVent slipping back upon the golden days In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came. Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, Ambassador, to lead her to his lord Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead Of his and her retinue moving, they. Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time AVas may time, and as yet no sin was dream'd,) Rode under groves that look'd a para- dise Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earth, And on from hill to hill, and every day Beheld at noon in some delicious dale The silk pavilions of King Arthui raised For brief repast or afternoon repose By couriers gone before ; and on again. Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw 364 GUINE,V£RE. The Dragon of the great Pendragon- ship, That crown'd the state pavilion of the King, Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, And moving thro' the past uncon- sciously, Came to that point where first she saw the King Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold, High, self-contain'd, and passionless, not like him, " Not like my Lancelot " — while she brooded thus And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again. There rode an armed warrior to the doors. A murmuring whisper thro' the nun- nery ran, Then on a sudden a cry " The King." She sat Stiff-stricken, listening ; but when armed feet Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell. And grovell'd with her face against the floor : There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King : And in the darkness heard his armed feet Pause by her ; then came silence, then a voice, Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed, the King's : '* Liest thou here so low, the child of one I honor'd, happy, dead before thy shame 1 Well is it that no child is born of thee. The children born of thee are sword and fire. Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea; Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, Have everywhere about this land of Christ In twelve great battles ruining over- thrown. And knowest thou now from whence I come — from him. From waging bitter war with him : and he. That did not shun to smite me in worse way, Had yet that grace of courtesv in him left. He spared to lift his hand against the King Who made him knight : but many a knight was slain ; And many more, and all his kith and kin Clave to him, and abode in his own land. And many more when Modred raised revolt, Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. And of this remnant will I leave a part, True men who love me still, for whom I live. To guard thee in the wild hour coming on. Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. Fear not : thou shalt be guarded till my death. GUINEVERE. 365 Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies Have err'd not, that I march to meet my doom. Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me, That I the King should greatly care to live ; For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. Bear with me for the last time while I show, Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou liast sinn'd. For when the Roman left us, and their law Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways Were fill'd with rapine, here and tliere a deed Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong. But I was first of all the kings who drew The knighthood-errant of this realm and all The realms together under me, their Head, In that fair Order of my Table Round, A glorious company, the flower of men. To serve as model for the mighty world. And be the fair beginning of a time. I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To honor his own word as if his God's, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won hete^ for indeed I knew ^ If * Of no more subtle master under heaven - Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought, and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame. And love of truth, and all that makes a man. And all this throve before I wedded thee. Believing, * lo mine helpmate, one to feel My purpose and rejoicing in my Joy.' Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot ; Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt ; Then others, following these my mightiest knights, And drawing foul ensample from fair names, Sinn'd also, till tlie loathsome opposite Of all my heart had destined did ob- tain, And all thro' thee ! so that this life of mine I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong. Not greatly care to lose ; but rather ^ think How sad it were for Arthur, should he live, To sit once more within his lonely hall, And miss the wonted number of mv knights. And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds As in the golden days before thy sin. For which of us, who might be left, could speak Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk Thy shadow still would glide fron; room to room, 366 GUINEVERE. And I should evermore be vext with thee In hanging robe or vacant orna- ment, Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thy lord, Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee, t am not made of so slight elements. V^et must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. I hold that man the worst of public foes Who either for his own or children's sake, To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house : For being thro' his cowardice allow'd Her station, taken everywhere for pure. She like a new disease, unknown to men, Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd. Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns ! Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart Than thou reseated in thy place of light. The mockery of my people, and their bane." He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. Far off a solitary trumpet blew. Then waiting by the doors the war- horse neigh'd As at a friend's voice, and he spake again : " Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laying there thy golden head. My pride in happier summers, at my feet. The wrath which forced my thoughts on the fierce law. The doom of treason and the flaming death, (When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. The pang — which while I weigh'd thy heart with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, Made my tears burn — is also past — in part. And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God Forgives : do thou for thine own soul the rest. But how to take last leave of all I loved ? golden hair, with which I used to play Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form. And beauty such as never woman wore, Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee — 1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine. But Lancelot's : nay, they never were the King's. I cannot take thy hand; that too is flesh. And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and mine own flesh, Here looking down on thine polluted, cries * I loathe thee : ' yet not less, Guine- vere, For I was ever virgin save for thee, My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. GUINEVERE. 367 Let no man dream but that I love thee still. Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul. And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, Hereafter in that world where all are pure We two may meet before high God, and thou Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know I am thine husband — not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. Thro' the thick night I hear the trum- pet blow : They summon me their King to lead mine hosts Far down to that great battle in the west. Where I must strike against the man they call My sister's son — no kin of mine, who leagues With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights, Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet myself Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. And thou remaining here wilt learn the event; But hither shall I never come again. Never lie by thy side ; see thee no more — Farewell ! " And while she grovell'd at his feet. She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, And in the darkness o'er her fallen head. Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, Rose the pale Queen, and in her an- guish found The casement : " peradventure," so she thought, " If I might see his face, and not be seen." And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her for evermore. And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd, To vvhicli for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain ; so she did not see the face. Which then was as an angel's, but she saw. Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights. The Dragon of the great Pendragon- ship Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. And even then he turn'd ; and more and more The moony vapor rolling round the King, Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And grayer, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud " Oh Arthur ! " there her voice brake suddenly. Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale — Went on in passionate utterance : " Gone — my lord ! Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! 368 GUINEVERE. And he forgave me, and I could not speak. Farewell ? I should have answer'd his farewell. His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord tlie King, My own true lord ! how dare I call him mine % The shadow of another cleaves to me, And makes me one pollution : he, the King, Call'd me polluted: shall I kill my- self? What help in that ? I cannot kill my sin. If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame ; No, nor by living can I live it down. The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, The months will add themselves and make the years. The years will roll into the centuries, And mine will ever be a name of scorn. I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. Let the world be ; that is but of the world What else ? what hope ? I think there was a hope, Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope ; His hope he call'd it; but he never mocks. For mockery is the fume of little hearts. And blessed be the King, who hath forgiven My wickedness to him, and left me hope That in "mine own heart I can live down sin And be his mate hereafter in the heavens Before high God. Ah great and gen- tle lord, Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint Among his warring senses, to thy knights — To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took Full easily all impressions from be- low. Would not look up, or half-despised tlie height To which I would not or I could not climb — I thought I could not breathe in that tine air That pure severity of perfect light — I wanted warmth and color which I found In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art. Thou art the highest and most human too. Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none Will tell the King I love him tho' so late ? Now — ere he goes to the great Bat- tle? none: Myself must tell him in that purer life, But now it were too daring. Ah mv God, What might I not have made of thy fair world, Had I but loved thy highest creature here ? It was my duty to have loved the highest : It surely was my profit had I known : It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it. Not Lancelot, nor another." Here her hand Grasp'd, made her vail her eyes : she look'd and saw The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, " Yea, little maid, for am / not for- given ? " Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns All round her, weeping ; and her heart was loosed Within her, and she wept with these and said, THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 369 Ye know me then, that wicked ! Who ransom'd us, and haler too than one, who broke The vast design and purpose of the King. shut me round with narrowing nunnery walls, Meek maidens, from the voices crying ' shame.' 1 must not scorn myself : he loves me still. Let no one dream but that he loves me still. So let me, if you do not shudder at me, Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you; Wear black and white, and be a nun like you. Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts ; Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys. But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites ; Pray and be pray'd for; lie before your shrines ; Do each low office of your holy house ; Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole To poor sick people, richer in His eyes I; And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own ; And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer The sombre close of that voluptuous day. Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King." She said: they took her to them selves ; and she i Still hoping, fearing "is it yet too late ? " Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life. And for the power of ministration in her. And likewise for the high rank she had borne. Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past To where beyond these voices there is peace. End of " The Bound Table.' THE PASSING That story which the bold Sir Bedi- vere. First made and latest left of all the knights. Told, when the man was no more than a voice In the white winter of his age, to those With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. For on their march to westward, Bedivere, Who slowly paced among the slumber- ing host. Heard in his tent the moanings of the King: OF ARTHUR. "I found Him in the shining of the stars, I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields. But in His ways with men I find Him not. I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. me ! for why is all around us here As if some lesser god had made the world. But had not force to shape it as he would. Till the High God behold it from be- yond. And enter it, and make it beautiful 1 370 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. Or else as if the world were wholly fair, But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, And have not power to see it as it is : Perchance, because we see not to the close ; — For I, being simple, thought to work His will. And have but stricken with the sword in vain ; And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm Reels back into the beast, and is no more. My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death : Nay — God my Christ — I pass but shall not die." Then, ere that last weird battle in the west, There came on Arthur sleeping, Ga- wain kill'd In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown Along a wandering wind, and past his ear Went shrilling, " Hollow, hollow all delight ! Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shalt pass away. Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for thee. And I am blown along a wandering wind, And hollow, hollow, hollow all de- light." And fainter onward, like wild birds that change Their season in the night and wail their way From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim cries Far in the moonlit haze among tlie hills, As of some lonely city sack'd by night, When all is lost, and wife and child with wail Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke and call'd, " Who spake ? A dream. light upon the wind, Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are these dim cries Thine ? or doth all that liaunts the waste and wild Mourn, knowing it will go along with me ? " This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake : "0 me, my King, let pass whatever will. Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field ; But in their stead thy name and glory cling To all high places like a golden cloud For ever : but as yet thou shalt not Light was Gawain in life, and light in death Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man ; And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise — I hear the steps of Modred in tlie west. And with him many of thy people, and knights Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. Right well in heart they know thee for the King. Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : " Far other is this battle in the west Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, And brake the petty kings, and fought witli Rome, Or thrust tlie heathen from the Roman wall. THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 371 And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine To war against my people and my knights. The king who fights his people fights himself. And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke That strikes them dead is as my death to me. Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw One lying in the dust at Almesbury, Hath folded in the passes of the world." Then rose the King and moved his host by night, And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league, Back to the sunset bound of Lyon- nesse — A land of old upheaven from the abyss By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt. And the long mountains ended in a coast Of ever-shifting sand, and far away The phantom circle of a moaning sea. There the pursuer could pursue no more. And he that fled no further fly the King ; And there, that day when the great light of heaven Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea : "Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold With formless fear ; and ev'n on Arthur fell Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. For friend and foe were shadows in the mist. And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; And some had visions out of golden youth. And some beheld the faces of old ghosts Look in upon the battle ; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many abase, And chance and craft and strength in single fights. And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn, , Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash Of battle-axes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks After the Christ, of those who falling down Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist ; And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies, Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of the lungs In that close mist, and cryings for the light. Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. Last, as by some one deathbed after wail Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore. Save for some whisper of the seething seas, A dead hush fell ; but when the dolo- rous day Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came 372 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew The mist aside, and with that wind the tide Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field Of battle : but no man was moving there ; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon. Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome, And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, And whiter than the mist that all day long Had held the field of battle was the King: " Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, And beats upon the faces of the dead, My dead, as tho' they had not died for me 1. — O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n Confusion, till I know not what I am, Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. Behold, I seem but King among the dead." Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere ; " My King, King everywhere! and so the dead have kings. There also will I worship thee as King. Yet still thy life is whole, and still 1 live Who love thee ; but who hates thee, he that brought The heathen back among us, yonder stands, Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house." Then spake the King : " My house hath been my doom. But call not thou this traitor of my house J Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof | with me. My house are rather they who sware my vows, ■ Yea, even while they brake them, I own'd me King. i And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd, That quick or dead thou boldest me for King. King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; And one last act of kinghood shalt [ tliou see J Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King Made at the man : then Modred smote his liege Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one blow, Striking the last stroke with Excali- bur, Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea;. Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord. King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep. The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 373 And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land : On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : " The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time,^ Delight our souls with talk of knight- 1}^ deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, — Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more ; but, let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excal- libur, Which was my pride : for thou re- memberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- derful, Holding the sword — and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king ; And, wheresoever I am sung or told In af tertime, this also shall be known : But now delay not : take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere : Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." To him replied the bold Sir Bedi- vere : '' It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee thus. Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm — A little thing may harm a wounded man ; Yet I thy best will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept. And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of an- cient men. Old knights, and over them the sea- wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Ex- calibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : For all the haft twinkled with dia- mond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- work Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long- That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind. In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags- 374 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode lie back slow to the wound- ed King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bed- ivere : " Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave ? What is it thou hast seen % or what hast heard ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bed- ivere : " 1 heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag." To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : " Thou hast betray 'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as be- seem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; But when he saw tlie wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud : " And if indeed I cast the brand away. Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. Should tlius be lost for ever fiom the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done ? What harm, undone ? Deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself ? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty | breath 1 And rumors of a doubt ? But were this kept. Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms. Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excali- Jaur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honor and much fame were lost." So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. And hid Excalibur the second time. And so strode back slow to the wound- ed King. Then spoke King Arthur, breath- ing heavily : " What is it thou hast seen 1 or what hast heard ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bedi vere : THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 375 " I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath : " Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! Authority forgets a dying king. Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art. For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the pre- cious hilt ; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword, And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. Seen where the moving isles of win- ter shock By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Ex- calibur : But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- derful. And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: " Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen ? " And answer made the bold Sir Bed- ivere : " Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw. Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till Idle, Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- derful. That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere." And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : " My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 376 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Heniorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words ; Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee. O'er both his shoulders drew the lan- guid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as he walk'd, King Arthur I)anted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on liis bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, " Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die." But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd. Larger than human on the frozen i hills. I He heard the deep behind him, and a | cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten witli the dint of armed heels — And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, I )ark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three Queens with crowns of gold : and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. And, as it w^ere one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes. Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge." So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And looseiJ the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands. And call'd him by his name, complain- ing loud, And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was wdiite And colorless, and like the withered moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — That made his forehead like a risinJ«^ea-circle, day by day. ENOCH ARDEN. 473 Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure- head Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows : Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, Then baffling, a long course of tliem ; and last Storm, such as drove her under moon- less heavens Till hard upon the cry of " breakers " came The crash of ruin, and the loss of all But Enoch and two others. Half the night, Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. No want was there of human suste- nance, Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nour- ishing roots ; Nor save for pity was it hard to take The helpless life so wild that it was tame. There in a seaward-gazing mountain- gorge They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut, Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, Dwelt with eternal summer, ill- content. For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy. Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, Lay lingering out a five-years' death- in-life. They could not leave him. After he was gone. The two remaining found a fallen stem; And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself. Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. In those two deaths he read God's warning " wait." The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, The lightning flash of insect and of bird, The lustre of the long convolvuluses That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran ; Ev'n to the limit of the land, tlie glows I And glories of the broad belt of tlio I world, ! All these he saw; but what I'.e fain j had seen I He could not see, the kindly liuman face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but lieard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean- fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef, The moving wlii^pur of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, As down the shore he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; The blaze upon the waters to the east ; The blaze upon his island overhead ; The blaze upon the waters to the west ; Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, The hoUower-bellowing ocean, and again The scarlet shafts of sunri-^e — but no sail. 474 ENOCH AKDEN. There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, So still, the golden lizard on him paused, A phantom made of many phantoms moved Before him haunting him, or he him- self MoA'ed haunting people, things and places, known Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; The babes, their babble, Annie, tlic small house, The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes. The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves. And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart Spoken with That, which being every- where Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone. Surely the man had died of solitude. Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head The sunny and rainy seasons came and went Year after year. His hopes to see his own. And pace the sacred old familiar fields. Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom Came suddenly to an end. Another ship (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds. Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay: For since the mate had seen at early dawn Across a i)reak on the mist-wreathen isle The silent water slipping from the hills, They sent a crew that landing burst away In search of stream or founr, and fill'd the shores With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary. Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad. Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd, AYith inarticulate rage, and making signs They knew not what : and yet he led the way To where the rivulets of sweet water ran; And ever as he mingled with the crew, And heard them talking, his long- bounden tongue Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard : And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, Scarce-credited at first but more and more. Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it: And clothes they gave him and free passage home ; But oft he work'd among the rest and shook His isolation from him. None of these ENOCH ARDEN. 475 * from his country, or could an- swer him, estion'd, aught of what he cared to know, lull the voyage was with long delays, -•essel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermore ncy fled before the lazy wind j\e taming, till beneath a clouded moon W' " ke a lover down thro' all his blood in the dewy meadowy morning- breath gland, blown across her ghostly wall : hat same morning officers and ' men JLevied a kindly tax upon themselves. Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: Then moving up the coast they landed him, Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. There Enoch spoke no word to any one. But homeward — home — what home? had he a home ? His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either chasm. Where either haven open'd on the deeps, Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray ; Cut off the length of highway on be- fore, And left but narrow breadth to left and right Of withcr'd holt or tilth or pasturage. On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light Flared on him, and he came upon the place. Then down the long street having slowly stolen. His heart foreshadowing all calamity. His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes In those f ar-oft" seven happy years were born ; But finding neither light nor murmur there (A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept Still downward thinking " dead or dead to me ! " Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, A front of timber-crost antiquity. So propt, worm eaten, ruinously old. He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone Who kept it ; and his widow Miriam Lane, With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. There Enoch rested silent many days. But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, Nor let him be, but often breaking in. Told him, with other annals of the port. Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, So broken — all the story of his house. His baby's death, her growing poverty. How Philip put her little ones to school. And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 476 ENOCH A.RDEN. Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth Of Philip's child : and o'er his coun- tenance No shadow past, nor motion : any one, Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale Less than the teller: only when she closed " Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost" He, shaking his gray head pathetically. Repeated muttering " cast away and lost"; Again in deeper inward whispers "lost!" But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again; "If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy." vSo the thought Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth, At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below ; There did a thousand memories roll upon him, Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, Allured him, as the beacon-blaze al- lures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest house to landward; but be- hind. With one small gate that open'd on the waste, Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd : And in it throve an ancient evergree.-. A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it : But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole Up by the wall, behind tlie yew; and thence That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. For cups and silver on the burnish'd board Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth : And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; And o'er her second fatlicr stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd ; And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe. But turning now and then to speak with him. Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased bin), for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beauti- ful. ENOCH ARDEN. 47: And him, tliat other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier tlian things heard, Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the liearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest tlie harsh shingle should grate underfoot. And feeling all along the garden-wall. Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber- door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees AVere feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. " Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence ? God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou . That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me. Father, in my loneliness A little longer ! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children too ! must I not speak to these '{ They know me not. I should betray myself. Never : No father's kiss for me — the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son." There speech and thought and na- ture fail'd a little, And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again, All down the long and narrow street he went Beating it in upon his weary brain, As tho' it were the burthen of a song, "Not to tell her, never to let her know." He was not all unhappy. His resolve Upbore him, and firm faith, and ever- more Prayer from a living source within tht will. And beating up thro' all the bitter world. Like fountains of sweet water in the sea. Kept him a living soul. "This mil- ler's wife " He said to Miriam " that you spoke about, Has she no fear that her first husband lives ? " " Ay, ay, poor soul " said Miriam, " fear enow ! If you could tell her you had seen him Why, that would be her comfort ; " and he thought " After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, I wait His time," and Enoch set him- self. Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. Almost to all things could he turn his hand. Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought To make the boatmen fishing-nets, ui^ help'd 47S ENOCH ARDEN. At lading and unlading the tall barks, That brought the stinted commerce of those days ; Thus earn'd a scanty living for him- self: Yet since he did but labor for himself, Work without hope, there was not life in it Whereby the man could live ; and as the year Roll'd itself round again to meet the day When Enocli had return'd, a languor came Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually Weakening the man, till he could do no more, But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. And Enoch bore his weakness cheer- fully. Tor sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall The boat that bears the hope of life approach To save the life despair'd of, than he saw Death dawning on him, and the close of all. For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope On Enoch thinking "after I am gone, Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last." He eall'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said " Woman, I have a secret — only swear. Before I tell you — swear upon the book Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." " Dead," clamor'd the good woman, " hear him talk ! I warrant, man, tliat we shall bring you round." " Swear" added Enocli sternly " on the book." And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, " Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ? " " Know him 1 " she said " I knew him far awa3\ Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her; " His head is low, and no man cares for him. I think I have not three days more to live ; I am the man." At which the woman gave A half -incredulous, half -hysterical cry. " You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot Higher than you be." Enoch said again " My God has bow'd me down to what I am; My grief and solitude have broken me; Nevertheless, know you that I am he Who married — but that name has twice been changed — I married her who married Philip Ray. Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage. His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back. His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, And how^ he kept it. As the woman heard. Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears. While in her heart she yearn'd inces- santly To rush abroad all round the little haven. Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, Saying only " See your bairns before you go ! ENOCH ARDEN. 479 Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung A moment on her words, but then replied: " Woman, disturb me not now at the last, But let me hold my purpose till I die. Sit down again ; mark me and under- stand, While I have power to speak. I charge you now, When you shall see her, tell her that I died Blessing her, praying for her, loving I her; , Save for the bar between us, loving ! her i As when she laid her head beside ray j own. ' And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw So like her mother, that my latest breath Was spent in blessing her and pray- ing for her. And tell my son that I died blessing him. And say to Philip that I blest him too ; He never meant us any thing but good. But if my children care to see me dead, Who hardly knew me living, let them come, I am their father ; but she must not come, For my dead face would vex her after- life. And now there is but one of all my blood Who will embrace me in the world-to- be : This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it. And I have borne it with me all these years. And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him. My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone. Take, give her this, for it may comfort her : It will moreover be a token to her. That I am he." He ceased ; and Miriam Lane Made such a voluble answer promis- ing all, That once again he roll'd his eyes up- on her Repeating all he wish'd, and once again She promised. Then the third night after this, While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, There came so loud a callingof the sea, That all the houses in the haven rang. He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad Crying with a loud voice "• A sail ! a sail! I am saved ; " and so fell back and spoke no more. So past the strong heroic soul away. And when they buried him the little port Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 480 IN MEMORIAM. IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIIT. Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face. By faith, and faith alone, embrace. Believing where we cannot prove ; Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; Thou madest Life in man and brute ; Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust i Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him : thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou : Our wills are ours, we know not how ; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Uur little systems have their day, They have their day and cease to be : They are but broken lights of thee. And thou, Lord, art more than they. We have but faith : we cannot know ; For knowledge is of things we see ; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness : let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more. But more of reverence in us dwell ; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight ; We mock thee when we do not fear : But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ; What seem'd my worth since I began ; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed. Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries. Confusions of a wasted youth ; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. I HELD it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping- stones Of their dead selves to higher things. But who shall so forecast the years And find in loss a gain to match \ Or reach a hand thro' time to catch The far-off interest of tears % Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown 'd, IN MEMORIAM. ^81 Let darkness keep her raven gloss : Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, "Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn." ■ Old Yew, which graspest at the stones _ • . - That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, j Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale. Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom : And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee. Sorrow, cruel fellow? So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee ; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow 'd race be run. 'Tis well ; 'tis something ; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. 'Tis little ; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep. And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead- Ah yet, ev'n yet, if tliis might be, I, falling on his faithful heart, Would breathing thro' his lips impart The life that almost dies in me ; That dies not, but endures with pain. And slowly forms the firmer mind. Treasuring the look it cannot find, The words that are not heard again. The Danube to the Severn gave The darken'd heart that beat no more ; They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave. There twice a day the Severn fills ; The salt sea-water passes by. And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, And hush'd my deepest grief of all. When fiU'd with tears that can- not fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down, the wave again Is vocal in its wooded walls ; My deeper anguish also falls. And I can speak a little then. The lesser griefs that may be said. That breathe a thousand tender vows, Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead ; Who speak their feeling as it is, And weep the fulness from the mind : " It will be hard," they say, " to find Another service such as this." My lighter moods are like to these, That out of words a comfort win ; But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze ; For by the hearth the children sit Cold in that atmospliere of Death, And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit : But open converse is there none. So much the vital spirits sink To see the vacant chair, and think, " How good ! how kind ! and he is gone." I sing to him that rests below, And, since the grasses round me wave. IN MEM OR I AM. 487 I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow. The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will he speak : " This fellow would make weak- ness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men." Another answers, " Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy." A third is wroth : " Is this an hour For private sorrow's barren song, "When more and more the people throng The chairs and thrones of civil power '^ " A time to sicken and to swoon, When Science reaches forth her arms To feel from world to world, and charms Her secret from the latest moon ? " Behold, ye speak an idle thing : Ye never knew the sacred dust : I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing : And one is glad ; her note is gay, For now her little ones have ranged; And one is sad ; her note is changed. Because her brood is stol'n away. XXII. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well. Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow : And we with singing cheer'd the way. And, crown'd with all the season lent, From April on to April went. And glad at heart from May to May : But where the path we walkM began To slant the fifth autumnnl slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear'd of man ; Who broke our fair companionship. And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, And bore thee where I could not see Nor follow, tho' 1 walk in haste, And think, that somewhere in the waste The Shadow sits and waits for me. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak'dfrom head to foot, Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came. Or on to where the pathway leads ; And crying. How changed from where it ran Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb ; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan : When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed witli Thouglit Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; 488 IX MEMORIAM. And ali we met was lair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of tlie blood ; And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV. And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say ? The very source and fount of Day Is dashed with wandering isles of night. If all was good and fair we met, This earth had been the Paradise It never look'd to human eyes Since our first Sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of grief Makes former gladness loom so great ? The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief 1 Or that the past will always win A glory from its being far ; And orb into the perfect star We saw not, when we moved therein ? XXV. I know that this was life, — the track Whereon with equal feet we fared ; And then, as now, the day pre- pared The daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air ; I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love : Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty Love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him. I Still onward winds the dreary way ; I with it ; for I long to prove No lapse of moons can canker Love, AVhatever fickle tongues may say. And if that eye which watches guilt And goodness, and hath power to see Within the green the moulder'd tree. And towers fall'n as soon as built — Oh, if indeed that eye foresee Or see (in Him is no before) In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be, Then might I find, ere yet the morn Breaks hither over Indian seas, That shadow waiting with the keys. To shroud me from my proper scorn. I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage. That never knew the summer woods : 1 envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 'iV) whom a conscience never wakes ; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, what'er befall ; I feel it, when I sorrow most ; Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. XXVIII. The time draws near the birth of Christ : The moon is hid ; the night is still; IN MEMORIAM. 489 The Christmas hells from hill to ! hill Answer each other ir the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound : Each voice four changes on the wind, j That now dilate, and now de- ' crease, { Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, | Peace and goodwill, to all mankind, i This year I slept and woke with pain, j I almost wish'd no more to wake, '• And that my hold on life would j break | Before I heard those bells again : j But they my troubled spirit rule. For theycontroll'd me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule. With such compelling cause to grieve As daily vexes household peace, And chains regret to his decease, How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ; Which brings no more a welcome guest To enrich the threshold of the night With shower'd largess of delight In dance and song and game and jest \ Yet go, and while the holly boughs Entwine the cold baptismal font. Make one wTeath more for Use and AVont, That guard the portals of the house; Old sisters of a day gone by, Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; Why should they miss their yearly due Before their time ? They too will die. XXX. With trembling fingers did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth ; A rainy cloud possess'd the earth. And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. At our old pastimes in the hall We gambol'd, making vain pre- tence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all. We paused : the winds were in the beech : We heard them sweep the winter land ; And in a circle hand-in-hand Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang ; We sung, tho' every eye was dim, A merry song we sang with him Last year : impetuously we sang : We ceased : a gentler feeling crept Upon us : surely rest is meet : " They rest," we said, " their sleep is sweet," And silence follow'd, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range ; Once more we sang : " They do not die Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change ; " Rapt from the fickle and the frail With gather'd power, yet the same. Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil." Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn, Draw forth the cheerful day from night : O Father, touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born. 490 LV MEMORIAM. XXXI. When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And liorae to Mary's house re- turn'd, Was tliis demanded— if he yearn'd To hear her weeping by his grave "? " Where wert tliou, brother, those four days 1 " There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbors met, The streets were fill'd witli joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown'd The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ ! The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; He told it not ; or something seal'd The lips of that Evangelist. Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. Nor other thought her mind ad- mits But, he was dead, and there he sits. And he that brought him back is there. Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother's face. And rests upon the Life indeed. All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so com plete. She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet With costly spikenard and with tears Thrice blest whose lives are faithfu prayers, Whose loves in liigher love en dure : What souls possess themselves so pure. Or is their blessedness like theirs ? xxxiu. O thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air, Whose faith has centre every- where, Nor cares to fix itself to form, Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views ; Nor thou with shadow'd hint con- fuse A life that leads melodious days. Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good : Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine ! See thou, that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev'n for want of such a type. My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else eartli is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is ; This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim. What then Avere God to such as I ? 'Twere hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die ; 'Twere best at once to sink to peace. Like birds the charming serpent draws. IN MEMORIAM. 491 To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease. XXXV. Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house, " The cheeks drop in ; the body bows ; Man dies : nor is there hope in dust : " Might I not say ? " Yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive : " But I should turn mine ears and hear The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down TEonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be ; And Love would answer with a sigh, "The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half-dead to know that I shall die." O me, what profits it to put An idle case ? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been. Or been in narrowest working shut, Mere fellowship of sluggish moods. Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape, And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin : For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers. Where truth in closest words shall fail, When truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors. And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef. Urania speaks with darken'd brow : "Thou pratest here where thou art least ; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. •' Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel wjiisper sweet About the ledges of the hill." And my Melpomene replies, A touch of shame upon her cheek : " I am not worthy ev'n to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries ; " For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull Avith song an aching heart. And render human love his dues ; " But brooding on the dear one dead. And all he said of things divine, (And dear to me as sacred wine To dying lips is all he said), " I murmur'd, as I came along. Of comfort clasp'd in truth re- veal'd ; And loiter'd in the master's field, And darken'd sanctities with song." 492 IN MEMORIAM, With weary steps I loiter on, Tho' always under alter'd skies Tlie purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render'd free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX. Old warder of these buried bones, And answering now my random stroke With fruitful cloud and living smoke, Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamless head. To thee too comes the golden hour When . flower is feeling after flower ; But Sorrow — fixt upon the dead. And darkening the dark graves of men, — What whisper'd from her lying- lips 7 Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, And passes into gloom again. Could we forget the widow'd liour And look on Spirits breathed away. As on a maiden in the day When first she wears her orange- flower ! When crown'd with blessing she doth rise To take her latest leave of home. And hopes and light regrets that come Make April of her tender eyes ; And doubtful joys the father move. And tears are on the mother's face, As parting with a long embrace She enters other realms of love ; Her office there to rear, to teach, Becoming as is meet and fit A link among the days, to knit The generations eacli with each ; And, doubtless, unto thee is given A life that bears immortal fruit In those great offices that suit The full-grown energies of heaven. Ay me, the difference I discern! How often shall her old fireside Be cheer'd M'ith tidings of tlie bride, How often she lierself return, And tell them all they would have told, And bring her babe, and make her boast. Till even those that miss'd her most Shall count new things as dear as old . But thou and I have sliaken liands, Till growing winters lay me low : My paths are in the fields I know. And thine in undiscover'd lands. Thy t-pirit ere our fatal loss Did ever rise I. oru high +a bigher ; As mounts the heavenward altar- fire, As flies the lighter thro' the gross. But thou art turn'd to something strange, And I have lost the links that bound IN MEMORIAM. 493 Thy changes ; here upon the ground, No more partaker of thy change. Deep folly ! yet that this could be — That I could wing my will witli might To leap the grades of life and light, And flash at once, my friend, to thee. For the' my nature rarely yields To that vague fear implied in death ; Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath, The bowlings from forgotten fields ; Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor An inner trouble I behold, A spectral doubt which makes me cold, That I shall be thy mate no more, Tho' following with an upward mind The wonders that have come to thee, Thro' all the secular to-be. But evermore a life behind. I vex my heart with fancies dim : He still outstript me in the race ; It was but unity of place That made me dream I rank'd with him. And so may Place retain us still. And he the much-beloved again, A lord of large experience, train To riper growth the mind and will : And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows ? If Sleep and Death be truly one, And every spirit's folded bloom Thro' all its intervital gloom I\. some long tra nee should slumber on ; I Unconscious of the sliding hour, I Bare of the body, might it last, And silent traces of the past Be all the color of the flower : So then were nothing lost to man ; So that still garden of the souls In many a figured leaf enrolls The total world since life began ; And love will last as pure and whole As when he loved me here in Time, And at the spiritual prime Kewaken with the dawning soul. XLIV. How fares it with the happy dead ? For here the man is more and more ; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head. The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint; And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs). May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. If such a dreamy touch should fall, turn thee round, resolve the doubt ; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all. The baby new to earth and sky, What time his tender palm is prest Against the circle of the breast, Has never thought that "this is I:" t94 IN MEMORIAM. But as he grows he gathers much, And learns the use of " I," and " me," And finds " I am not what I see, And other than the things I touch." So rounds he to a separate mind From whence clear memory may begin, As thro' the frame that binds him in His isolation grows defined. This use may lie in blood and breath, Which else were fruitless of their due. Had man to learn himself anew Beyond the second birth of Death. We ranging down this lower track, The path we came by, thorn and flower. Is shadow'd by the growing hour, Lest life should fail in looking back. So be it : there no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb, But clear from marge to marge shall bloom The eternal landscape of the past ; A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; The fruitful hours of still increase ; Days order'd in a wealthy peace. And those five years its richest field. Love, thy province were not large, A bounded field, nor stretching far; Look also. Love, a brooding star, x\ rosy warmth from marge to marge. XLVII. That each, who seems a separate whole. Should move his rounds, and fus- ing all The skirts of self again, should fall Remerging in the general Soul, Is faith as vague as all unsweet: Eternal form shall still divide The eternal soul from all beside ; And I shall know him when we meet : And we shall sit at endless feast, Enjoying each the other's good : What vaster dream can hit the mood Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least L^pon the last and sharpest height. Before the spirits fade away. Some landing-place, to clasp and say, " Farewell ! We lose ourselves in light." XLVIII. If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, Were taken to be such as closed Grave doubts and answers here proposed. Then these were such as men might scorn : Her care is not to part and prove ; She takes, when harsher moods remit. What slender shade of doubt may flit, And makes it vassal unto love: And hence, indeed, she sports with words, But better serves a wholesome law. And holds it sin and shame to draw The deepest measure from the chords : Nor dare she trust a larger lay. But rather loosens from the lip Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away. XLIX. From art, from nature, from the schools. Let random influences glance. IN MEMORIAM. 495 Like light in many ashiver'd lance That breaks about the dappled pools : The lightest wave of thought shall lisp, The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, The slightest air of song shall breathe To make the sullen surface crisp. And look thy look, and go thy way, But blame not thou the winds that make The seeming-wanton ripple break, The tender-pencil'd shadow play. Beneath all fancied hopes and fears Ay me, the sorrow deepens down. Whose muffled motions blindly drown The bases of my life in tears. Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick And tingle ; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust ; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a Fury slinging flame. ,Be near me when my faith is dry, I And men the flies of latter spring, ' That lay their eggs, and sting and sing ! And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away. To point the term of human strife, And on the low dark verge of life The twilight of eternal day. Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side 1 Is there no baseness we woul<* hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? Shall he for whose applause I strove, I had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame And I be lessen'd in his love ■? I wrong the grave with fears unirue : Shall love be blamed for want of faith % There must be wisdom with great Death : The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. Be near us when we climb or fall : Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. I cannot love thee as I ought, For love reflects the thing be- loved; My words are only words, and moved Upon the topmost froth of thought. " Yet blame not thou my plaintive song," The Spirit of true love replied ; " Thou canst not move me from thy side. Nor human frailty do me wrong. " What keeps a spirit wholly true To that ideal which he bears ' What record ? not the sinless years That breathed beneath the Syrian blue : " So fret not, like an idle girl, That life is dash'd with flecks of sin. Abide : thy wealth is gather'd in, When Time hath sunder'd shell from pearl." 496 IN MEMORIAM. LIU. How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolisli noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green : And dare we to this fancy give, That had the wild oat not been sown. The soil, left barren, scarce had grown The grain by which a man may live ? Or, if we held the doctrine soimd For life ofltliving heats of youth. Yet who would preach it as a truth To those that eddy round and round ? Hold thou the good : define it well : For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; That nothing walks with aimless feet ; That not one life shall } e de- stroy'd. Or cast as rubbish to the void. When God hath made the pile com- plete ; That not a worm is cloven in vain ; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. Or but subserves another's gain. Behold, we know not anything ; I can but trust that good shall fall At last — far off — at last, to all, And every winter change to spring. So runs my dream . but what am I An infant crying in the night : An infant crying for the light And with no language but a cry. The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul % Are God and Nature then at strife. That Nature lends such evil dreams % So careful of the type she seems^ So careless of the single life ; That I, considering everywhere . Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear, I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all. And faintly trust the larger hope. " So careful of the type ? " but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, " A thousand types are gone : I care for nothing, all shall go. " Thou makest thine appeal to me : I bring to life, I bring to death : The spirit does but mean the breath : I knew no more." And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair. IN MEMORIAM. 497 Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roird the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law — Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust. Or seal'd within the iron hills ? No more ? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime. That tare each other in their slime. Were mellow music mateh'd with him. life as futile, then, as frail ! for thy voice to soothe and bless ! What hope of answer, or redress ? Behind the veil, behind the veil. LVII. Peace ; come away : the song of woe Is after all an earthly song: Peace ; come away : we do him wrong To sing so wildly : let us go. Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale; But half my life I leave behind : Methinks my friend is richly shrined ; But I shall pass ; my work will fail. Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look'd with human eyes. I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, Eternal greetings to the dead ; And " Ave, Ave, Ave," said, " Adieu, adieu " for evermore. In those sad words I took farewell : Like echoes in sepulchral halls, As drop by drop the water falls In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; And, falling, idly broke the peace Of hearts that beat from day to day. Half-conscious of their dying clay. And those cold crypts where they shall cease. The high Muse answer'd : " Wherefore grieve Thy brethren with a, fruitless tear'2 Abide a little longer here, And thou shalt take a nobler leave." O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me No casual mistress, but a wife, My bosom-friend and half of life; As I confess it needs must be ; Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood, Be sometimes lovely like a bride. And put thy harsher moods aside, If thou wilt have me wise and good. My centred passion cannot move, Nor will it lessen from to-day ; But I'll have leave at times to play As with the creature of my love ; And set thee forth, for thou art mine, With so much hope for years to come. That, howsoe'er I know thee, some Could hardly tell what name were thine. 498 IN MEMORIAM. He past ; a soul of nobler tone : My spirit loved and loves liim yet, Like sonic poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. He mixing with his proper sphere. She finds the baseness of her lot, Half jealous of she knows not what, And envying all that meet him there. The little village looks forlorn ; She sighs amid her narrow days, Moving about the household ways, In that dark house where she was born. The foolish neighbors come and go, And tease her till the day draws by: At night she weeps, " How vain am I ! How should he love a thing so low '? " If, in thy second state sublime, Thy ransom'd reason change replies With all the circle of the wise. The perfect flower of human time ; And if thou cast thine eyes below, How dimly character'd and slight. How dwarf 'd a growth of cold and night. How blanch'd with darkness must I grow Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore. Where thy first form was made a man ; I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakspeare love thee more. Tho' if an eye that's downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench or fail, Then be my love an idle tale, And fading legend of the past ; And thou, as one that once declined, When he was little more than boy. On some unworthy heart with joy, But lives to wed an equal mind ; And breathes a novel world, the while His other passion wholly dies, Or in the light of deeper eyes Is matter for a flying smile. Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, And love in which my hound has part. Can hang no weight upon my heart In its assumptions up to heaven ; And I am so much more than these, As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy, And I would set their pains at ease. So mayst thou watch me where I weep, As, unto vaster motions bound, The circuits of thine orbit round A higher height, a deeper deep. * LXIV, Dost thou look back on what hath been. As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began And on a simple village green ; Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circum- stance, And grapples with his evil star; IN MEAIORIAM. 499 Who makes by force his merit known And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty state's decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne ; And moving up from high to higher, '{ Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope The pillar of a people's hope, The centre of a world's desire ; Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. When all his active powers are still, A distant dearncss in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream. The limit of. his narrower fate, While yet besule its vocal springs He play'd at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate ; Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labor of his hands, Or in the furrow musing stands ; " Does my old friend remember me ? " Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; I lull a fancy trouble-tost With " Love's too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt." And in that solace can I sing. Till out of painful phases wTOUght There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : Since we deserved the name of friends, And thine effect so lives in me, A part of mine may live in thee And move thee on to noble ends. You thought my heart too far diseased; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay. Like one with any trifle pleased. The shade by which my life was crost, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind. And like to him whose sight is lost ; Whose feet are guided thro' the land. Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee. And winds their curls about his hand : He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky. His inner day can never die. His night of loss is always there. When on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls : Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name, And o'er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away ; From off my bed the moonlight dies ; And closing eaves of wearied eyea I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray : And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast. And in the dark church like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. When in the down I sink my head. Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath ; Sleep, Death's twin-brother,knowc not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead : I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn. When all our path was fresh with dew. 500 IN MEMORIAM. And all the bugle breezes blew Keveillee to the breaking morn. But what is this \ I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, Which makes me sad I know not why, Nor can mv dream resolve the doubt: But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth ; It is the trouble of my youth That foolish sleep transfers to thee. [ dream'd there would be Spring no more, That Nature's ancient power was lost: The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter'd trifles at the door ; I wander'd from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs : I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown : I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs ; They call'd me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns : They call'd me fool, they call'd me child : I found an angel of the night ; The voice was low, the look was bright ; He look'd upon ujy crown and smiled : He reach'd the glory of a hand, Thatseem'dto touch it into leaf: The voice was not the voice of grief. The words were hard to understand. I cannot see the features right, When on the gloom I strive to paint The face I know; the hues are faint And mix with hollow masks of night ; Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, A hand that points, and palled shapes In shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; And crowds that stream from yawn- ing doors, And shoals of pueker'd faces drive ; Dark bulks tliat tumble half alive, And lazy lengths on boundless shores ; Till all at once beyond the will I hear a wizard music roll. And thro' a lattice on the soul Looks thy fair face and makes it still. Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance And madness, thou hast forged at last A night-long Present of the Past In which we went thro' summer France. Hadst thou such credit with the soul ? Then bring an opiate trebly strong, Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong That so my pleasure may be whole ; While now we talk as once we talk'd Of men and minds, the dust of change. The days that grow to something strange. In walking as of old we walk'd LV MEMORIAM. 501 Beside the river's wooded reach, The fortress, and the mountain ridge. The cataract flashing from the bridge, The breaker breaking on the beach. Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again. And howlest, issuing out of night, With blasts that blow the poplar white. And lash with storm the streaming pane? Day, when my crown'd estate begun To pine in that reverse of doom. Which sicken'd every living bloom, And blurr'd the splendor of the sun ; Wlio usherest in the dolorous hour With thy quick tears that make the rose Pull sideways, and the daisy close Her crimson fringes to the shower ; Who might'st have heaved a windless flame Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd A chequer-work of beam and shade Along the hills, yet look'd the same. As wan, as chill, as wild as now j Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime, When the dark hand struck down thro' time. And cancell'd nature's best : but thou, Lift as thou may'st thy burthen'd brows Thro' clouds that drench the morning star, And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar, And sow the sky with flying boughs, And up thy vault witli roaring sound Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day ; Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray, And hide thy shame beneath the ground. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee, For thou wert strong as thou wert true? i The fame is quench'd that I foresaw. The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath : I 1 curse not nature, no, nor death ; ' For notliing is that errs from law. j We pass ; the path that each man trod j Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds : I What fame is left for human deeds j In endless age '. It rests with God. I O hollow wraith of dying fame, i Fade wliolly, while the soul I exults. And self-infolds the large results j Of force that would have forged a I name. j j LXXIV. I As sometimes in a dead man's face, I To those that watch it more and i more, I A likeness, hardly seen before, ! Comes out — to some one of his race: So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, I see thee what thou art, and know Thy likeness to the wise below. Thy kindred Avith the great of old. But there is more than I can see. And what I see I leave unsaid, Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee. 502 FN MEMORIAM. T leave thy praises unexpress'd In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; What practice howsoe'er expert In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings. Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise. Thy leaf has perish 'd in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been. So here shall silence guard thy fame ; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate'er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. LXXVI. Take wings of fancy, and ascend, And in a moment set thy face Where all the starry heavens of space Are sharpen'd to a needle's end ; Take wings of foresight; lighten thro' The secular abyss to come, And lOjthy deepest lays are dumb Before the mouldering of a yew; And if the matin songs, that woke The darkness of our planet, last, Thine own shall wither in the vast, Ere half the lifetime of an oak. Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; And what are they when these remain The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? What hope is here for modern rhyme To him, who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshortened in the tract of time ? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden's locks ; Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find. And, passing, turn the page that tells A grief, then changed to some- thing else. Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that ? My darken'd ways Shall ring with music all the same ; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth ; The silent snow possess'd the earth. And calmly fell our Christmas-eve : The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, No wing of wind the region swept, But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost. As in the winters left behind. Again our ancient games had place, The mimic picture's breathing grace. And dance and song and hoodman blind. IN ]\IEMORIAM. 503 Who show'd a token of distress ? No single tear, no mark of pain : sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? grief, can grief be changed to less ? O last regret, regret can die ! No — mixt with all this mystic frame. Her deep relations are the same, But with long use her tears are dry. LXXIX. " More than my brothers are to me,^' — Let this not vex thee, noble heart ! I know thee of what force thou art To hold the costliest love in fee. But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature's mint; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For us the same cold streamlet curl'd Thro' all his eddying coves ; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer'd vows, One lesson from one book we learn'd. Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd To black and brown on kindred brows. And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich Avhere I was poor. And he supplied my want the more As his unlikeness fitted mine. If any vague desire should rise. That holy Death ere Arthur died Had moved me kindly from his side, And dropt the dust on tearless eyes ; Then fancy shajjes, as fancy can, The grief my loss in him had wrought, A grief as deep as life or thought, But stay'd in peace with God and man. 1 make a picture in the brain ; I hear the sentence that he speaks ; He bears the burthen of the weeks But turns his burthen into gain. His credit thus shall set me free ; And, influence-rich to soothe and save, Unused example from the grave Reach out dead hands to comfort me. Could I have said while he was here, "My love shal^ now no further range ; There cannot come a mellower change. For now is love mature in ear." Love, then, had hope of richer store ; What end is here to my com- plaint ? This haunting whisper makes me faint, " More years had made me love thee more." But Death returns an answer sweet : " My sudden frost was sudden gain, And gave all ripeness to the grain, It might have drawn from after-heat." I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face ; No lower life that earth's embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith. Eternal process moving on. From state to state the spirit walks ; 504 LV MEMORIAM. And these are but the shatter'd stalks, ( )r riiin'd clirysalis of one. Xor blame I Death, because he bare Tlio use of virtue out of earth : I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart ; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak. Dip down upon the northern shore, sweet new-year delaying long ; Thou doest expectant nature wrong ; J)elaying long, doiay no more. What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place ? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons ? Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell's darling blue. Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, l^aburnums, dropping-wells of fire. () thou, new-year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud And flood a fresher throat with song. When I contemplate all alone The life that had been thine below, And fix my thoughts on all the glow To which thy crescent would have grown ; I see thee sitting crown'd with good, A central warmth diffusing bliss In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, On all the branches of thy blood ; Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; For now the day was drawing on, When thou should'st link thy life with one Of mine own house, and boys of thine Had babbled "Uncle " on my knee: But that remorseless iron hour Made cj'press of her orange flower, Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. I seem to meet their least desire, To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. I see their unborn faces shine Beside the never-lighted fire. I see myself an honor'd guest, Thy partner in the flowery walk Of letters, genial table-talk. Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; I While now thy prosperous labor fills The lips of men with honest praise. And sun by sun the happy days I Descend below the golden hills With promise of a morn as fair ; And all the train of bounteous hours Conduct by paths of grooving powers. To reverence and the silver hair ; Till slowly worn her earthly robe, Her lavish mission riclily wrought, Leaving great legacies of thought, Thy sjiirit should fail from off tlic globe ; What time mine own might also flee, As link'd with thine in love and fate. And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait To the other shore, involved in thee. Arrive at last the blessed goal. And He that died in Holy Land AYould reach us out the shining hand. And take us as a shigle soul. IN MEMORIAM. 505 What reed was tliat on which I leant ? Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake The old bitterness again, and break The low beginnings of content. LXXXA . This truth came borne wdth bier and pall, I felt it, when I sorrow 'd most, 'Tis better to have loved and lost. Than never to have loved at all < ) true in word, and tried in deed, Demanding, so to bring relief To this which is our common grief. What kind of life is that I lead ; And whether trust in things above Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd ; And whether love for him have drain'd My capabilities of love ; Your words have virtue such as draws A faithful answer from the breast. Thro' light reproaches, half ex- prest. And loyal unto kindly laws. My blood an even tenor kept, Till on mine ear this message falls. That in Vienna's fatal walls God'sfinger touch'dhim, and he slept. The great Intelligences fair That range above our mortal state. In circle round the blessed gate, Received and gave him welcome there ; And led him thro' the blissful climes, And show'd him in the fountain fresh All knowledge that the sons of flesh Shall gather in the cycled times. But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thouglits were little worth, To wander on a darken'd earth. Where all things round me lireathed of him. O friendship, equal-poised control, O heart, with kindliest motion warm, sacred essence, other form, solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! Yet none could better knoAv than I, How^ much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, 1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, His being working in mine own. The footsteps of his life in mine ; A life that all the Muses deck'd With gifts of grace, that might express All-comprehensive tenderness. All-subtilizing intellect : And so my passion hath not swerved To works of weakness, but I find An image comforting the mind, And in my grief a strength reserved. Likewise the imaginative woe. That loved to handle spiritual strife, Diffused the shock thro' all my life. But in the present broke the blow. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met , Nor can it suit me to forget Tlie mighty hopes that make us men, 1 woo your love : I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch ; I, the divided half of such A friendsliip as had master'd Time; S06 IN MEMORIAM. Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears : The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this : But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the nar- row brooks. And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods. And every pulse of wind and wave Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb, And my prime passion in the grave : My old affection of the tomb, A part of stillness, yearns to speak : "Arise, and get thee forth and seek A friendship for the years to come. " I watch thee from the quiet shore ; Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; But in dear words of human speech We two communicate no more." And 1, "Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free '? How is it ? Canst thou feel for me Some painless sympathy with pain ? " And lightly does the whisper fall ; " 'Tis hard for thee to fathom this; I triumph in conclusive bliss, And that serene result of all." So hold I commerce with the dead ; Or so methinks the dead would Now looking to some settled end, That these things pass, and I shall prove A meeting somewhere, love with love, I crave your pardon, my friend ; If not so fresh, with love as true, I, clasping brother-hands, aver I could not, if I would, transfer The whole I felt for him to you. For which be they that hold apart The promise of the golden hours? First love, first friendship, equal powers. That marry with the virgin heart. Still mine, that cannot but deplore, That beats within a lonely place. That yet remembers his embrace, But at his footstep leaps no more. My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest Quite in the love of what is gone. But seeks to beat in time with one That warms another living breast. Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, Knowing the primrose yet is dear. The primrose of the later year, As not unlike to that of Spring. Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. That roUest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening over brake and bloom And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood, And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life tliat feeds thy say ; breath Or so shall grief with symbols j Throughout my frame, till Doubt play and Death, And pining life be fancy-fed. I 111 brethren, let the fancy fly IN MEMORTAM hOil From belt to belt of crimson seas On leagues of odor streaming far, To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper "Peace." I past beside the reverend walls In which of old 1 wore the gown; I roved at random thro' the town, And saw the tumult of the halls ; And heard once more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make. And thunder-music,rolling, shake The prophet blazon'd on the panes ; And caught once more the distant shout. The measured pulse of racing oars Among the willows ; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same ; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt. Another name was on tlie door • I linger'd ; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crash'd the glass and beat the floor; Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labor, and the changing mart. And all the framework of the land ; When one would aim an arrow fair, But send it slackly from the string ; And one would pierce an outer ring, A.nd one an inner, liere and there ; And last the master-bowman, he. Would cleave the mark. A wil- ling ear We lent him. Who, but hung to hear The rapt oration flowing free From point to point, with power and grace And music in the bounds of law, To those conclusions when we saw The God within him light his face, And seem to lift the form, and glow In azure orbits heavenly-wise ; And over those ethereal eyes The bar of Michael Angelo. Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, tell me where the senses mix, O tell me where the passions meet, Whence radiate • fierce extremes em- ploy Thy spirits in the darkening leaf, And in the midmost heart of grief Thy passion clasps a secret joy . And I — my harp would prelude woe — 1 cannot all command the strings ; The glory of the sum of things Will flash along the chords and go. LXXXIX. Witch-elms that counterchauge the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright ; And thou, with all thy breadth and heiglit Of foliage, towering sycamore ; How often, hither wandering down. My Arthur found your shadows fair. 508 TN MEMORIAM. And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town : He brought an eye for all he saw; He mixt in all our simple sports ; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusty purlieus of the law. O joy to him in this retreat, Immantled in ambrosial dark, To drink the cooler air, and mark The landscape winking thro' the heat ; O sound to rout the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew. The gust that round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears ! O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn : Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung. Or here she brought the harp and flung A ballad to the brightening moon ; Nor less it pleased in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the lifelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods ; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss'd the books to love or hate, Or touch'd the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream , Hut if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For "ground in yonder social mill We rub (.-ach other's angles down, " And merge " lie said '• in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man." We talk'd : the stream beneath us ran. The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, Or cool'd within the glooming wave ; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fall'n into her father's grave, And brushing ankle-deep in flowers , AVe heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honied hours. He tasted love with half his mind. Nor ever drank the inviolate spring Where nighest heaven, who flrst could fling This bitter seed among mankind ; That could the dead, whose dying eyes Were closed with wail, resume their life, They would but And in child and wife An iron welcome when they rise : 'Twas well, indeed, when warm with wine. To pledge them with a kindly tear, To talk them o'er, to wish them here, To count their memories half divine : But if tliey came who past away, Behold their brides in other hands ; The hard heir strides about their lands. And will not yield them for a day. Yea, tho' their sons were none of these. IN MEMORIAM. 509 Not less the yet-loved sire would i make I Confusion worse than deatli, and ' shake The pillars of domestic peace. Ah dear, but come thou back to me : Whatever change the years have wrought, I find not yet one lonely thought That cries against my wish for thee. When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush ; Or underneath the barren bush Flits by the sea-blue bird of March ; Come, wear the form by which I know Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; The hope of unaccomplished years Be large and lucid round thy brow. When summer's hourly-mellowing change May breathe, witli many roses sweet, Upon the thousand waves of wheat, That ripple round the lonely grange ; Come : not in watches of the night. But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, Come, iDeauteous in thine after form, And like a finer light in light. If any vision should reveal Thy likeness, I might count it vain As but the canker of the brain ; Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal To chances where our lots were cast Together in the days behind, I might but say, I hear a wind Of memory murmuring the past. Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view A fact within the coming year ; And tho' the months, revolving- near, Should prove tlie phantom-warning true, They might not seem thy prophecies, But spiritual presentiments. And such refraction of events As often rises ere they rise. I shall not see thee. Dare I say No spirit ever brake the band That stays him from the native land Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay ? No visual shade of some one lost. But he, the Spirit himself, may come Where all the nerve of sense is numb ; Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. O, therefore from thy sightless range With gods in unconjectured bliss, 0, from the distance of the abyss Of tenfold-complicated change. Descend, and touch, and enter; hear The wish too strong for words to name ; That in this blindness of the frame My Ghost may feel that thine is near. How j)ure at heart and sound in head, With what divine affections bold Should be the man whose thought would hold An hour's communion with the dead. j In vain shalt thou, or any, call The spirits from their golden day, ! Except, like them, thou too canst ! say, ' My spirit is at peace with all. 510 IN MEMORIAM. They haunt the silence of the breast, Imaginations calm and fair, The memory like a cloudless air. The conscience as a sea at rest : But when the heart is full of din. And doubt beside tlie portal waits. They can but listen at the gates. And hear the household jar within. By night we linger'd on the lawn, For underfoot the herb was dry ; And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky The silvery haze of summer drawn ; And calm that let the tapers burn Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd: The brook alone far-off was heard. And on the board the fluttering urn : And bats went round in fragrant skies, And wheel'd or lit tlie filmy shapes That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes And woolly breasts and beaded eyes ; While now we sang old songs that peal'd From knoll to knoll, where, couch 'd at case. The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees Laid their dark arms about the field. But when those others, one by one. Withdrew themselves from me and night, And in the house light after light Went out, and I was all alone, A hunger seized my heart ; I read Of that glad year which once had been, In those fall'n leaves which kept tlieir green, The noble letters of the dead ; And strangely on the silence broke The silent-speaking words, and strange Was love's dumb cry defying change To test his worth ; and strangely spoke The faith, tlie vigor, bold to dwell On doubts that drive the cowari back, And keen thro' wordy snares to track Suggestion to her inmost cell. So word by word, and line by line. The dead man touch'd me from the past. And all at once it seem'd at last The living soul Avas flash'd on mine, And mine in this was wound, and whirl'd About empyreal heights of thought. And came on that which is, and caught The deep pulsations of the world, Ionian music measuring out The steps of Time — the shocks of Chance — The blows of Death. At length my trance Was cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt. Vague words ! but ah, how hard to frame In matter-moulded forms of speech. Or ev'n for intellect to reach Thro' memory that which I became : Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd The knolls once more where, couch'd at ease. The white kine glimmer'd, and tlie trees Laid their dark arms about the field : I And suck'd from out the distant gloom j A breeze began to tremble o'er ! The large leaves of the sycamore. i And fluctuate all the still perfume. IN MEMORIAM. 511 And gathering freshlier overhead, Rock'd the fuU-foliaged ehns, and swung The heavy-folded rose, and flung The lilies to and fro, and said " The dawn, the dawn," and died away ; And East and West, without a • breath, i Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, To broaden into boundless day. You say, but with no touch of scorn, Sweet-hearted, you, whose light- blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies. You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. I know not : one indeed I knew ...I In many a subtle question versed. Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first. But ever strove to make it true : Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt. Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gather'd strength. He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind And laid them : thus he came at length To find a stronger faith his own ; And Tower was witli him in the night. Which makes the darkness and the light. And dwells not in the light alone, But in the darkness and the cloud. As over Sinai's peaks of old. While Israel made their gods of gold, Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. XCVII, My love has talk'd with rocks and trees ; He finds on misty mountain- ground His own vast shadow glory- crown'd ; He sees himself in all he sees. Two partners of a married life — I look'd on these and thought of thee In vastness and in mystery, And of my spirit as of a wife. These two — they dwelt with eye on eye, Their hearts of old have beat in tune, Their meetings made December June, \ Their every parting was to die. / Their love has never past away ; The days she never can forget Are earnest that he loves her yet, Whate'er the faithless people say. Her life is lone, he sits apart, He loves her yet, she will not weep, Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep He seems to slight her simple heart. He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, He reads the secret of the star. He seems so near and yet so far, \ He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. She keeps the gift of years before, A wither'd violet is lier bliss : She knows not what his great- ness is. For that, for all, she loves him more. For him she plays, to liim she sings Of early faitli and plighted vows ; She knows but matters of the house. And he, he knows a thousand things 512 IN MEMORIAM. Her faith is fixt and cannot move, She darkly feels him great and wise, She dwells on him with faithful eyes, '• \ cannot understand : 1 love." You leave us : you will see the Rhine, And those fair hills I sail'd below, When I was there with him \ and go By summer belts of wheat and vine To where he breathed his latest breath. That City. All her splendor seems No livelier than the wisp that gleams On Lethe in the eyes of Death. Let her great Danube rolling fair Enwind her isles, unmark'd of me : I have not seen, I will not see Vienna ; rather dream that there, A treble darkness. Evil haunts The birth, the bridal ; friend from friend Is oftener parted, fathers bend Above more graves, a thousand wants Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey By each cold hearth, and sad- ness flings Her shadow on the blaze of kings : And yet myself have heard him say, That not in any mother town With statelier progress to and fro The double tides of chariots flow By park and suburb under brown Of lustier leaves; nor more content, He told me, lives in any crowd, When all is gay with lamps, and loud With sport and song, in booth and tent. Imperial halls, or open plain ; And wheels the circled dance, and breaks The rocket molten into flakes Of crimson or in emerald rain. xcix. Ris^st thou thus, dim dawn, again, So loud with voices of the birds, So thick with lowings of tlio herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men ; Who tremblest thro- thy darkling red On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past. And- woodlands holy to the dead ; Who murmurest in the f oliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care. And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves ; AVho wakenest with thy balmy breath To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads more, of death. O wheresoever those may be, Betwixt the slumber of the poles. To-day they count as kindred souls ; They know me not, but mourn with me. I climb the hill : from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend ; No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low morass and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead. Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; IN MEMORIAM. 513 Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench'd along the hill And haunted by the wrangling daw ; Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves To left and right thro' meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock ; But each has pleased a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day ; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die. Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall j sway, j The tender blossom flutter down, Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away ; Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air; Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star ; Uncared for, gird the windy grove. And flood the haunts of hern and crake ; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove ; Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger's child ; As year by year the laborer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades , And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky; The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden-walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, " Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird In native hazels tassel-hung." The other answers, *' Yea, but here Thy feet have stray 'd in after hours With thy lost friend among the bowers. And this hath made them trebly dear." These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim. Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not yield each other way. I turn to go : my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms ; They mix in one another's arms To one pure image of regret. On that last night before we went From out the doors where I was bred, I dream'd a vision of the dead, Which left my after-morn content. 514 IN MEMORIAM. Methought I dwelt within a hall, And maidens with me : distant hills From hidden summits fed with rills A river sliding by the wall. The hall with harp and carol rang. They sang of what is wise and good And graceful. In the centre stood A statue veil'd, to which they sang ; And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love For ever : then flew in a dove And brought a summons from the sea: And when they learnt that I must go They wept and wail'd, but led the way To where a little shallop lay At anchor in the flood below ; And on by many a level mead, And shadowing bluff that made the banks. We glided winding under ranks Of iris, and the golden reed ; And still as vaster grew the shore And roird the floods in grander space. The maidens gather'd strength and grace And presence, lordlier than before ; And I myself, who sat apart And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb ; I felt the thews of Anakim, The pulses of a Titan's heart ; As one would sing the death of war. And one would chant the history Of that great race, which is to be. And one the shaping of a star ; Until the forward-creeping tides Began to foam, and we to draw From deep to deep, to where we saw A great ship lift her shining sides. The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent To greet us. Up the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck : Whereat those maidens with one mind Bewail'd their lot ; I did them wrong : " We served thee here," they said, '* so long, And wilt thou leave us now behind ? " So rapt I was, they could not win An answer from my lips, but he Replying, " Enter likewise ye And go with us : " they enter'd in. And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud That landlike slept along the deep. The time draws near the birth of Christ ; The moon is hid, the night is still ; A single church below the hill Is pealing, folded in the mist. A single peal of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest A single murmur in the breast. That these are not the bells I know. Like strangers' voices here they sound, In lands where not a memory strays. Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new unhallow'd ground. To-night ungather'd let us leave This laurel, let this holly stand: We live within the stranger's land. And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. IN MEMORIAM. 515 Our father's dust is left alone And silent under other snows : There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes, but we are gone. No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime ; For change of place, like growth of tim*e, Has broke the bond of dying use. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved. And hold it solemn to the past. But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; For who would keep an ancient form Thro' which the spirit breathes no more? Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown ; No dance, no motion, save alone What lightens in the lucid east Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed; Run out your measured arcs, and lead The closing cycle rich in good. cvi. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light : The year is dying in the night ; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow : The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind. For those that here v/e see no more ; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of life. With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times ; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 516 IN MEMORIAM. Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass To darken on the rolling brine | That breaks tlie coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim tlie glass ; Bring in great logs and let tliem lie, To make a solid core of heat ; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev'n as he were by ; We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate'er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. CVIII. I will not shut me from my kind, And, lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone, Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : What profit lies in barren faith. And vacant yearning, tho' with might To scale the heaven's highest height, Or dive below the wells of Death ? What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns % And on the depths of death there swims The reflex of a human face. I'll rather take what fruit may be Of sorrow under human skies : 'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. cix. Heart-affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry; The critic clearness of an eye, That saw thro' all the Muses' walk ; Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man ; Impassion'd logic, which outran The hearer in its fiery course ; High nature amorous of the good, But touch'd with no ascetic gloom ; And passion pure in snowy bloom Thro' all the years of April blood ; A love of freedom rarely felt. Of freedom in her regal seat Of England ; not the schoolboy heat. The blind hysterics of the Celt ; And manhood fused with female grace In such a sort, the child would twine A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, And find his comfort in thy face ; All these have been, and thee mine eyes Have look'd on: if they look'd in vain, INIy shame is greater w ho remain, Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. Thy converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years : The feeble soul, a haunt of fears. Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung. The proud was half disarm 'd of pride. Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his double tongue. The stern were mild when thouwert In', The flippant put himself to school And heard thee, and the brazen fool Was soften'd, and he knew not why ; While I, thy nearest, sat apart. And felt thy triumph was as mine; IN MEMORIAM. 517 And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art ; Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love tliat will not tire, And, born «f love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. CXI. The churl in spirit, up or down Along the scale of ranks, thro' all. To him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown ; The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil His want in forms for fashion's sake. Will let his coltish nature break At seasons thro' the gilded pale : For who can always act % but he, To whom a thousand memories call, Not being less but more than all The gentleness he seem'd to be. Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd Each office of the social hour To noble manners, as the flower And native growth of noble mind ; Nor ever narrowness or spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by. Drew in the expression of an eye. Where God and Nature met in light ; And thus he bore without abuse The grand old name of gentleman. Defamed by every charlatan. And soil'd with all ignoble use. cxii. High wisdom holds my wisdom less. That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Set light by narrower perfectness. But thou, that fiUest all the room Of all my love, art reason why I seem to cast a careless eye On souls, the lesser lords of doom. For what wert thou ? some novel power Sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much. In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracts of calm from tempest made. And world-wide fluctuation sway 'd In vassal tides that follow'd thought. CXIII. 'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me, But served the seasons that may rise ; For can I doubt, who knew thee keen In intellect, with force and skill To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — I doubt not what thou wouldst have been : A life in civic action warm, A soul on highest mission sent, A potent voice of Parliament, A pillar steadfast in the storm. Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming, when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth And roll it in another course, With thousand shocks that come and go. With agonies, with energies. With overthrowings, and with cries. And undulations to and fro. cxiv. Who loves not Knowledge shall rail Wh» 518 IN MEMORIAM. Against her beauty ? May she mix With men and prosper ! Who shall fix Her pillars ? Let her Avork prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire : She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — She cannot fight the fear of death. What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons ? fiery-hot to burst All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place ; She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild. If all be not in vain ; and guide Her footsteps, moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child : For she is earthly of the mind. But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. O, friend, who camest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee. Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity. cxv. Now fades the last long streak of snow. Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown'd in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale. And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea ; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood ; that live their lives From land to land ; and in my breast Spring wakens too ; and my re- gret Becomes an April violet. And buds and blossoms like the rest. Is it, then, regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes. And meets the year, and gives and takes The colors of the crescent prime ? Not all : the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust In that which made the world so fair. Not all regret : the face will shine L^pon me, while I muse alone ; And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine : Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead ; Less yearning for the friendship fled. Than some strong bond which is to be. O days and hours, your work is this To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace. For fuller gain of after bliss : IN MEMORIAM. 519 That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet; And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundredfold accrue, For every grain of sand that runs. And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels. And all the courses of the suns. CXVIIL Contemplate all this work of Time, The giant laboring in his youth ; Nor dream of human love and truth, As dying Nature's earth and lime ; But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampler day For ever nobler ends. They say. The solid earth whereon we tread In tracts of fluent heat began. And grew to seeming-random forms, The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man ; Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more ; Or, crown'd with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly The reeling Faun, the sensual feast : Move upward, working out the beast. And let the ape and tiger die. Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more; the city sleeps; 1 smell the meadow in the street ; I hear a chirp of birds ; I see Betwixt the black fronts long- withdrawn A light-bUie lane of early dawn. And think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand. I trust I have not wasted breath : I think we are not wholly brain, Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain. Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death ; Not only cunning casts in clay : Let Science prove we are, and then What matters Science unto men, At least to me ? I would not stay. Let him, the wiser man who springs Hereafter, up from childhood shape His action like the greater ape, But I was horn to other things. Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun And ready, thou, to die with him. Thou watchest all things ever dim And dimmer, and a glory done : 520 IN MEMORIAM. The team is loosen'd from the wain, The boat is drawn upon the shore ; Thou listenest to the closing door, And life is darken'd in the brain. Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, By thee the world's great work is heard Beginning, and the wakeful bird ; Behind thee comes the greater light : The market boat is on the stream, And voices hail it from the brink ; Thou hear'st the village hammer clink, And see'st the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name For what is one, the first, the last, Thou, like ray present and my past, Thy place is changed; thou art the same. CXXII. Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then. While I rose up against my doom. And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom. To bare the eternal Heavens again, To feel once more, in placid awe. The strong imagination roll A sphere of stars about my soul. In all her motion one with law ; If thou wert with me, and the grave Divide us not, be with me now, And enter in at breast and brow, Till all my blood, a fuller wave, Be quicken'd with a livelier breath, And like an inconsiderate boy, As in the former flash of joy, I slip the thoughts of life and death ; And all the breeze of Fancy blows. And every dew-drop paints a bow, The wizard lightnings deeply glow, And every thought breaks out a rose. CXXIII. There rolls the deep where grew the tree. earth, what changes hast thou seen ! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands ; They melt like mist, the solid lands. Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell. And dream my dream, and ^old it true ; Fortho' my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell. CXXIV. That which we dare invoke to bless ; Our dearest faith ; our ghastliest doubt ; He, They, One, All ; within, with- out; The Power in darkness whom we guess ; I found Him not in world or sun, Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye ; Nor thro' the questions men may try. The petty cobwebs we have spun : If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 1 heard a voice "believe no more " And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the Godless deep ; A warmth within the breast would melt The freezing reason's colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart Stood up and answer'd " I have felt." No, like a child in doubt and fear : But that blind clamor made me wise ; IN MEMORIAM. 521 Then was I as a child that cries, But, crying, knows his father near ; And what I am beheld again AAHiat is, and no man understands ; And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro' nature, moulding men. cxxv. Whatever I have said or sung, Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live A contradiction on the tongue. Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; She did but look through dimmer eyes ; Or Love but play'd with gracious lies, Because he felt so fix'd in truth : And if the song were full of care. He breathed the spirit of the song ; And if the words were sweet and strong He set his royal signet there ; Abiding with me till I sail To seek thee on the mystic deeps, And this electric force, that keeps A thousand pulses dancing, fail. Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend. Which every hour his couriers bring. Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho' as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass'd by his faithful guard, And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds o* space. In the deep night, that all is well. CXXVII. And all is well, tho' faith and form Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; Well roars the storm to those that hear A deeper voice across the storm, Proclaiming social truth shall spread. And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine Should pile her barricades with dead. But ill for him that wears a crown, And him, the lazar, in his rags : They tremble, the sustaining crags ; The spires of ice are toppled down, And molten up, and roar in flood ; The fortress crashes from on high, The brute earth lightens to the sky, And the great ^on sinks in blood, And compass'd by the fires of Hell ; While thou, dear spirit, happy star, O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well. The love that rose on stronger wings, Unpalsied when he met with Death, Is comrade of the lesser faith That sees the course of human things. No doubt vast eddies in the flood Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade ; Yet O ye mysteries of good. Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, If all your office had to do With old results that look like new ; If this were all 3'our mission here. 522 IN MEMORIAM. To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, To fool the crowd with glorious lies, To cleave a creed in sects and cries, To change the bearing of a word, To shift an arbitrary power, To cramp the student at his desk, To make old bareness picturesque And tuft with grass a feudal tower ; Why then my scorn mightwell descend On you and yours. I see in part That all, as in some piece of art, Is toil couperant to an end. CXXIX. Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and weal ; loved the most, when most I feel There is a lower and a higher; Known and unknown ; human, divine ; Sweet human hand and lips and eye; Dear heavenly friend that canst not die. Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; Strange friend, past, present, and to be; Loved deeplier, darklier under- stood ; Behold, I dream a dream of good. And mingle all the world with thee. cxxx. Thy voice is on the rolling air ; 1 hear thee where the waters run ; Thou standest in the rising sun. And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou then 1 I cannot guess ; But tho' I seem in star and flower To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less : My love involves the love before ; My love is vaster passion now ; Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh j I have thee still, and I rejoice ; I prosper, circled with thy voice I shall not lose thee tho' I die. O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock. Else in the spiritual rock. Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure. That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquer'd years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved,. And all we flow from, soul in soul. true and tried, so Avell and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay ; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house ; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this ; Tho' I since then have number'd o'er Some thrice three years: they went and came. Remade the blood and changed the fame. And yet is love not less, but more ; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, IN MEMORIAM. 523 For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before ; Which makes appear the songs I made As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade. But where is she, the bridal flower, That must be made a wife ere noon ? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower : On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee ; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for tnee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. And thou art worthy ; full of power ; As gentle; liberal-minded, great. Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out : the noon is near. And I must give away the bride ; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch'd her on her nurse's arm. That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee ; Now waiting to be made a wife. Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; Their pensive tablets round her head. And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on. The " wilt thou " answer'd, and again The " wilt thou " ask'd, till out of twain Her sweet " I will " has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read. Mute symbols of a joyful morn. By village eyes as yet unborn ; The names are sign'd, and overhead Begins the clash and clang .that tells The joy to every wandering breeze ; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them — maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life in- creased. Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance To meet and greet a whiter sun ; My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. It circles round, and fancy plays. And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom. As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days. 524 IN MEMORIAM. Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest. Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favor'd horses wait ; They rise, but linger ; it is late ; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark From little cloudlets on the grass, But sweeps away as out we pass To range the woods, to roam the park, Discussing how their courtship grew, And talk of others that are wed. And how she look'd, and what he said. And back we come at fall of dew. Ag,ain the feast, the speech, the glee, The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three-times- three, And last the dance ; — till I retire : Dumb is that tower which spake so loud. And high in heaven the stream- ing cloud. And on the downs a rising fire : And rise, O moon, from yonder down. Till over down and over dale All night the shining vapor sail And pass the silent-lighted town, The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, ^ And catch at every mountain head. And o'er the fritlis that branch and spread Their sleeping silver thro' the hills; And touch with shade the bridal doors. With tender gloom the roof, tin- wall ; And breaking let the splendor fall To spangle all the happy shores By which they rest, and ocean sounds. And, star and system rolling past, A soul shall draw from out the vast And strike his being into bounds. And, moved thro' life of lower phase, Result in man, be born and think, And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race Of those that, eye to eye, shall look On knowledge ; under whose com- mand Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book ; No longer half-akin to brute, For all we thought and loved and did. And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit ; Whereof the man, that with me trod This planet, was a noble type Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God, That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one law, one element. And one far-off divine event. To which the whole creation moves. THE LOTEE'S TALE. The original Preface to " The Lover's Tale " states that it was composed in my nineteenth year. Two onlj' of the three parts then written were printed, when, feeling the imperfection of the poem, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends however who, boylike, admired the boy's work, distributed among our common associates of that hour some copies of these two parts, without ray knowledge, without the omissions and amendments which I had in contemplation, and marred by the many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, and that what I had deemed scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light — accompanied with a reprint of the sequel — a work of my mature life — " The Golden Supper "? May, 1879. ARGUMENT. Julian, whose cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and rival, Lionel, endeavors to narrate the story of his own love for her, and the strange sequel. He speaks (in Parts IL and IIL) of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling for a funeral, and at last ringing for a marriage ; but he breaks away, overcome, as he ap- proaches the Event, and a witness to it completes the tale. I. Here far away, seen from the top- most cliff, Filling with purple gloom the vacan- cies Between the tufted hills, the sloping seas Hung in mid-heaven, and half-way down rare sails, White as white clouds, floated from sky to sky. Oh ! pleasant breast of waters, quiet bay, Like to a quiet mind in the loud world. Where the chafed breakers of the outer sea Sank powerless, as anger falls aside And withers on the breast of peaceful love; Thou didst receive the growth of pines that fledged The hills that watch'd thee, as Love watcheth Love, In thine own essence, and delight thy- self To make it wholly thine on sunny days. Keep thou thy name of " Lover's Bay." See, sirs. Even now the Goddess of the Past, that takes The heart, and sometimes touches but one string That quivers, and is silent, and some- times Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd chords To some old melody, begins to play That air which pleased her first. I feel thy breath ; I come, great Mistress of the ear and eye: Thy breath is of the pinewood ; and tho* years Have hoUow'd out a deep and stormy strait Betwixt the native land of Love and me, Breathe but a little on me, and the sail Will draw me to the rising of the sun. 526 THE LOVER'S TALE. Tlie lucid chambers of the morning star, And East of Life. Permit me, friend, I prythee, To pass my hand across my brows, and muse On those dear hills, that never more will meet The sight that throbs and aches be- neath my touch, As tho' there beat a heart in either eye; For when the outer lights are darken'd thus, The memory's vision hath a keener edge. It grows upon me now — the semi- circle Of dark-blue waters and the narrow fringe Of curving beach — its wreaths of dripping green — Its pale pink shells — the summer- house aloft That open'd on the pines with doors of glass, A mountain nest — the pleasure-boat that rock'd. Light-green with its own shadow, keel to keel, Upon the dappled dimplings of the wave. That blanch'd upon its side. O Love, O Hope ! They come, they crowd upon me all at once — Moved from the cloud of unforgotten things, That sometimes on the horizon of the mind Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in storm — Flash upon flash they lighten thro' mc — days Of dewy dawning and the amber eves When thou and I, Camilla, thou and I Were borne about the bay or safely moor'd Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, where the tide Plash'd, sapping its worn ribs ; and all without The slowly-ridging rollers on the cliffs Clash'd, calling to each other, and thro' the arch Down those loud waters, like a setting star, Mixt with the gorgeous west the light- house shone, And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell Would often loiter in her balmy blue. To crown it with herself. Here, too, my love Waver'd at anchor with me, when day hung From his mid-dome in Heaven's airy halls ; Gleams of the water-circles as they broke, Flicker'd like doubtful smiles about her lips, Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair. Leapt like a passing thought across her eyes ; And mine with one that will not pass, till earth And heaven pass too, dwelt on my heaven, a face Most stany-fair, but kindled from within As 'twere with dawn. She was dark- hair'd, dark-eyed : Oh, such dark eyes ! a single glance of them Will govern a whole life from birth to death, Careless of all things else, led on with light In trances and in visions : look at them. You lose yourself in utter ignorance ; You cannot find their depth ; for they go back, And farther back, and still withdraw themselves Quite into the deep soul, that ever- more THE LOVER'S TALE. sn Fresh springing from her fountains in tlie brain, Still pouring thro', floods with redun- dant life Her narrow portals. Trust me, long ago I should have died, if it were possible 'i'o die in gazing on that perfectness Which I do bear within me : I had died. But from my farthest lapse, my latest ebb, Thine image, like a charm of light and strength Upon the waters, push'd me back again On these deserted sands of bai'ren life. The' from the deep vault where the heart of Hope Fell into dust, and crumbled in the dark — Forgetting how to render beautiful Her countenance with quick and healthful blood — Thou didst not sway me upward; could I perish While thou, a meteor of the sepul- chre, Didst swathe thyself all round Hope's quiet urn For ever? He, that saith it, hath o'er-stept The slippery footing of his narrow wit. And fall'n away from judgment. Thou art light, To which my spirit leaneth all her flowers, And length of days, and immortality Of thought, and freshness ever self- renew'd. F^or Time and Grief abode too long with Life, And, like all other friends i' the world, at last They grew aweary of her fellowship : So Time and Grief did beckon unto Death, And Death drew nigh and beat tlie doors of Life : But thou didst sit alone in the inner house, A wakeful portress, and didst parle with Death, — " This is a charmed dwelling which I hold ; " So Death gave back, and would no further come. Yet is my life nor in the present time. Nor in the present place. To me alone, Push'd from liis chair of regal heri- tage. The Present is the vassal of the Past : So that, in that I have lived, do I live, And cannot die, and am, in having been — A portion of the pleasant yesterday, Thrust forward on to-day and out of place ; A body journeying onward, sick with toil. The weight as if of age upon my limbs. The grasp of hopeless grief about my heart. And all the senses weaken'd, save in that. Which long ago they had glean'd and garner'd up Into the granaries of memory — The clear brow, bulwark of the precious brain, Chink'd as you see, and seam'd — and all the while The light soul twines and mingles wath the growths Of vigorous early days, attracted, won. Married, made one with, molten into all The beautiful in Past of act or place. And like the all-enduring camel, driven Far from the diamond fountain by the palms, Who toils across the middle moonlit nights. Or when the white heats of the blind- ing noons Beat from the concave sand ; yet in him keeps 528 THE LOVER'S TALE, A draught of that sweet fountain that he loves, To stay his feet from falling, and his spirit From bitterness of death. Ye ask me, friends, When I began to love. How should I tell you ? Or from the after-fulness of my heart, Flow back again unto my slender spring And first of love, tho' every turn and depth Between is clearer in my life than all Its present flow. Ye know not what ye ask. How should the broad and open flower tell What sort of bud it was, when, prest together In its green slieath, close-lapt in silken folds. It seem'd to keep its sweetness to it- self. Yet was not the less sweet for that it seem'd % For young Life knows not when young Life was born, But takes it all for granted : neither Love, Warm in the heart, his cradle, can remember Love in the womb, but resteth satis- fied. Looking on her that brought him to the light : Or as men know not when they fall asleep Into delicious dreams, our other life, So know 1 not wlien I began to love. This is my sum of knowledge — that my love Grew with myself — say rather, was my growth. My inward sap, the hold I have on earth, My outward circling air wherewith I breathe, Which yet upholds my life, and ever- more Is to me daily life :iiid daily death : For how should I have lived and not have loved 1 Can ye take off the sweetness from the flower, The color and the sweetness from the rose. And place them by themselves; or set apart Their motions and their brightness from the stars, And then point out the flower or the star 1 Or build a wall betwixt my life and love, And tell me where I am ? 'Tis even thus : In that I live I love ; because I love I live : whate'er is fountain to the one Is fountain to the other; and whene'er Our God unknits the riddle of the one, There is no shade or fold of mystery Swathing the other. Many, many years, (For they seem many and my most of life. And well I could have linger'd in that porch. So unproportion'd to the dwelling- place,) In the Maydews of childhood, opposite The flush and dawn of youth, we lived together, Apart, alone together on those hills. Before he saw my day my father died. And he was happy that he saw it not ; But I and the first daisy on his grave From the same clay came into light at once. As Love and I do number equal years, So she, my love, is of an age with me. How like each other was the birth of each ! On the same morning, almost the same hour. Under the selfsame aspect of the stars, (Oh falsehood of all starcraft!) we were born. How like each other was the birth of each ! THE LOVER'S TALE. 529 The sister of ray mother — she that bore Camilla close beneath her beating heart, Which to the imprison'd spirit of the child, With its true-touched pulses in the flow And hourly visitation of the blood, Sent notes of preparation manifold, And mellow'd echoes of the outer world — My mother's sister, mother of my love. Who had a twofold claim upon my j heart. One twofold mightier than the other was, In giving so much beauty to the world. And so much wealth as God had charged her with — Loathing to put it from herself for ever. Left her own life with it ; and dying thus, Crown'd with her highest act the placid face And breathless body of her good deeds past. So were we born, so orphan'd. She was motherless And I without a father. So from each Of those two pillars which from earth uphold Our childhood, one had fallen away, and all The careful burthen of our tender j^ears Trembled upon the other. He that gave Her life, to me delightedly fulfiU'd All lovingkindnesses, all offices Of watchful care and trembling ten- derness. He waked for both : he pray'd for both : he slept Dreaming of both : nor was his love the less Because it was divided, and shot forth Boughs on each side, laden with whole- some shade. Wherein we nested sleeping or awake, And sang aloud the matin-song of life. She was my foster-sister: on one arm The flaxen ringlets of our infancies Wander'd, the while we rested: one soft lap Pillow'd us both : a common light of eyes Was on us as we lay: our baby lips. Kissing one bosom, ever drew from thence The stream of life, one stream, one life, one blood. One sustenance, which, still as thought grew large, Still larger moulding all the house of thought* Made all our tastes and fancies like, perhaps — All — all but one ; and strange to me, and sweet, Sweet thro' strange years to know that whatsoe'er Our general mother meant for me alone, Our mutual mother dealt to both of us : So what was earliest mine in earliest life, I shared with her in whom myself remains. As was our cliildhood, so our in- fancy, They tell me, was a very miracle Of fellow-feeling and communion. They tell me that we would not ho alone, — We cried when we were parted ; when I wept. Her smile lit up the rainbow on my tears, Stay'd on the cloud of sorrow ; that we loved The sound of one-another's voices more Than the gray cuckoo loves his name, and learn'd To lisp in tune together ; that we slept 530 THE LOVER'S TALE. In the same cradle always,face to face. Heart beating time to heart, lip press- ing lip, Folding each other, breathing on each other, Dreaming together (dreaming of each other They should have added), till the morning light Sloped thro' the pines, upon the dewy pane Falling, miseal'd our eyelids, and we woke To gaze upon each other. If this be true, At thought of which my whole soul languishes And faints, and hath no pulse, no breath — as tho' A man in some still garden should in- fuse Rich atar in the bosom of the rose, Till, drunk with its own wine, and overfull Of sweetness, and in smelling of itself. It fall on its own thorns — if this be true — And that way my wish leads me ever- more Still to believe it — 'tis so sweet a thought. Why in the utter stillness of the soul Doth question'd memory answer not, nor tell Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn. Most loveliest, earthly-heavenliest liar- mony ? blossom'd portal of the lonely house, Green prelude, April promise, glad new year Of Being, which with earliest violets And lavish carol of clear-throatedlarks Fill'd all the March of life ! — I will not speak of thee. These have not seen thee, these can never know thee, They cannot understand me. Pass we then A term of eighteen years. Ye would but laugh, If I should tell you how I hoard in thought The faded rhymes and scraps of an- cient crones. Gray relics of the nurseries of the world. Which are as gems set in my memor}', Because slie learnt them with me ; or what use To know her father left us just before The daffodil was blown ? or how wq found The dead man cast upon the shore "? All this Seems to the quiet daylight of your minds But cloud and smoke, and in the dark of mine Is traced with flame. Move with me to the event. There came a glorious morning, such a one As dawns but once a season. Mercury On sucli a morning would have flung himself From cloud to cloud, and swum with balanced wings To some tall mountain : when I said to her, " A day for Gods to stoop," she an- swered. "Ay, And men to soar : " for as that other gazed, Shading his eyes till all the fiery cloud, The prophet and the chariot and the steeds, Suck'd into oneness like a little star Were drunk into the inmost blue, we stood, When first we came from out the pines at noon. With hands for eaves, uplooking and almost Waiting to see some blessed shape in heaven, So bathed we were in brilliance. Never yet Before or after have I known the spring Pour with such sudden deluges of light THE LOVER'S TALE, 531 Into the middle summer; for that day Love, rismg, shook his wings, and charged the winds With spiced May-sweets from bound to bound, and blew Fresh fire into the sun, and from within Burst thro' the heated buds, and sent his soul Into the songs of birds, and touch'd far-off His mountain-altars, his high hills, with flame Milder and purer. Thro' the rocks we wound : Tlie great pine shook with lonely sounds of joy That came on the sea-wind. As mountain streams Our blood ran free : the sunshine seem'd to brood More warmly on the heart than on the brow. We often paused, and, looking back, we saw The clefts and openings in the moun- tains fiU'd With the blue valley and the glisten- ing brooks, And all the low dark groves, a land of love ! A land of promise, a land of memory, A land of promise flowing with the milk And honey of delicious memories ! And down to sea, and far as eye could ken, Each way from verge to verge a Holy Land, Still growing holier as you near'd the bay, For there the Temple stood. When we had reach'd The grassy platform on some hill, I stoop'd, I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her brows And mine made garlands of the self- same flower, Which she took smiling, and with my work thus Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or twice she told me (For I remember all things) to let grow The flowers that run poison in their veins. She said, "The evil flourish in tlie world." Then playfully she gave herself the lie — " Nothing in nature is unbeautif ul ; So, brother, pluck and spare not.'- So I wove Ev'n the dull-blooded poppy-stem, "whose flower, Hued with the scarlet of a fierce sun- rise, Like to the wild youth of an evil prince, Is without sweetness, but who crowns himself Above tlie naked poisons of his heart In his old age." A graceful thought of hers Grav'n on my fancy ! And oh, how like a nymph, A stately mountain nymph she look'd! how native Unto the hills she trod on ! While I gazed My coronal slowly disentwined itself And fell between us both ; tho' while I gazed My spirit leap'd as with those thrills of bliss That strike across the soul in prayer, and show us That we are surely heard. Methought a light Burst from the garland I had wov'n, and stood A solid glory on her bright black hair ; A light methought broke from her dark, dark eyes. And shot itself into the singing winds ; A mystic light flash'd ev'n from her white robe As from a glass in the sun, and fell about My footsteps on the mountains. Last we came To what our people call " The Hill of Woe." 532 THE LOVERS TALE. A bridge is tliere, that, look'd at from beneatli Seems but a cobweb filament to link The yawning- of an earthquake-cloven chasm. And thence one night, when all the winds were loud, A woful man (for so the story went) Had thrust his wife and child and dash'd himself Into the dizzy depth below. Below, Fierce in the strength of far descent, a stream Flies with a shatter'd foam along the chasm. The path was perilous, loosely strown with crags : We mounted slowly; yet to both there came The joy of life in steepness overcome. And victories of ascent, and looking down On all that had look'd down on us ; and joy In breathing nearer heaven ; and joy to me, High over all the azure-circled earth. To breath with her as if in heaven it- self; And more than joy that I to her be- came Her guardian and her angel, raising her Still higher, past all peril, until she saw Beneatli her feet the region far away. Beyond the nearest mountain's bosky brows. Arise in open prospect — heath and hill, And hollow lined and wooded to the lips, And deep-down walls of battlemented rock Gilded with broom, or shatter'd into spires. And glory of broad waters interfused, Whence rose as it were breath and steam of gold, And over all the great wood rioting And climbing, streak'd or starr'd at intervals With falling brook or blossom'd bush — and last. Framing the miglity landscape to the west, A purple range of mountain-cones, between Whose interspaces gush'd in blinding bursts The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. At length Descending from the point and stand- ing both, There on the tronulous bridge, that from beneath Had seem'd a gossamer filament up in air. We paused amid the splendor. All the west And ev'n unto the middle south was ribb'd And barr'd with bloom on bloom. The sun below, Held for a space 'twixt cloud and wave, shower'd down Kays of a mighty circle, weaving over That various wilderness a tissue of light Uiiparallel'd. On the other side, the moon, Half-melted into thin blue air, stood still. And pale and fibrous as a wither'd leaf. Not yet endured in presence of His eyes To indue his lustre ; most unloverlike, Since in his absence full of light and joy. And giving light to others. But thin most, Next to her presence whom I loved so well, Spoke loudly even into my inmost heart As to my outward hearing : the loud stream, Forth issuing from his portals in the crag (A visible link unto the home of my heart). Ran amber toward the west, and nigh the sea Parting my own loved mountains was received, THE LOVER'S TALE. 533 Shorn of its strength, into the sym- pathy Of that small bay, which out to open main Glow'd intermingling close beneath the sun. Spirit of Love ! that little hour was bound Shut in from Time, and dedicate to thee : Tliy fires from heaven had touch'd it, and the earth Tliey fell on became hallow'd ever- more. We turn'd : our eyes met : hers were bright, and mine ' Were dim with floating tears, that shot the sunset In lightnings round me ; and my name was borne Upon her breath. Hencefortli my name has been A hallow'd memory like the names of old, A center'd, glory-circled memory, •And a peculiar treasure, brooking not P'xchange or currency: and in tliat hour A hope flow'd round me, like a golden mist Charm'd amid eddiesof melodious airs, A moment, ere tlie onward whirlwind shatter it, Waver'd and floated — which was less than Hope, Because it lack'd the power of perfect Hope ; But which was more and higher than all Hope, Because all other Hope had lower aim ; Even that this name to which her gracious lips Did lend such gentle utterance, this one name. In some obscure hereafter, might in- wreathe (How lovelier, nobler then!) her life, her love, With my life, love, soul, spirit, and heart and strength. " Brother," she said, " let this be call'd henceforth The Hill of. Hope;" and I replied, "0 sister. My will is one with thine; the Hill of Hope." Nevertheless, we did not change the name. I did not speak : I could not speak my love. Love lieth deep : Love dwells not in lip-depths. Love wraps his wings on either side the heart. Constraining it with kisses close and warm, Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts So that they pass not to the shrine of sound. Else had the life of that delighted hour Drunk in the largeness of the utter- ance Of Love ; but how should Earthly measure mete The Heavenly-unmeasured or unlimit- ed Love, Who scarce can tune his high majestic sense Unto the thundersong that wheels the spheres. Scarce living in the uEolian harmony, And flowing odor of the spacious air. Scarce housed within the circle of this Earth, Be cabin'd up in words and syllables, Which pass witii that which breathes them ? Sooner Earth Might go round Heaven, and the strait girth of Time Inswathe the fulness of Eternity, Than language grasp tlie infinite of Love. O day which did enwomb that happy hour. Thou art blessed in the years, divinest day! Genius of that hour which dost up hold Thy coronal of glory like a Guel, 534 THE LOVER'S TALE. Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, Who walk before thee, ever turning round To gaze upon thee till their eyes are dim With dwelling on the light and depth of thine. Thy name is ever worshipp'd among hours ! Had I died then, I had not seem'd to die, For bliss stood round me like the light of Heaven, — Had I died then, I had not known the death ; Yea had the Power from whose right hand the light Of Life issueth, and from wliose left hand floweth The Sliadow of Death, perennial efflu- ences Whereof to all that draw the whole- some air, Somewhile the one must overflow the other ; Then had he stemm'd my day with night, and driven My current to the fountain whence it sprang, — Even his own abiding excellence — On me, methinks, that shock of gloom had fall'n Unfelt, and in this glory I had merged The other, like the sun I gazed upon. Which seeming for the moment due to deatli, And dipping his head low beneath the verge. Yet bearing round about him his own day, In confidence of unabated strength, Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, from light to light. And holdeth his undimmed forehead far Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. We trod the shadow of the down- ward hill ; We past from light to dark. On the other side Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain hall. Which none have fathom'd. If you go far in (The country people rumor) you may hear The moaning of the woman and the child. Shut in the secret chambers of the rock. I too have heard a sound — perchance of streams Running far on within its inmost halls. The home of darkness ; but the cav. ern-mouth, Half overtrailed with a wanton weed. Gives birth to a brawling brook, that passing lightly Adown a natural stair of tangled roots, Is presently received in a sweet grave Of eglantines, a place of burial Far lovelier than its cradle ; for un- seen. But taken with the sweetness of the place, It makes a constant bubbling melody That drowns the nearer echoes. Low- er down Spreads out a little lake, that, flood- ing, leaves LoAv banks of yellow sand ; and from the woods That belt it rise three dark, tall cy- presses, — Three cypresses, symbols of mortal woe, That men plant over graves. Hither we came, And sitting down upon the golden moss. Held converse sweet and low — low converse sweet. In which our voices bore least part. The wind Told a lovetale beside us, how he woo'd The waters, and the waters answering lisp'd To kisses of the wind, that, sick with love, Fainted at intervals, and grew again THE LOVER'S TALE 535 To utterance of passion. Ye cannot shape Fancy so fair as is this memory. Methought all excellence that ever was Had drawn herself from many thou- sand years, And all the separate Edens of this earth, To centre in this place and time. I listen'd, And her words stole with most pre- vailing sweetness Into my heart, as thronging fancies come To boys and girls when summer days are new. And soul and heart and body are all at ease : What marvel my Camilla told me all ? It was so happy an hour, so sweet a place. And I was as the brother of her blood. And by that name I moved upon her breath ; Dear name, which had too much of nearness in it And heralded the distance of this time! At first her voice was very sweet and low. As if she were afraid of utterance ; But in the onward current of her speech, (As echoes of the hollow-banked brooks Are fashion'd by the channel which they keep). Her words did of their meaning bor- row sound, Her cheek did catch the color of her words. I heard and trembled, yet I could but hear ; My heart paused — my raised eyelids would not fall, But still I kept my eyos upon the sky. I seem'd the only part of Time stood still, And saw the motion of all other things; While her words, syllable by syllable. Like water, drop by drop, upon my ear Fell ; and I wish'd, yet wish'd her not to speak ; But she spake on, for I did name no wish. What marvel my Camilla told me all Her maiden dignities of Hope and Love — "Perchance," she said, "return'd." Even then the stars Did tremble in their stations as I gazed; But she spake on, for I did name no wish, No wish — no hope. Hope was not wholly dead. But breathing hard at the approach of Death, — Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine No longer in the dearest sense of mine — For all the secret of her inmost heart, And all the maiden empire of her mind, Lay like a map before me, and I saw There, where I hoped myself to reign as king. There, where that day I crown'd my- self as king. There in my realm and even on my throne, Another I then it seem'd as tho' a link Of some tight chain within my inmost frame Was riven in twain : that life I heeded not Flow'd from me, and the darkness of the grave, The darkness of the grave and utter night, Did swallow up my vision ; at her feet, Even the feet of her I loved, I fell, Smit with exceeding sorrow unto Death. Then had the earth beneath me yawing cloven With such a sound as when an iceberg splits From cope to base — had Heaven from all her doors. With all her golden thresholds clash- ing, roU'd Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as dead. Mute, blind and motionless as then I lay ; 536 THE LOVER'S TALE. Dead, for henceforth there was no life for me ! .Mute, for henceforth what use were words to me ! Blind, for the da}' was as the night to me ! The night to me was kinder than the day; The night in pity took away my day, Because my grief as yet was newly born ( )f eyes too weak to look upon the light; And thro' the hasty notice of the ear Frail Life was startled from the ten- der love Of him she brooded over. Would I had lain Until the plaited ivy-tress had wound Round my worn limbs, and the wild brier had driven Its knotted thorns thro' my unpain- ing brows, Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. The wind had blown above me, and the rain Had fall'n upon me, and the gilded snake Had nestled in this bosom-throne of Love, But I had been at rest for evermore. Long time entrancement held me. All too soon Life (like a wanton too-officious friend. Who will not hear denial, vain and rude With proffer of unwish'd-for services) Entering all the avenues of sense Past thro' into his citadel, the brain, With hated warmth of apprehensive- ness. ^nd first the chillness of the sprinkled brook Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd to hear Its murmur, as the drowning seaman hears. Who with his head below the surface dropt Listens the muffled booming indistinct Of the confused floods, and dimly knows His head shall rise no more : and then came in The white light of the weary moon above, Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. Was my sight drunk that it did shape to me Him who should own that namel Were it not well If so be that the echo of that name Ringing within the fancy had updrawn A fashion and a phantasm of the form It should attach to 1 Phantom ! — had the ghastliest That ever lusted for a body, sucking The foul steam of the grave to thicken by it, There in the shuddering moonlight brought its face And what it has for eyes as close to mine As he did — better that than his, than he The friend, the neighbor, Lionel, the beloved. The loved, the lover, the happy Lionel, The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. O how her choice did leap forth from his eyes ! O how her love did clothe itself in smiles About his lips ! and — not one mo- ment's grace — Then when the effect weigh 'd seas upon my head To come my way ! to twit me with the cause ! Was not the land as free thro' all her ways To him as me ? Was not his wont to walk Between the going light and growing night ? Had I not learnt my loss before he came ? Could that be more because he came my way ? Why should he not come my way if he would 1 THE LOVER'S TALE. 53; And yet to-night, to-night — when all my wealth Flash'd from me in a moment and I fell Beggar'd for ever — why should he come my way Robed in tliose robes of light I must not wear, With that great crown of beams about his brows — Come like an angel to a damned soul. To tell him of the bliss he had with God — Come like a careless and a greedy heir That scarce can wait the reading of the will Before he takes possession 'i Was mine a mood To be invaded rudely, and not rather A sacred, secret unapproached woe. Unspeakable ? I was shut up with Grief ; She took the body of my past delight, Narded and swathed and balm'd it for herself, And laid it in a sepulchre of rock Never to rise again. I was led mute Into her temple like a sacrifice ; I was the High Priest in her holiest place, Not to be loudly broken in upon. Oh friend, thoughts deep and heavy as these well-nigh O'erbore the limits of my brain : but he Bent o'er me, and my neck his arm upstay'd. I thought it was an adder's fold, and once I strove to disengage myself, but fail'd. Being so feeble : she bent above me, too; Wan was her cheek; for whatsoe'er of blight Lives in the dewy touch of pity had made The red rose there a pale one — and her eyes — I saw the moonlight glitter on their tears — And some few drops of that distres.s- ful rain Fell on my face, and her long ringlets moved, Drooping and beaten by the breeze, and brush'd My fallen forehead in their to and fro, For in the sudden anguish of her lieart Loosed from their simple thrall they had flow'd abroad, And floated on and parted round her neck, Mantling her form halfway. She, when I woke, Something she ask'd, I know not what, and ask'd, Unanswer'd, since I spake not ; for the sound Of that dear voice so musically low, And now first heard with any sense of pain. As it had taken life away before, Choked all the syllables, that strove to rise From my full heart. The blissful lover, too. From his great hoard of happiness distill'd Some drops of solace ; like a vain rich man, That, having always prosper'd in the world. Folding his hands, deals comfortable words To hearts wounded for ever ; yet, in truth, Fair speech was his and delicate of phrase, Falling in whispers on the sense, ad- dress'd More to the inward than the outward ear. As rain of the midsummer midnight soft. Scarce-heard, recalling fragrance and the green Of the dead spring : but mine was wholly dead, No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit for me. 538 THE LOVER'S TALE. Yet who had done, or who had suffer'd wrong ? And why was I to darken their pure love, If, as I found, tliey two did love each other, Because my own was darken'd ? Why was I To cross between their happy star and them ? To stand a shadow by their shining doors, And vex them with my darkness ? Did I love her ? Ye know that I did love licr ; to tliis present My fuU-orb'd love has waned not. Did I love her, And could I look upon her tearful eyes'? What had she done to weep ? Why should slie weep ? innocent of spirit — let my heart Break rather — whom the gentlest airs of Heaven Should kiss with an unwonted gentle- ness. Her love did murder mine ? What then ? kSlie dcem'd 1 wore a brother's mind : she call'd me brother: She told me all her love : she shall not weep. The briglitness of a burning thought, awhile In battle with the glooms of my dark will, ;Moonlike emerged, and to itself lit up There on the depth of an unfathom'd woe Reflex of action. Starting up at once. As from a dismal di-eani of my own death, \, for I loved her, lost my love in Love; I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she lov'd. And laid it in her own, and sent my cry Thro' the blank night to Him who loving made The happy and the unhappy love, tliat He Would hold the hand of blessing over them, Lionel, the happy, and her, and her, his bride! Let them so love that men and boys may say, "Lo ! how they love each otlicr ! " till tlieir love Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all Known, when their faces are forgot in the land — One golden dream of love, from which may death Awake them with heaven's music in a life j More living to some happier happi- ness. Swallowing its precedent in victory. And as for me, Camilla, as for me, — The dew of tears is an unwholesome dew, They will but sicken the sick plant tlie more. Deem tliat I love thee but as brothers do, So shalt thou love me still as sisters do ; Or if thou dream aught farther, dream but how I could have loved thee, had there been none else To love as lovers, loved again by thee. Or this, or somewhat like to this, I spake. When I beheld her weep so rue- fully ; For sure my love should ne'er indue the front And mask of Hate, who lives on others' moans. Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bit- ter draughts. And batten on her poisons ? Love forbid ! Love passeth not the threshold of cold Hate, And Hate is strange beneath the roof of Love. THE LOVER'S TALE. 539 Love, if thou be'st Love, dry up these tears Shed for the love of Love ; for tho' mine image, The subject of thy power, be cold in her, Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the source Of these sad tears, and feeds their downward flow. So Love, arraign'd to judgment and to death, Received unto himself a part of blame, Being guiltless, as an innocent pri- soner, Who, when the woful sentence hath been past, And all the clearness of his fame hath gone Beneath the shadow of the curse of man, First falls asleep in swoon, wherefrom awaked. And looking round upon his tearful friends. Forthwith and in his agony con- ceives A shameful sense as of a cleaving crime — For whence without some guilt should such grief be ? So died that hour, and fell into the abysm Of forms outworn, but not to me out- worn, Who never hail'd another — was there one ? There might be one — one other, worth the life That made it sensible. So that hour died Like odor rapt into the winged wind Borne into alien lands and far away. There be some hearts so airily built, that they. They — when their love is wreck'd — if Love can wreck — On that sharp ridge of utmost doom ride highly Above the perilous seas of Change and Chance; Nay, more, hold out the lights of cheerfulness ; As the tall ship, that many a dreary year Knit to some dismal sandbank far at sea. All thro' the livelong hours of utter dark. Showers slanting light upon the dolor- ous wave. For me — what light, what gleam on tliose black ways Where Love could walk with banish'd Hope no more ? It was ill-done to part you, Sisters fair ; Love's arms were Avreath'd about the neck of Hope, And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew in her breath In that close kiss, and drank her whisper'd tales. They said that Love would die when Hope was gone, And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd after Hope ; At last she sought out Memory, and they trod The same old paths where Love had walk'd with Hope, And Memory fed the soul of Love with tears. II. From that time forth I would not see her more ; But many weary moons I lived alone — Alone, and in the heart of the great forest. Sometimes upon the hills beside the sea All day I watch'd the floating isles of shade. And sometimes on the shore, upon the sands Insensibly I drew her name, until The meaning of the letters shot into 540 THE LOVER'S TALE. My brain ; anon the wanton billow wash'd Them over, till they faded like ray love. The hollow caverns heard me — the black brooks Of the midforest heard me — the soft winds, Laden with thistledown and seeds of flowers. Paused in their course to liear me, for my voice Was all of thee : the merry linnet knew me, The squirrel knew me, and the dragon- fly Shot by me like a flash of purple fire. The rough brier tore my bleeding palms ; the hemlock, Brow-higli, did strike my forehead as I past ; Yet trod I not the wildflower in my path, Nor bruised the wildbird's q^^,. Was this the end ? Why grew we then together in one plot? Why fed we from one fountain ? drew one sun '{ Why were our mothers' branches of one stem ? Why were we one in all things, save in that Where to have been one had been the cope and crown Of all I hoped and fear'd ? — if that same nearness Were father to tliis distance, and that one Vauntcourier to the douUe 9 if Affec- tion Living slew Love, and Sympathy hew'd out The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy ? Chiefly I sought the cavern and the hill Where last we roam'd together, for the sound Of the loud stream was pleasant, and the wind Came wooingly with woodbine smells. Sometimes All day I sat within the cavern-mouth, Fixing my eyes on those three cypress- cones That spired above tlie wood ; and witli mad hand Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy- screen, I cast tliom in the noisy brook be- neath, And watch'd them till they vanish'd from my sight Beneath the bower of wreathed eglan- tines : And all the fragments of the living rock (Huge blocks, wliich some old trem- bling of tlie world Had loosen'd from the mountain, till they fell Half -digging their own graves) these in my agony Did I make bare of all the golden moss. Wherewith the dashing runnel in the spring Had liveried them all over. In my brain The spirit seem'd to flag from thought to thought. As moonlight wandering thro' a mist : my blood Crept like marsh drains thro' all my languid limbs ; The motions of my heart seem'd far within me, Unfrequent, low, as tho' it told its pulses ; And yet it shook me, that my frame would shudder, As if 'twere drawn asunder by the rack . But over the deep graves of Hope and Fear, And all the broken palaces of the Past, Brooded one master-i)assion evermore, Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky Above some fair metropolis, eartli- shock'd, — Hung round with raggeJ rims and burning folds, — THE LOVER'S TALE. 541 Enibatliing all with wild and woful hues, Great hills of ruins, and collapsed masses Of thundershaken columns indistinct, And fused together in the tyrannous light — Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me ! Sometimes I thought Camilla was no more, Some one had told me she was dead, and ask'd If I would see her burial : then Iseem'd To rise, and through the forest-shadow borne With more than mortal swiftness, I ran down The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon The rear of a procession, curving round The silver-sheeted bay ; in front of which Six stately virgins, all in white, upbear A broad earth-sweeping pall of whitest lawn. Wreathed round the bier with gar- lands : in the distance, From out the yellow woods upon the hill Look'd forth the summit and the pin- nacles Of a gray steeple — thence at intervals A low bell tolling. All the pageantry, Save those six virgins which upheld the bier. Were stoled from head to foot in tloM'- ing black ; One walk'd abreast with me, and veil'd his brow. And he was loud in weeping and in praise Of her we folio w'd: a strong sympathy Shook all my soul: I flung myself upon him In tears and cries : I told him all my love, How I had loved her fronx the first ; whereat He shrank and howl'd, and from his brow drew back His hand to push me from him ; and the face, The very face and form of Lionel Flash'd thro' my eyes into my inner- most brain, And at his feet I seem'd to faint and fall. To fall and die away. I could not rise Albeit I strove to follow. They past on. The lordly Phantasms ! in their float- ing folds They past and were no more : but I had fallen Prone by the dashing runnel on the grass. Alway the inaudible invisible thought, Artificer and subject, lord and slave. Shaped by the audible and visible. Moulded the audible and visible ; All crisped sounds of wave and leaf and wind, riatter'd the fancy of my fading brain; The cloud-pavilion'd element, the wood, The mountain, the three cypresses, the cave. Storm, sunset, glows and glories of the moon Below black firs, when silent-creeping winds Laid the long night in silver streaks and bars. Were wrought into the tissue of my dream : The moanings in the forest, the loud brook, Cries of the partridge like a rusty key Turn'd in a lock, owl-whoop and dor- hawk-whirr Awoke me not, but were a part of sleep. And voices in the distance calling to me And in my vision bidding me dream on, Like sounds without the twilight realm of dreams, Which wander round the bases of the hills. And murmur at the low-dropt eaves of sleep, Half-entering the portals. Oftentimes The vision liad fair prelude, in the end 5^2 THE LOVER'S TALE. Opening on darkness, stately vesti- bules To caves and shows of Death : wheth- er the mind, With some revenge — even to itself unknown, — Made strange division of its suffering With her, whom to have suffering view'd had been Extremest pain ; or that the clear-eyed Spirit, Being blunted in the Present, grew at lengtli Prophetical and prescient of whate'er The Future had in store : or that which most Enchains belief, the sorrow of my spirit Was of so wide a compass it took in All I had loved, and my dull agony. Ideally to her transferr'd, became Anguish intolerable. The day waned ; Alone I sat with her : about my brow Her warm breath floated in the utter- ance Of silver-chorded tones : her lips were sunder'd With smiles of tranquil bliss, which broke in light Like morning from her eyes — her eloquent eyes, (As I have seen them many a hundred times) Fill'd all with pure clear fire, thro' mine down rain'd Their spirit-searching splendors. As a vision Unto a haggard prisoner, iron-stay'd In damp and dismal dungeons under- ground. Confined on points of faith, when strength is shock'd With torment, and expectancy of worse Upon the morrow, thro' the ragged walls, All unawares before his half-shut eyes, Comes in upon him in the dead of night. And with the excess of sweetness and of awe. Makes the heart tremble, and the siglit run over Upon his steely gyves ; so those fair eyes Shone on my darkness, forms which ever stood Within the magic cirque of memory, Invisible but deathless, waiting still The edict of the will to reassume The semblance of those rare realities Of which tliey were the mirrors. Now the light Which was their life, burst through the cloud of thought Keen, irrepressible. It was a room Within the summer-house of which I spake, Hung round with paintings of the sea, and one A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved prow Clambering, the mast bent and the ravin wind In her sail roaring. From the outer day, Betwixt the close-set ivies came a broad And solid beam of isolated light, Crowded with driving atomies, and fell Slanting upon that picture, from prime youth Well-known well-loved. She drew it long ago Forthgazing on the waste and open sea. One morning when the upblown bil- low ran Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I had pour'd Into the shadowing pencil's naked forms Color and life : it was a bond and seal Of friendship, spoken of with tearful smiles ; A monument of childhood and of love ; The poesy of childhood ; my lost love THE LOVER'S TALE. 543 Symbol'd in storm. We gazed on it together In mute and glad remembrance, and each heart Grew closer to the other, and the eye Was riveted and charm-bomid, gazing like The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low- couch'd — A beauty which is death ; when all at once That painted vessel, as with inner life, Began to heave upon that painted sea ; An earthquake, my loud heart-beats, made the ground Reel under us, and all at once, soul, life And breath and motion, past and flow'd away To those unreal billows : round and round A whirlwind caught and bore us ; mighty gyres Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind- driven Far thro' the dizzy dark. Aloud she shriek'd ; My heart was cloven with pain; I wound my arms About her : we whirl'd giddily ; the wind Sung ; but I clasp'd her without fear : her weight Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim eyes. And parted lips which drank her breath, down-hung The jaws of Death : I, groaning, from me flung Her empty phantom : all the sway and whirl Of the storm dropt to windless calm, and I Down welter'd thro' the dark ever and ever. III. I CAME one day and sat among the stones Strewn in the entry of the moaning cave ; A morning air, sweet after rain, ran over The rippling levels of the lake, and blew Coolness and moisture and all smells of bud And foliage from the dark and drip- ping woods Upon my fevered brows that shook and throbb'd From temple unto temple. To what height The day had grown I know not. Then came on me The hollow tolling of the bell, and all The vision of the bier. As heretofore I walk'd behind with one who veil'd his brow. Methought by slow degrees the sullen bell ToU'd quicker, and the breakers on the shore Sloped into louder surf : those that went with me. And those that held the bier before my face. Moved with one spirit round about the bay. Trod swifter steps ; and while I walk'd with these In marvel at that gradual change, I thought Four bells instead of one began to ring, Four merry bells, four merry marriage- bells, In clanging cadence jangling peal on peal — A long loud clash of rapid marriage- bells. Then those who led the van, and those in rear, Rush'd into dance, and like wild Bac- chanals Fled onward to the steeple in the woods : I, too, was borne along and felt the blast Beat on my heated eyelids : all at once 544 THE LOVER'S TALE. The front rank made a sudden halt ; the bells Lapsed into frightful stillness ; the surge fell From thunder into whispers ; those six maids With slirieks and ringing laughter on the sand Threw down the bier ; the woods upon the hill "Waved with a sudden gust that sweep- ing down Took the edges of the pall, and blew it far Until it hung, a little silver cloud Over the sounding seas : I turn'd : my heart Shrank in me, like a snowflake in the hand, Waiting to see the settled countenance Of her I loved, adorn'd with fading flowers. But she from out her death-like chrysalis, She from her bier, as into fresher life. My sister, and my cousin, and my love. Leapt lightly clad in bridal white — her hair Studded with one rich Provence rose — a light Of smiling welcome round her lips — her eyes And cheeks as bright as when she clinib'd the hill. One hand she reach'd to those that came behind. And while I mused nor yet endured to take So rich a prize, the man who stood with me Stept gaily forward, throwing down his robes. And claspt her hand in his : again the bells Jangled and clang'd : again tlie stormy surf Crash'd in the shingle : and the whirl- ing rout Led by those two rush'd into dance, and fled Wind-footed to the steeple in the woods, Till they were swallow'd in the leafy bowers, And I stood sole beside the vacant bier. There, there, my latest vision — then the event ! lY. THE GOLDEN SUPPER.^ [Another speaks.) He flies the event : he leaves the event to me : Poor Julian — how he rush'd away; the bells, Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear and heart — But cast a parting glance at me, you saw, As who should say " Continue." Well he had One golden hour — of triumph shall I say? Solace at least — before he left his home. Would you had seen him in that hour of his ! He moved thro' all of it majesti- cally — Restrain'd himself quite to the close — but now — Whether they ivere his lady's mar- riage bells. Or prophets of them in his fantasy, I never ask'd : but Lionel and the girl Were wedded, and our Julian came again Back to his mother's house among the pines. But these, their gloom, the mountains and the Bay, The whole land weigh'd him down as JEtna, does The Giant of Mythology : he would go, 1 This poem is founded upon a story in Boccaccio. See Introduction, p. 647. THE LOVER'S TALE- 545 Would leave the land for ever, and had gone Surely, but for a whisper, " Go not yet," Some warning — sent divinely — as it seem'd By that which f ollow'd — but of this I deem As of the visions that he told — the event Glanced back upon them in his after life, And partly made them — tho' he knew it not. And thus he stay'd and would not look at her — No not for months : but, when the eleventh moon After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, Heard yet once more the tolling bell, and said. Would you could toll me out of life, but found — All softly as his mother broke it to him — A crueller reason than a crazy ear, For that low knell tolling his lady dead — Dead — and had lain three days with- out a pulse : All that look'd on her had pronounced her dead. And so they bore her (for in Julian's land They never nail a dumb head up in elm ) , Bore her free-faced to the free airs of heaven. And laid her in the vault of her own kin. What did he then ? not die : he is here and hale — Not plunge headforemost from tlie mountain there, And leave the name of Lover's Leap : not he : He knew the meaning of the whisper now. Thought that he knew it. " This, I stay'd for this ; love, I have not seen you for so long. Now, now, will I go down into the grave, 1 will be all alone with all I love. And kiss her on the lips. She is his no more : The dead returns to me, and I go down To kiss the dead." The fancy stirr'd him so He rose and went, and entering the dim vault. And, making there a sudden light, be- held All round about him that which all will be. The light was but a flash, and went again. Then at the far end of the vault he saw His lady with the moonlight on her face; Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars Of black and bands of silver, which the moon Struck from an open grating overhead High in the wall, and all the rest of her Drown'd in the gloom and horror of the vault. " It was my wish," he said, " to pass, to sleep. To rest, to be with her — till the great day Peal'd on us with that music which rights all. And raised us hand in hand." And kneeling there Down in the dreadful dust that once was man, Dust, as he said, that once was loving hearts. Hearts that had beat with such a love as mine — Not such as mine, no, nor for such as her — He softly put his arm about her neck And kiss'd lier more than once, till helpless death And silence made him bold — nay. but I wrong him, ;46 THE LOVER'S TALE. He reverenced his dear lady even in death ; But, placing his true hand upon her heart, " 0, you warm heart," he moan'd, " not even death Can chill you all at once : " then start- ing, thought His dreams had come again. " Do I wake or sleep '? Or am I made immortal, or my love Mortal once more ? " It beat — the heart — it beat : Faint — but it beat : at which his own began To pulse with such a vehemence that it drown'd The feebler motion underneath his hand. But when at last his doubts were sat- isfied. He raised her softly from the sepul- chre. And, wrapping her all over with the cloak He came in, and now striding fast, and now Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore Holding his golden burthen in his arms. So bore her thro' the solitary land Back to the mother's house where she was born. There the good mother's kindly min- istering. With half a night's appliances, recall'd Her fluttering life ; slie rais'd an eye that ask'd " Where ? " till the things familiar to her youth Had made a silent answer : then she spoke " Here ! and how came I here ? " and learning it (They told her somewhat rashly as 1 think) At once began to wander and to wail, " Ay, but you know that you must give me back : Send ! bid him come ; " but Lionel was away — Stung by his loss had vanish'd, none knew where. " He casts me out," she wept, " and goes " — a wail That seeming something, yet was noth- ing, born Not from believing mind, but shatter'd nerve. Yet haunting Julian, as her own re- proof At some precipitance in her burial. Then, wlien her own true spirit had return'd, " Oh yes, and you," she said, " and none but you ? For you have given me life and love again, And none but you yourself shall tell him of it. And you shall give me back when he returns." " Stay then a little," answer'd Julian, " here, And keep yourself, none knowing, to yourself ; And I will do your will. I may not stay. No, not an hour ; but send me notice of liim When he returns, and then will I re- turn, And I will make a solemn offering of you To him you love." And faintly she replied, " And I will do your will, and none shall know." Not know ? with such a secret to be known. But all their house was old and loved them both. And all the house had known the loves of both ; Had died almost to serve them any way. And all tlie land was waste and soli- tary : And then he rode away ; but after this, An hour or two, Camilla's travail came Upon her, and that day a boy was born, Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. THE LOVER'S TALE. 547 And thus our lonely lover rode away, And pausing at a hostel in a marsh, There fever seized upon liini : myself was then Travelling that land, and meant to rest an hour; And sitting down to such a base repast, It makes me angry yet to speak of it — I heard a groaning overhead, and climb'd The moulder'd stairs (for everything was vile) And in a loft, with none to wait on him, Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone, Raving of dead men's dust and beat- ing hearts. A dismal hostel in a dismal land, A flat malarian world of reed and rush ! But there from fever and my care of him Sprang up a friendship that may help us yet. For while we roam'd along the dreary coast, And waited for her message, piece by piece I learnt the dearier story of his life , And, tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, Found that the sudden wail his lady made Dwelt in his fancy : did he know her worth, Her beauty even ^ should he not be taught, Ev'n by tlie price that others setupon it, The value of that jewel he had to guard '^ Suddenly came her notice and we past, I with our lover to his native Bay. This love is of the brain, the mind, the soul ; That makes the sequel pure ; tho' some of us Beginning at the sequel know no more. Not such am I: and yet I say the bird That will not hear my call, however svsreet, But if my neighbor whistle answers him — What matter "^ there are others in the wood Yet when I saw^ her (and I thought him crazed, Tho' not with such a craziness as needs A cell and keeper), those dark eyes of hers — Oh ! such dark eyes ! and not her eyes alone. But all from these to where she touch'd { on earth, For such a craziness as Julian's look'd No less than one divine apology. So sweetly and so modestly she came To greet us, her young hero in her arms ! " Kiss him," she said. " You gave me life again. He, but for you, had never seen it once. His other father you ! Kiss him, and then Forgive him, if his name be Julian too." Talk of lost hopes and broken heart ! his own Sent such a flame into his face, I knew Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him there. But he was all the more resolved to go, And sent at once to Lionel, praying him By that great love they both had borne the dead, To come and revel for one hour with him Before he left the land for evermore ; And then to friends — they were not many — who lived Scatteringly about that lonely land of his. And bade them to a banquet of fare wells. And Julian made a solemn feast : I never Sat at a costlier ; for all round his hall 548 THE LOVER'S TALE. From column on to column, as in a wood, Not sucli as hero — an equatorial one. Great garlands swung and blossom 'd; and beneath. Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of Art, Chalice and salver, wines that, Heaven knows when, Had suck'd the fire of some forgotten sun, And kept it thro' a hundred years of gloom. Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups Where nymph and god ran ever round in gold — Others of glass as costly — some with gems Movable and resettable at will, And trebling all the rest in value — Ah heavens ! Why need I tell you all ? — suffice to say That whatsoever such a house as his, And his was old, has in it rare or fair Was brought before the guest : and . they, the guests, Wonder'd at some strange light in Julian's eyes (I told you that he had his golden hour), And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his And that resolved self-exile from a land He never would revisit, such a feast So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n than rich. But rich as for the nuptials of a king. And stranger yet, at one end of the hall Two great funereal curtains, looping down. Parted a little ere they met the floor, About a picture of his lad}^ taken Some years before, and falling hid the frame. And just above the parting was a lamp : So the sweet figure folded round with night Seem'd stepping out of darkness with a smile. Well then — our solemn feast — we ate and drank, And might — the wines being of sucli nobleness — Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes. And something weird and wild about it all : What was it <■ for our lover seldom spoke. Scarce touch'd the meats ; but ever and anon A priceless goblet with a priceless wine Arising, show'd he drank beyond his use ; And when the feast was near an end, he said : " There is a custom in the Orient, friends — I read of it in Persia — when a man Will honor those who feast with him, he brings And shows them whatsoever he ac- counts Of all his treasures the most beautiful, Gold, jewels, arms, wliatever it may be. This custom " Pausing here a moment, all The guests broke in upon him with meeting hands And cries about the banquet — " Beau- tiful ! Who could desire more beauty at a feast ■? " The lover answer'd, " Tiiere is more than one Here sitting who desires it. Laud me not Before my time, but hear me to the close This custom steps yet further when the guest Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost For after he hath shown him gems or gold, He brings and sets before him in rich guise THE LOVER'S TALE. 549 That which is thrice as beautiful as these, The beauty that is dearest to his heart — ' my heart's lord, would I could show you,' he says, ' Ev'n my heart too,' And I propose to-night To show you what is dearest to my heart. And my heart too. " But solve me first a doubt. I knew a man, nor many years ago; He had a faithful servant, one who loved His master more than all on earth beside. He falling sick, and seeming close on death. His master would not wait until he died. But bade his menials bear him from the door. And leave him in the public way to die. I knew another, not so long ago. Who found the dying servant, took him home, And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved his life. I ask you now, should this first master claim His service, Avhom does it belong to ? him Who thrust him out, or him who saved his life ? " This question, so flung down before the guests. And balanced either way by each, at length When some were doubtful how the law would hold, Was handed over by consent of all To one who had not spoken, Lionel. Fair speech was his, and delicate of phrase And he beginning languidly — his loss Weigh'd on him yet — but warming as he went. Glanced at the point of law, to pass it by, Affirming that as long as either lived, By all the laws of love and grateful- ness. The service of the one so saved was due All to the saver — adding, with a smile. The first for many weeks — a semi- smile As at a strong conclusion — "body and soul And life and limbs, all his to work his will." Then Julian made a secret sign to me To bring Camilla down before them all. And crossing her own picture as she j came, And looking as much lovelier as her- self Is lovelier than all others — on her head A diamond circlet, and from under this A veil, that seemed no more than gilded air, Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern gauze With seeds of gold — so, with that grace of hers. Slow-moving a^ a wave against the wind. That flings a mist behind it in the sun — And bearing high in arms the mighty babe, The younger Julian, who himself was crown'd With roses, none so rosy as himself — And over all her babe and her the jewels Of many generations of his house Sparkled and flash'd, for he had decked them out As for a solemn sacrifice of love — So she came in . — I am long in telling it, I never yet beheld a thing so strange, 550 THE LOVER'S TALE. Sad, sweet, and strange together — floated in — While all the guests in mute amaze- ment rose — And slowly pacing to the middle hall. To all their queries answer'd not a word, AVhicii made the amazement more, till one of them Said, shuddering, " Her spectre ! " But his friend Before the board, there paused and j Replied, in half a whisper, " Not at stood, her breast least Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her I The spectre that will speak if spoken feet, Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. But him she carried, him nor lights nor feast Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men , who cared Only to use his own, and staring wide And hungering for the gilt and jewell'd world About him, look'd, as he is like to prove, When Julian goes, the lord of all he saw. " My guests," said Julian : " you are honor'd now Ev'n to the uttermost ; in her behold Of all my treasures the most beau- tiful. Of all things upon earth the dearest to me." Then waving us a sign to seat our- selves. Led his dear lady to a chair of state. And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his face Fire, and dead ashes and all fire again Thrice in a second, felt him tremble too, And heard him muttering, " So like, so like ; She never had a sister. I knew none. Some cousin of his and hers — O God, so like ! " And then he suddenly ask'd her if she were. She shook, and cast her eyes down, and was dumb. And then some other questional if she came From foreign lands, and still she did not speak. Another, if the boy were hers : but she to. Terrible pity, if one so beautiful Prove, as I almost dread to find her, dumb J " But Julian, sitting bv her, answer'd all : " She is but dumb, because in her you see That faithful servant whom we spoke about, Obedient to her second master now ; Which will not last. I have here to- night a guest So bound to me by common love and loss — What ! shall I bind him more ? in his behalf. Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him That which of all things is the dearest to ine. Not only showing? and he himself pronounced That my rich gift is wholly mine to give. " Now all be dumb, and promise all of you Not to break in on what I say by word Or whisper, while 1 show you all my heart." And then began the story of his love As here to-day, but not so wordily — The passionate moment would not suffer that — Past thro' his visions to the burial ; thence Down to this last strange hour in his own hall ; And then rose up, and with him all his guests THE LOVER'S TALE. 551 Once more as by enchantment; all but he, Lionel, wlio fain had risen, but fell again, And sat as if in chains — to whom he said : " Take my free gift, my cousin, for your wife ; And were it only for the giver's sake, And tho' she seem so like the one you lost, Yet cast her not away so suddenly, Lest there be none left here to bring her back ; I leave this land for ever." Here he ceased. Then taking his dear lady by one hand, And bearing on one arm the noble babe, He slowly brought them both to Lionel. And there the widower husband and dead wife Bush'd each at each with a cry, that rather seem'd For some new death than for a life renew'd; Whereat the very babe began to wail ; At once they turn'd, and caught and brought him in To their charm'd circle, and, half kill- ing him "With kisses, round him closed and claspt again. But Lionel, when at last he freed him- self From wife and child, and lifted up a face All over glowing with the sun of life. And love, and boundless thanks — the sight of this So frighted our good friend, that turn- ing to me And saying, "It is over: let us go" — There were our horses ready at the doors — We bade them no farewell, but mount- ing these He past for ever from his native land ; And I with him, my Julian, back to mine. \ BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. ALFRED TENNYSON, MY GRANDSON. Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is one with mine, Crazy with laughter and babble and earth's new wine, Now that the flower of a year and a half is thine, O little blossom, mine, and mine of mine, Glorious poet who never hast written a line, Laugh, for the name at the head of my verse is thine. May'st thou never be wrong'd by the name that is mine ! THE FIRST QUARREL. (in the isle of wight.) I. " Wait a little," you say, " you are sure it'll all come right," But the boy was born i' trouble, an' looks so wan an' so white : Wait ! an' once I ha* waited — I hadn't to wait for long. Now I wait, wait, wait for Harr3^ — No, no, you are doing me wrong ! Harry and I were married : the boy can hold up his head. The boy was born in wedlock, but after my man was dead ; I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' I work an' I wait to the end. I am all alone in the world, an' you are my only friend. Doctor, if i/ou can wait, I'll tell you the tale o' my life. When Harry an' I were children, he call'd me his own little wife ; I was happy when I was with liim, an' sorry when he was away. An' when we play'd together, I loved him better than play ; He workt me the daisy chain — he made me the cowslip ball, He fought the boys that were rude, an' I loved him better than all. Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at home in disgrace, I never could quarrel with Harry — I had but to look in his face. III. There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry's kin, that had need Of a good stout lad at his farm ; he sent, an' the father agreed ; So Harry was boimd to the Dorsetshire farm for years an' for years ; I walked with him down to the quay, poor lad, an' we parted in tears. The boat was beginning to move, we heard them a-ringing the bell, "I'll never love any but you, God bless you, my own little Nell." a child, an' he was a child, an' he came to harm: THE FIRST QUARREL. 553 There was a girl, a hussy, that workt with him up at the farm, One had deceived her an' left her alone with her sin an' her shame, And so she was wicked with Harry; tlie girl was the most to blame. And years went over till I that was little had grown so tall. The men would say of the maids, *' Our Nelly's the flower of 'em all." I didn't take heed o' them, but I taught myself all I could To make a good wife for Harry, when Harry came home for good. Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as happy too, For I heard it abroad in tJie fields " I'll never love any but you " ; " I'll never love any but you " the morning song of the lark, "I'll never love any but you" the night- ingale's hymn in the dark. And Harry came home at last, but he look'd at me sidelong and shy, Vext me a bit, till he told me that so many years had gone by, I had grown so handsome and tall — that I might ha' forgot him somehow — For he thought — there were other lads — he was fear'd to look at me now. Hard was the frost in the field, we were married o' Christmas day, Married among the red berries, an' all as merry as May — Those were the pleasant times, my house an' my man were my pride, We seem'd like sliips i' the Channel a-^ailniL'- with wind an' tide. But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he tried the villages round, 80 Harry went over the Solent to see if work could be found ; An' he wrote, "I ha' six weeks' work, little wife, so far as I know ; I'll come for an hour to-morrow, an' kiss you before I go." So I set to righting the house, for wasn't he coming that day 1 An' I hit on an old deal-box that was push'd in a corner away, It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a letter along wi' the rest, I had better ha' put my naked hand in a hornets' nest. " Sweetheart " — this was the letter — -^ this was the letter I read — " You promised to find me work near you, an' I wish I was dead — Didn't you kiss me an' promise ? you haven't done it, my lad. An' I almost died o' your going away, an' I wish that I had." I too wish that I had — in the pleasant times that had past, Before I quarrell'd with Harry — mij quarrel — the first an' the last. For Harry came in, an' I flung him the letter that drove me wild, An' he told it me all at once, as simple as any child, " What can it matter, my lass, what I did wi' my single life ? I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to his wife ; An' she wasn't one o' the worst." " Then," I said, " I'm none o' the best." An' he smiled- at me, "Ain't you, my love 1 Come, come, little wife, let it rest ! 554 RIZPAH The man isn't like the woman, no need to make such a stir." But he anger'd me all the more, an' I said " Yoinverckeepingwithher, When I was a-loving jouall along an' the same as l)ciore." An' he didn't speak for a wliile, an' he anger'd me more and more. Then he patted my hand in his gentle way, " Let bygones be ! " "Bygones! you kept yours hush'd," I said, " vy'hen you married me ! By-gones ma' be come-agains; an' she — in her shame an' her sin — You'll have lier to nurse my child, if I die o' my lying in ! You'll make her its second mother! I hate her — an' I hate you! " Ah, Harry, my man, you had better lia' beaten me black an' blue Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, when I were so crazy wi' spite, " Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill all come right." An' he took three turns in the rain, an' I watch'd him, an' when he came in I felt that my heart was hard, he was all wet thro' to the skin. An' I never said "off wi' the wet," I never said "on wi' the dry," So 1 knew my heart was hard, when he came to bid me goodbye. " You said that you hated me, Ellen, but that isn't true, you know; I am going to leave you a bit — you'll kiss me before I go ? " XV. "Going! you're going to her — kiss her — if you will," I said, — I was near mj' time wi' the boy, I must ha' been light i' my head — " I had sooner be cursed than kiss'd ! " — I didn't know well what I meant, But I turn'd my face from him, an' he turn'd h.is face an' he went. And then he sent me a letter, " I've gotten my work to do; You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I never loved any but you ; I am sorry for all the quarrel an' sorry for what she wrote, I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go to-night by the boat." An' the wind began to rise, an' I thought of him out at sea, An' I felt 1 had been to blame; he was always kind to me. " Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill all come right" — An' the boat went down that night — the boat went down that night. RIZPAH. 17—. Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea — And Willy's voice in the wind, " mother, come out to me." Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go ? For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow. We should be seen, my dear ; tJiey would spy us out of the town. The loud black niglits for us, and the storm rushing over the down, When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain. And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched with the rain. III. Anything fallen again ? nay — what was there left to fall ? I have taken them home, I have num- ber'd tlie bones, I have hidden them all. RIZPAH 555 What am I saying ^. and what are you ? do you come as a spy ? Falls ? what falls ? who knows '' As the tree falls so must it lie. Who let her in'' how long has she been ' you — what have you lieard ' Why did you sit so quiet ? you never have spoken a word. — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none of their spies — But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes. Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what should ijou know of the night, The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright '^ I have done it, while you were asleep — you were only made for the day. I have gather'd my baby together — and now you may go your way. Nay — for it's kind of you. Madam, to sit by an old dying wife. But say nothing hard of my boy, I liave only an hour of life. I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went out to die. " They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told mo a lie. I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child — " The farmer dared me to do it," he said ; he was always so wild — And idle — and couldn't be idle — my Willy — he never couhl rest. The King sliould have made him a soldiei', lie would have been one of his best. But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good ; They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would : And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was done He flung it among his fellows — I'll none of it, said my son. I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale, God's own truth — but they kill'd him, tliey kill'd him for robbing the mail. They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had always borne a good name — To be hang'd for a thief — and then put away — isn't that enough shame '? Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! but they set him so high That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by. God 'ill pardon the Iiell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air. But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd him and hang'd him there. And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last goodbye ; They had fasten'd the door of liis cell. " O mother ! " I heai d Iiim cry. I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to say, And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away. Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead. They seized me and shut me up : they fasten'd me down on my bed. " Mother, mother ! " — he call'd in the dark to me year after year — They beat me for that, they beat me — you know that I couldn't but hear ; And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still They let me abroad again — but the creatures had worked their will. 556 RIZPAIJ. Flesh of my flesh was gone, litt l»one of my bone was left — I stole them all from tlie lawyers — and you, will von call it a theft '» — My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that had laughed and had cried — Theirs ? O no ! they are mine — not theirs — they had moved in my side. Do you think I was scared by the bones ? I kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em all — I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the churchyard wall. My "Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment 'ill sound, But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground. They would scratch him up — they would hang him again on the cursed tree. Sin ? O 3^es — we are sinners, I know — let all that be, And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will toward men — " Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord " — let me hear it again ; " Full of compassion and mercy — long-suffering." Yes, O yes ! For the lawyer is born but to murder — the Saviour lives but to bless. He'Vi never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst, And the first may be last— I have heard it in church — and the last may be first. Suffering — Olong-suffering — yes, as the Lord must know, Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the Heard, have you ? what ' they have told you he never repented his sin. How do they know it '^ are thexj hi.-! mother ? are yon of his kin ? Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began, The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 'ill moan like a man ? Election, Election and Eeprobation — it's all very well. But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell. For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has look'd into my care. And He means me I'm sureto be happy with Willy, I know not where. And if he. be lost — but to save mtj soul, that is all your desire : Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone to the fire "' I have been with God in the dark — go, go, you may leave me alone — You never have borne a child — you are just as hard as a stone. Madam, I beg your pardon ! I tiiink that you mean to be kind. But I cannot hear what you say for my "Willy's voice in the wind — The snow and the sky so bright — la- used but to call in the dark. And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet — for hark ! Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is coming — shaking the walls — AVilly — the moon's in a cloud Good night. I am going. He calls. THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 557 THE NOETHERN COBBLER. Waait till our Sally coorns in, fur thou mun a' sights ' to tell. Eh. but I be niaiiin glad to seen, tha sa 'arty an' well. ^" Cast awaay an a disolut land wi' a vartical soon ^ ! " Strange fur to goa fur to think what saailors a' seean an' a' doon ; " Summat to drink — sa' 'ot 1 '' I 'a nowt but Adam's wine ; What's the 'eat o' this little 'ill-side to the 'eat o' the line ^ " What's i' tha bottle a-stanning theer ? " I'll tell tha. Gin. But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun goa fur it down to the inn. Naay — fur I be maan-glad, but thaw tha was iver sa dry, Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle theer, . an' I'll tell tha why. Mea an' thy sister was married, when wur it ? back-end o' June, Ten year sin', and wa 'greed as well as a fiddle i' tune : I could fettle and clump owd booots and shoes wi'the best on 'em all, As fur as fro' Thursby thurn hup to . Harmsby and Hutterby Hall. We was busy as beeas i' the bloom an' as 'appy as 'art could think, An' then the babby wur burn, and then I taakes to the drink. 1 The vowels di, pronounced separately though in the closest conjunction, best render the sound of the long i and y in this dialect. But since such words as crdiin' , ddiin', tohdi, at (I), etc., look awkward except in a page of express phonetics, I have thought it better to leave the simple i and y, and trust that niy readers will give them the broader pronunci- ation. « The ou short, as in " wood." An' Iweant gaiiinsaay it, my lad, tliaw I be hafe shaamed on it now. We could sing a good song at the Plow, we could sing a good song at the Plow ; Thaw once of a frosty night I slither'd an' hurted my buck,' An' I coom'd neck-an-crop soomtimes slaape down i' the squad an' the muck : An' once I fowt wi' the Taailor — not hafe ov a man, my lad — Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my faace like a cat, an' it maade 'er sa mad That Sally she turn'd a tongue-bang- er, -^ an' raiited ma, ' Sottin' thy braains Guzzlin' an' soakin' an' smoakin' an' hawmin' '^ about i' the laanes, Soa sow-droonk that tha doesn not touch thy 'at to the Squire ; ' An' I loook'd cock-eyed at my noase an' I seead 'im a-gitten' o' fire ; But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hal- lus as droonk as a king, Foalks' coostom flitted awaay like a kite wi' a brokken string. An' Sally she wesh'd foalks' cloaths to keep the wolf fro' the door, Eh but the moor she riled me, she druv me to drink the moor, Fur I fun', when 'er back wur turn'd, wheer Sally's owd stockin' wur 'id, An' I grabb'd the munny she maade, and I wear'd it o' liquor, I did. An' one night I cooms 'oam like a bull gotten loose at a faair. An' she wur a-waaitin' fo'mma, an' cryin' and tearin' 'er 'ajiir, An' I tummled athurt the craadle an' swear'd as I'd break ivrv stick Hip. 2 Scold. 3 Lounging. 558 THE NORTHERN COBBLER. <)' furnitiir 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied our Sally a kick, An' I mash'd the taables an' chairs, an' she an' the babby beal'd, ^ Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did nor a mortal beast o' the feald. VII. An' when I waaked i' the murnin' I seead that our Sally went laamed Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur dreadful ashaamed ; An' Sally wur sloomy - an' draggle taail'd in an owd turn gown, An' the babby's failce wurn't wesh'd and the 'ole 'ouse hupside down. An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty an' neat an' sweeat, Straat as a pole an' cleiin as a flower fro' 'eiid to feeat : An' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 'er by Thursby thurn ; Theer wur a lark a-singin' 'is best of a Sunday at murn, Couldn't see 'im, we 'eard 'im a- mountin' oop 'igher an' 'igher, An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e shined like a sparkle o' fire. " Doesn't tha see 'im," siie axes, " fur 1 can see 'im ? " an' I Seead nobbut the smile o' the sun as danced in 'er pratty blue eye ; An' I says " I mun gie tha a kiss," an' Sally says " Noa, thou moant," But I gied'er a kiss, an' then anoother, an' Sally says " doiint ! " An' when we coom'd into Mecatin', at fust she wur all in a tew. But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymn togithcr like birds on a beugh ; An' Muggins 'e preach'd o' Hell-fire an' the loove o' God fur men, An then upo' coomin' awaay Sally gied me a kiss ov 'ersen. 1 Bellowed, cried out. 2 Sluggish, out of spirits. Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick like Saatan as fell Down out o' heaven i' Hell-fire — thaw theer's naw drinkin' i' Hell ; Mea fur to kick our Sally as kep the wolf fro' the door, All along o' the drink, fur I loov'd 'er as well as af oor. Sa like a graat num-cumpus I blub- ber'd awaiiy o' the bed — " Weant niver do it naw moor; " an' Sally loookt up an' she said, "I'll upowd it* tha weant; thou'rt like the rest o' the men, Thou'll goii sniffin' about the tap till tha does it agean. Theer's thy hennemy, man, an* I knaws, as knaws tha sa well, That, if tha seeas 'im an' smells 'im tha'll foUer 'im slick into Hell." XII. "Naay," says I, "fur I weant goa sniffin' about the tap." " Weant tha ? " she says, an' mysen I thowt i' mysen " mayhap." "Noa;" an' I started awaay like a shot, an' down to the Hinn, An' I browt what tha seeas stannin' theer, yon big black bottle o' gin. XIII. " That caps owt," ^ says Sally, an' saw she begins to cry, But I puts it inter 'er 'ands 'an I says to 'er, " Sally," says I, " Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the Lord an' the power ov 'is Graace, Stan' 'im theer, fur I'll loook my hennemy strait 1' the faiice, Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let ma loook at 'im then, 'E seeams naw moor nor watter, an' 'e's the Divil's oan sen." 1 I'll uphold it. 2 That's beyond everything. THE REVENGE. 559 An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't do naw work an' all, Nasty an' snaggy an' shaaky, an' poonch'd my 'and wi' the hawl, But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' sattled 'ersen o' my knee. An* coaxd an' coodled me oop till agean I feel'd mysen free. XV. An' Sally she tell'd it about, an' f oiilk stood a-gawmin'i in. As thaw it wur summat bewitch'd istead of a quart o' gin ; An' some on 'em said it wur watter — an' I wur chousin' the wife. Fur I couldn't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur it nobbut to saave my life ; An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick ov 'is airm, an' 'e shaws it to me, "Feeal thou this! thou can't graw this upo' watter ! " says he. An' Doctor 'e calls o' Sunday an' just as candles was lit, " Thou moant do it," he says, " tha mun break 'im off bit by bit." -'Thou'rt but a Methody-man," says Parson, and laays down 'is 'at, An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, "but I respecks tha fur that; " An' Squire, his oan very sen, walks down fro' the 'AH to see. An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, " fur I respecks tha," says 'e ; An' coostom agean draw'd in like a wind fro' far an' wide. And browt me the booots to be cob- bled fro' hafe the coontryside. XVI. An' shall theer 'e stans an' theer 'e Stan to my dying daay ; I 'a gotten to loov 'im agean in anoother kind of a waiiy. Proud on 'im, like, my lad, an' I keeaps 'im clean an' bright, Loovs *im, an' roobs *im, an' doosts 'im, an' puts 'im back i' the light. 1 Staring vacantly. Wouldn't a pint a' sarved as well as a quart ? Naw doubt : But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' an' fowt it out. Fine an' meller 'e mun be by this, if I cared to taiiste. But I moant, my lad, and I weant, fur I'd feal mysen clean dis- graaced. XVIII. An' once I said to the Missis, " My lass, when I cooms to die. Smash the bottle to smithers, the Divil's in 'im," said I. But arter I chaanged my mind, an' if Sally be left aloan, I'll hev 'im a-buried wi'mma an' taake 'im afoor the Throan. XIX. Coom thou 'eer — yon laady a-steppin' along the streeiit. Doesn't tha knaw 'er — sa pratty, an' feat, an' neat, an' sweeat "^ Look at the cloaths on 'er back, thebbe ammost spick-span-new, An' Tommy's faiice be as fresh as a codlin wesh'd i' the dew. 'Ere be our Sally an' Tommy, an' we be a-goin to dine, Baacon an' taates, an' a beslings-pud- din'i an' Adam's wine ; But if tha wants ony grog tha mun goti fur it down to the Hinn, Fur I weant shed a drop on 'is blood, noii, not fur Sally's oan kin. THE REVENGE. A BALLAD OF THE FLEET. At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay. And a pinnance, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away : I A pudding made with the first milk of the cow after calving. ^60 THE REVENGE. •• Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three ! " Tlien sware Lord Thomas Howard : " 'Fore God I am no coward ; But I cannot meet tliem here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, hut follow quick. We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty-tliree ' " Then spake Sir Richard Grenville . " I know you are no coward ; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left tliem, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below ; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight. And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight. With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. " Shall we fight or shall we fly '? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die ! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again • "We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil. For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." Sir Ricliard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below ; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen. And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd. Thousands of t,heir seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons. And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns. Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day. And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. But anon the great San Philip, she be- thought herself and went Having that within her womb that had left her ill content ; THE REVENGE. 561 And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, Por a dozen times they came with their pikes and nnisqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-tln-ee. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came. Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame ; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drewbackwith her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more — God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before '^ For he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead. And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea. And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring ; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So tliey watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fouglit them in vauj, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it' spent ; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, " We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again ! We have won great glory, my men ! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die — does it matter when 1 Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her in twain ! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain ! " And the gunner said " Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply : " We have children, we have wives. And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go ; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then. Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Kichard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace ; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 562 THE SISTERS. " I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true ; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do : With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die ! " And he fell upon their decks, and he died. And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man 1 He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann'd the llevenge with a swarthier alien crew. And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own ; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan. And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. THE SISTERS. They have left the doors ajar; and by their clash, And prelude on the keys, I know the song, Their favorite — which I call " The Tables Turned." Evelyn begins it " diviner Air." diviner Air, Thro' the heat, the drowth, the dust, the glare. Far from out the west in shadowing showers. Over all the meadow baked and bare. Making fresh and fair All tlie bowers and the flowers. Fainting flowers, faded bowers, Over all this weary world of ours. Breathe, diviner Air ! A sweet voice that — you scarce could better that. Now follows Edith echoing Evelyn. EDITH. diviner light. Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon with night, Thro' the blotting mist, the blinding sliowers. Far from out a sky for ever bright, Overall the woodland'sfloodedbowers, Over all the meadow's drowning flow- ers, Over all this ruin'd world of ours, Break, diviner light! Marvellously like, their voices — and themselves ! Tho' one is somewhat deeper than the other, As one is somewhat graver than the other — Edith than Evelyn. Yourgood Uncle, whom You count the father of your fortune, longs For this alliance : let me ask you then. Which voice most takes you ^ for I do not doubt Being a watchful parent, you are taken With one or other : tho' sometimes I fear You may be flickering, fluttering in a doubt Between the two — which must not be — which might THE SISTERS. 563 Be death to one ; they both are beau- tiful : Evelyn is gayer, wittier, prettier, says The common voice, if one may trust it : she ? No! but the paler and the graver, Edith. Woo her and gain her then : no wavering, boy ! The graver is perliaps the one for you Who jest and laugh so easily and so well. For love will go by contrast, as by likes. No sisters ever -prized each other more. Not so: their mother and her sister loved More passionately still. But that my best And oldest friend, your Uncle, wislies it, And tliat I know you worthy every- way To be my son, I might, perchance, be loath To part them, or part from them : and yet one Should marry, or all the broad lands in your view From this bay window — which our house has held Three hundred years — will pass col- laterally. My father with a child on either knee, A hand upon the head of either child. Smoothing their locks, as golden as his own Were silver, "get them wedded" would he say. And once my prattling Edith ask'd him " wliy "? " Ay, why 1 said he, " for why should I go lame ^ " Then told them of his wars, and of his wound. For see — this wine — the grape from whence it flow'd Was blackening on the slopes of Portugal, When that brave soldier, down the terrible ridge Plunged in the last fierce charge at Waterloo, And caught the laming bullet. He left me this, Which yet retains a memory of its youth, As I of mine, and my first passion. Come ! Here's to your happy union with my child ! Yet must you change j'our name ; no fault of mine ! You say that you can do it as willingly As birds make ready for their bridal- time By change of feather: for all that, my boy, Some birds are sick and sullen when they moult. An old and worthy name ! but mine that stirr'd Among our civil wars and earlier too Among the Roses, the more venerable, / care not for a name — no fault of mine. Once more — a happier marriage than my own ! You see yon Lombard poplar on the plain. The highway running by it leaves a breadth Of sward to left and right, where, long ago, One bright May morning in a world of song, I lay at leisure, watching overhead The aerial poplar wave, an amber spire. I dozed ; T woke. An open landau- let Whirl'd by, which, after it had past me, show'd Turning my way, the loveliest face on earth. The face of one there sitting opposite, On whom I brought a strange unhap- piness. That time I did not see. 564 THE SISTERS. Love at first sight May seem — witli goodly rhyme and reason for it — Possible — at first glimpse, and for a face Gone in a moment — strange. Yet once, when first 1 came on lake Llanberris in the dark, A moonless night with storm — one lightning-fork Flash'd out the lake ; and tho' I loiter'd there The full day after, yet in retrospect That less than momentary thunder- sketch Of lake and mountain conquers all the day. The Sun himself has limn'd the face for me. Not quite so quickly, no, nor half as well. For look you here — the shadows are too deep, And like the critic's blurring comment make The veriest beauties of the work appear The darkest faults : the sweet eyes frown : the lips Seem but a gash. M}'^ sole memorial Of Edith — no, the other, — both indeed. So that bright face was flash'd thro' sense and soul And by the poplar vanish'd — to be found Long after, as it seem'd, beneath the tall Tree-bowers, and those long-sweeping beechen boughs Of our New Forest. I was there alone : The i)hantom of the whirling landau- let For ever past me by : when one quick peal Of laughter drew me thro' the glim- mering glades Down to the snowlike sparkle of a cloth On fern and foxglove. Lo, the face again, My Rosalind in this Arden — Edith — all One bloom of youth, health, beauty, happiness. And moved to merriment at a passing jest. There one of those about her know- ing me Call'd me to join them; so with these I spent What seem'd my crowning hour, my day of days. I woo'd her then, nor unsuccess- fully, Tlie worse for her, for me ! was I con- tent ? Ay — no, not quite ; for now and then I thought Laziness, vague love-longings, the bright May, Had made a heated haze to magnify The charm of Edith — that a man's ideal Is high in Heaven, and lodged with Plato's God, Not findable here — content, and not content, Li some such fashion as a man may be That having had the portrait of his friend Drawn by an artist, looks at it, and says, " Good ! very like ! not altogether he." As yet I had not bound myself by words, Only, believing I loved Edith, made Edith love me. Then came the day when I, Flattering myself that all my doubts were fools Born of the fool this Age that doubts of all — Not I that day of Edith's love or mine — Had braced my purpose to declare myself : THE SISTERS. 565 1 stood upon the stairs of Paradise. The golden gates would open at a word. I spoke it — told her of my passion, seen And lost and found again, had got so far, Had caught her hand, her eyelids fell — I heard Wheels, and a noise of welcome at the doors — On a sudden after two Italian years Had set the blossom of her health again, The younger sister, Evelyn, enter'd — there. There was the face, and altogether she. The mother fell about the daughter's neck. The sisters closed in one another's arms, Their people throng'd about them from the hall, And in the thick of question and reply I fled the house, driven by one angel face. And all the Furies. I was bound to her ; I could not free myself in honor — bound Xot by the sounded letter of the word. But counterpressures of the yielded hand Tliat timorously and faintly echoed mine, Qui(.'k blushes, the sweet dwelling of her eyes Upon me when she thought I did not see — Were tlieso not bonds ^ nay, nay, but could I wed her Loving the other '' do her that great wrong "* Had I not dream'd I loved her yester- morn '^ Had I not known where Love, at first a fear, Grew after marriage to full height and form ? Yet after marriage, that mock-sister there — Brother-in-law — the tiery nearness of it — Unlawful and disloyal brotherhood — What end but darkness could ensue from this For all the three % So Love and Honor jarr'd Tho' Love and Honor join'd to raise the full High-tide of doubt that sway'd me up and down Advancing nor retreating. Edith wrote: " My mother bids me ask " (I did not tell you — A widow with less guile than many a child. God help the wrinkled children that are Christ's As well as the plump cheek — she wrought us harm, Poor soul, not knowing) " are you ill 1 " (so ran The letter) " you have not been here of late. You will not find me here. At last I go On that long-promised visit to the North. I told your wayside story to my mother And Evelyn. She remembers you. Farewell. Pray come and see my mother. Al- most blind With ever-growing cataract, yet she thinks She sees you when she hears. Again farewell." Cold words from one I had hoped to warm so far That I could stamp my image on her heart ! " Pray come and see my mother, and farewell." Cold, but as welcome as free airs of heaven After a dungeon's closeness. Selfish, strange .' 566 THE SISTERS. What dwarfs are men \ my strangled vanity Utter'd a stifled cry — to have vext myself And all in vain for her — cold heart or none — No bride for me. Yet so my path was clear To win the sister. Whom I woo'd and won. For Evelyn knew not of my former suit, Because thesimple mother work'd upon By Edith pray'd me not to whisper of it. And Edith would be bridesmaid on the day. But on that day, not being all at ease, I from the altar glancing back upon her, Before the first " I will " was utter'd, saw The bridesmaid pale, statuelike, pas- sionless — " No harm, no harm " I turn'd again, and placed My ring upon the finger of my bride. So, when we parted, Edith spoke no word, She wept no tear, but round my Evelyn clung In utter silence for so long, I thought " What, will she never set her sister free ^ " We left her, happy each in each, and then. As tho' the happiness of each in each "Were not enough, must fain have tor- rents, lakes. Hills, the great things of Nature and the fair, To lift us as it were from common- place. And help us to our joy. Better have sent Our Edith thro' the glories of the earth. To change with her horizon, if true Love Were not his own imperial all-in-all. Far off we went. My God, I would not live Save that I think this gross hard- seeming world Is our misshaping vision of the Powers Behind the world, that make our griefs our gains. For on the dark night of our mar riage-day The great Tragedian, that had quench'd herself In that assumption of the bridesmaid — she That loved me — our true Edith — her brain broke With over-acting, till she rose and fled Beneath a pitiless rush of Autumn rain To the deaf church — to be let in — to pray Before thai altar — so I think; and there They found her beating the hard Pro- testant doors. She died and she was buried ere we knew. I learnt it first. I had to speak. At once The bright quick smile of Evelyn, that had sunn'd The morning of our marriage, past away : And on our home-return the daily want Of Edith in the house, the garden, still Haunted us like her ghost; and by and by, Either from that necessity for talk Which lives with blindness, or plain innocence Of nature, or desire that her lost child Should earn from both the praise of heroism. The mother broke her promise to the dead, And told the living daughter with what love THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. 567 Edith had welcomed my brief wooing of her, And all her sweet self-sacrifice and death. Henceforth that mystic bond be- twixt the twins — Did I not tell you they were twins % — prcvail'd So far that no caress could win my wife Back to that passionate answer of full heart I had from her at first. Not that her love, Tho' scarce as great as Edith's power of love. Had lessen 'd, but the mother's gar- rulous wail For ever woke the unhappy Past again, Till that dead bridesmaid, meant to be my bride, Put forth cold hands between us, and I fear'd The very fountains of her life were chill'd; So took her thence, and brought her here, and here She bore a child, whom reverently we call'd Edith ; and in the second year was born A second — this I named from her own self, Evelyn ; then two weeks — no more — she joined. In and beyond the grave, that one she loved. Now in tliis quiet of declining life, Thro' dreams by night and trances of the day, The sisters glide about me hand in hand, Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell One from the other, no, nor care to tell One from the other, only know they come. They smile upon me, till, remembering all The love they both have borne me, and the love I bore them both — divided as I am From either by the stillness of the grave — I know not which of these I love the best. But you love Edith ; and her own true eyes Are traitors to her ; our quick Ev- elyn — The merrier, prettier, wittier, as they talk. And not without good reason, my good son — Is yet untouch'd : and I that hold them both Dearest of all things — well, I am not sure — But if there lie a preference either way, And in the rich vocabulary of Love " Most dearest " be a true superla- tive — I think I likewise love your Edith most. THE VILLAGE WIFE ; OR, THE ENTAIL, i 'OusE-KEEPER seut tha my lass, fur New Squire coom'd last night. Butter an' heggs — yis — yis. I'll goa wi' tha back : all right ; Butter I warrants be prime, an' I war- rants the heggs be as well, Hafe a pint o' milk runs out when ya breaks the shell. Sit thysen down fur a bit : hev a glass o' cowslip wine! I liked the owd Squire an' 'is gells as thaw they was gells o' mine, Fur then we was all es one, the Squire an' 'is darters an' me. Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I niver not took to she : But Nelly, the last of the cletch2 I liked 'er the fust on 'em all, 1 See note to " Northern Cobbler." 2 A brood of chickens. 568 THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. Fur hoftens we talkt o' my darter es died o' the fever at fall : An' I thowt 'twur the will o' the Lord, but Miss Annie she said it wur draiiins, Fur she liedn't naw coomf ut in 'er, an' arii'd naw thanks fur 'er paains Ell ! thebbe all wi' the Lord my childer, I lian't gotten none ! 8a new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taiiil in 'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone. Fur 'staate be i' taiiil, my lass . tha dosn' knaw wliat that be ^ But I knaws the law, I does, for tlie lawyer ha towd it me. " When theer's naw 'ead to a 'Ouse by the fault o' that ere maale — The gells they counts fur nowt, and the next un he taakes the taail." What be the next un like '? can tha tell ony harm on 'im lass ' — Naay sit down — naw 'urry — sa cowd ! — hev anotlier glass ! Straange an' cowd fur tlie time ! we may happen a fall o' snaw — Not es I cares fur to hear ony harm, but I likes to knaw. An' I 'oaps es 'e beant boooklarn'd : but 'e dosn' not coom fro' the shere ; We' anew o' that wi' the Squire, an' we haates boooklarnin' ere. Fur Squire wur a V^arsity scholard, an' niver lookt arter the land — Wheats or turmuts or taates — e' 'ed hallus a boook i' 'is 'and, Hallus aloan wi' 'is boooks, thaw nigh upo' seventy year. An' boooks, what's boooks % thou knaws thebbe neyther 'ere nor theer. An' the gells, they hadn't naw taails, an' the lawyer he towd it me That 'is taail were soa tied up e-s he couldn't cut down a tree ! " Drat the trees," says I, to be sewer 1 haates 'em, my lass, Fur we puts the muck o' the land an' they sucks the muck fro' the grass. An' Squire wur hallus a-smilin', an' gied to the tramps goin' by — An' all o' the wust i' the parish — wi' hoffens a drop in 'is eye. An' ivry darter o' Squire's lied her awn ridin-erse to 'ersen, An' they rampaged about wi' their grooms, an' was 'untin' arter the men. An' hallus a-dallackt^ an'dizen'd out, an' a-buyin' new cloiithes. While 'e sit like a graat glimmer- gowk'^ wi' 'is glasses athurt 'is noase, An' 'is noiise sa grufted wi' snuff as it couldn't be scroob'd awaiiy. Fur atween 'is reiidin' an' writin' 'e snifft up a box in a daay, An' 'e niver runn'd arter the fox, nor arter the birds wi' 'is gun, An' 'e niver not shot one 'are, but 'e leaved it to Charlie 'is son, An' 'e niver not fish'd 'is awn ponds, but Charlie 'e cotch'd the pike, For 'e warn't not burn to the land, an' 'e didn't take kind to it like ; But I ears es 'e'd gie fur a liowry '^ owd book thutty pound an' moor, An' 'e'd wrote an owd book, his awn sen, sa I knaw'd es 'e'd coom to be poor; An' 'e gied — I be fear'd to tell tha 'ow much — fur an owd scratted stojin, An' 'e digg'd up a loomp i' the land an' 'e got a brown pot an' a boan. An' 'e bowt owd money, es wouldn't goa, wi' good gowd o' the Queen, Overdressed in gay colors. 3 Filthy. Owl. THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL- 569 An' 'e bowt little statutes all-naakt an' which was a shaame to be seen ; But 'e niver loookt ower a bill, nor 'e niver not seed to owt, An' 'e niver knawd nowt but boooks, an' boooks, as thou knaws, beant nowt. But owd Squire's laady es long es she lived she kep 'em all clear, Thaw es long es she lived I never hed none of 'er darters 'ere ; But arter she died we was all es one, the childer an' me, An" sarvints runn'd in an' out, an' offens we hed 'em to tea. Lawk ! 'ow I laugli'd when the lasses 'ud talk o' their Missis's waiiys, An' the Missisis talk'd o' the lasses. — I'll tell tha some o' these daays. Hoanly Miss Annie were saw stuck oop, like 'er mother af oor — 'Er an' 'er blessed darter — they niver derken'd my door. An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled till 'e'd gotten a fright at last, An' 'e calls fur 'is son, fur the 'turney's letters they f oller'd sa fast ; But Squire wur afear'd o' 'is son, an' 'e says to 'im, meek as a mouse, " Lad, thou mun cut oft" thy taiiil, or the gells 'uU goa to the 'Ouse, Fur I finds es I be that i' debt, es I 'oaps es thou'U 'elp me a bit. An' if thou'U 'gree to cut off tliy taail I may saave mysen yit." But Charlie 'e sets back 'is ears, 'an 'e swears, an' 'e says to im " Noa. I've gotten the 'staate by the taail an' be dang'd if I iver let goa ! Coom ! coom ! feyther," 'e says, "why shouldn't thy boooks be sowd ^ I hears es soom o' thy boooks mebbe worth their weight i' gowd." Heaps an' heaps o' boooks, I ha' see'd 'em, belong'd to the Squire, But the lasses 'ed teiird out leaves i' the middle to kindle the fire ; Sa moiist on 'is owd big boooks f etch'd nigh to nowt at the saiile, And Squire were at Charlie agean to git 'im to cut off 'is taJiil. Ya wouldn't find Charlie's likes — 'e were that outdacious at oam, Not thaw yawent fur to raake out Hell wi' a small-tooth coamb — Droonk wi' the Quoloty's wine, an' droonk wi' the farmer's aale, Mad wi' the lasses an' all — an' 'e wouldn't cut off the taail. Thou's coom'd oop by the beck ; and a thurn be a-grawin' theer, I niver ha seed it sa white wi' the Maay es I see'd it to-year — Theerabouts Charlie joompt — and it gied me a scare tother night, Fur I tliowt it wur Charlie's glioast i' the derk, fur it loookt sa white. " Billy," says 'e, " hev a joomp!" — thaw tlie banks o' the beck be sa high. Fur he ca'd 'is 'erse Billy-rough-un, thaw niver a hair wur awry ; But Billy fell bakkuds o' Charlie, an' Charlie 'e brok 'is neck, Sa theer wur a hend o' the taail, fur 'e lost 'is taail i' the beck. Sa 'is taail wur lost an' 'is boooks wur gone an' 'is boy wur deiid. An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled, but 'e niver not lift oop 'is 'cad : Hallus a soft un Squire ! an' 'e smiled, fur 'e hedn't naw friend, Sa feyther an' son was buried togither, an' this wur the hend. An' Parson as hesn't the call, nor the mooney, but hcs the pride. 570 IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. E reads of a sewer an' sartan 'ojip o' tlie tother side; But I beant that sewer es the Lord, hovvsiver they praay'd an' praiiy'd, Lets them inter 'eaven easy es leaves their debts to be paaid. Siver the mou'ds rattled down upo' poor owd Squire i' the wood, An' I cried along wi' the gells, fur they weant niver coom to naw good. XVI. Fur Molly the long un she walkt awaay wi' a hofficer lad, An* nawbody 'eard on 'er sin, sa o' coorse slie be gone to tl)e bad! An' Lucy wur laame o' one leg, sweet- 'arts she niver 'ed none — Straange an' unheppeni Miss Lucy! we naiinied her " Dot an' gaw one ! " An' Hetty wur weak i' the hattics, wi'out ony liarm i' the legs, An' the fever 'ed baiiked Jinny's 'cad as bald as one o' them heggs. An' Nelly wur up fro' the craadle as big i' the mouth as a cow. An' saw she mun hammergrate,^ lass, or she weant git a maate ony- how ! An' es for Miss Annie es call'd me afoor my awn foiilks to my faace "A hignorant village wife as 'ud hev to be larn'd lier awn plaiice," Hes for Miss Ilannie tlie heldest hcs now be a grawin sa howd, I knaws that mooch o' sl\ea, es it bciint not fit to be towd ! Sa I didn't not taake it kindly ov owd Miss Annie to sajiy Es I should be talkin ageJin 'em, es soon es they went awaay, Fur, lawks ! 'ow I cried when they went, an' our Nelly she gied me 'er 'and, • 1 Ungainly, awkward. ^ Emigrate. Fur I'd ha done owt for the Squire an* 'is gells es belong'd to the land ; Boouks, es I said afoor, thebbe ney- ther 'ere nor Iheer! But I sarved 'em wi' butter an' licggs fur huppuds o' twenty year. An' they hallus paaid what I hax'd, sa I hallus deal'd wi' the Ilall, An' they knaw'd what butter wur, an* they knaw'd what a hegg wur an' all ; Hugger-mugger they lived, but they wasn't that easy to please, Till I gied 'em Hinjian curn, an' they laiiid big heggs es tha seeas; An' I niver puts saiime i i' my butter, they does it at Willis's farm, Taaste another drop o' tlie wine — tweant do tha na harm. Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taiiil in 'is 'and, an' owd Squire's gone; I heard 'im a roomlin' by, but arte" my nightcap wur on ; Sa I han't clapt eyes on 'im yit, fur he coom'd last night sa laiite — Pluksh! ! !2 the hens i' the pciis! why didn't tha hesp tha gaate ? IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. EMMIE. Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen him before, But he sent a cliill to my heart wlien I saw him come in at the door. Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands — Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands ! AVonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said too of liim 1 Lard. 2 A cry accompanied by a clapping of hands to scare trespassing fowl. IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 571 He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb, And that I can well believe, for he iook'd so coarse and so red, I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead, And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawn'd at his knee — Drench'd with the hellish oorali — that ever such things should be ! Here was a boy — I am sure that some of our children would die But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the comforting eye — Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem'd out of its place — Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was all but a hopeless case : And he handled him gently enough; but his voice and his face were not kind, And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind, And he said to me roughly " The lad will need little more of your care." " All the more need," I told him, "to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer ; They are all his children here, and I pray for them all as my own : " But he turn'd to me, " Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone?" Then he mutter'd half to himself, but I know that I heard him say "All very well — but the good Lord Jesus has had his day." Had ? has it come ? It has only dawn'd. It will come by and by. how could I serve in the wards if the liope of the world were a lie ^ How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of disease But that He said " Ye do it to me, when yc do it to these " "? So he went. And we past to this ward where the younger chil- dren are laid : Here is the cot of our orphan, our dar- ling, our meek little maid; Empty you see just now! We have lost her who loved her so much — Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sen- sitive plant to the touch ; Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears. Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a child of her years — Nay you remember our Emmie; you used to send her the flowers ; How she would smile at "em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours after hours! They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are reveal'd Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the fields ; Flowers to these " spirits in prison " are all they can know of the spring. They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an Angel's wing ; And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crost on her breast — Wan, but as pretty as heart can de- sire, and we thought her at rest. Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doc- tor said " Poor little dear, Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll never live thro' it, I fear." I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair, Then I return'd to the ward ; the child didn't see I was there. Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vext ! Emmie had heard him. Softly she call'd from her cot to the next, 72 DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE. " He says I shall never live thro' it, O Annie, what shall I do ? " Annie consider'd. " If I," said the wise little Annie, " was you, T should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmie, you see. It's all in the picture tliere ; ' Little children should come to me.' " (Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it always can please Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about liis knees.) " Yes, and I will," said Emmie, *' but then if I call to the Lord, How should he know that it's me ^ sucli a lot of beds in tlie ward ! " That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider'd and said : " Emmie, j'ou put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on tlie bed — The Lord has so mudi to see to! but, Emmie, you tell it him plain. It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane." I had sat three nights by the child — I could not watch her for four — My brain had begun to reel — I felt I could do it no more. That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it never would pass. There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of liail on the glass, And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost about, Tlie motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness with- out; My sleep was broken beside with dreams of the dreadful knife And fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would escape with her life; Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood by me and smiled. And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see to the child. He had brought his ghastly tools ; we believed her asleep again — Her dear, long, lean, little arms lyin^ out on the counterpane , Say that His day is done ! Ah why should we care what they say ? The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had past away. DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE. I)i:ai> Princess, living Power, if that, which lived True life, live on — and if the fatal kiss, Born of true life and lovi', divorce thee not From earthly love and life — if what we call The spirit flash not all at once from out This shadow into Substance — then perhaps The mellow'd murmur of the people's praise From thine own State, and all our breadth of realm, Where Love and Longing dress thy deeds in light, Ascends to thee; and this March morn that sees Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange- bloom Break thro' the yews and cypress of thy grave. And thine Imperial mother smile again. May send one ray to thee ! and who can tell — Thou — England's England -loving daughter — thou Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag Borne on thy coffin — where is he can swear P)iit that some broken gleam from our poor earth May touch thee, while remembering thee, I lay THE DEFENCE OF LUC KNOW. 57.1 At thy pale feet this ballad of the deeds Of England, and her banner in the East ? THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry ! Never with mightier glory than when we had rear'd thee on high Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow — Shot thro' the staff or the haljard, but ever we raised thee anew, And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. II. Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives — Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives ! Hold it we might — and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. *' Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post ! " Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave : Cold were his brows when we kiss'd him — we laid him that night in his grave. " Every man die at his post ! " and there hail'd on our houses and halls Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon-balls. Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade, Death while we stood with the mus- ket, and death while we stoopt to the spade, Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell. Strikmg the hospital wall, crasliiiig thro' it, their shot and their shell. Death — for their spies were among us, their marksmen were told of our best, So that the brute bullet broke thro' the brain that could think for the rest ; Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet — Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round — Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street, Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and death in ground ! Mine ? yes, a mine ! Countermine ! down, down ! and creep thro' the hole ! Keep the revolver in hand ! you can hear him — the murderous mole! Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro' ! Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before — Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more ; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew ! III. Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo'd away, Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur like so many fiends in their hell — Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell — Fiercely on all the defences our myr- iad enemy fell. What have they done ? where is it ? Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side 574 THE DEFENCE OF LUC KNOW, Plunges and lieaves at a bank that is dail}^ drown'd by the tide — So many thousands tliat if they be bold enough, who shall escape ? Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men ! Ready ! take aim at their leaders — their masses are gapp'd with our grape — Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again, Flying and foil'd at the last by the handful they could not subdue ; And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb. Strong with tlie strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure. Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him ; Still — could we watch at all points ? we were every day fewer and fewer. There was a whispe.^ among us, but only a whisper mat past : *• Children and wives — if the tigers leap into the fold unawares — Every man die at his post — and the foe may outlive us at last — Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs ! " Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure tliat your liand be as true ! Sharp is the fireof assault, better aimed are your flank fusillades — Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung, Twice from the ditch where they shel- ter we drive them with hand- grenades ; And ever ujjon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more. Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun — One has leapt up on the beach, crying out ; "Follow me, follow me! " — Mark him — he falls ! then another, and him too, and down goes he. Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors had won ? Boardings and rafters and doors — an embrasure ! make way for the gun! Now double-charge it with grape ! It is charged and w^e fire, and they run. Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due ! Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few, Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew. That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew. Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We can fight ! But to be soldier all day and be senti- nel all thro' the night — Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms, Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and soundings tn arms. Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five. Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive, Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes around, Ever the night with its cofRnless corpse to be laid in the ground, Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, SIR JOHN OLD CASTLE, LORD C0BHA3. 575 Stench of old oft'al decaying, and in- finite torment of flies, 'J'houghts of the breezes of May blow- ing over an English field, Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal'd, Lopping away of the limb by the pit- iful-pitiless knife, — Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never could save us a life. Valor of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief. Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butch- er'd for all that we knew — Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still-shat- ter'd walls Millions of musket-bullets, and thou- sands of cannon-balls — But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true what was told by the scout, Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers? Surely the pibrocli of Europe is ring- ing again in our ears ! All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, Havelock's glorious Highlanders an- swer with conquering cheers. Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come out, Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good fusileers. Kissing the war-harden'd hand of the Highlander wet with their tears! ]")ance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we are saved ! — is it you ? is it you ? Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven ! " Hold it for fifteen days ! " we have held it for eighty-seven ! And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew. SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM. (in whales.) My friend should meet me somewhere hereabout To take me to that hiding in the hills, I have broke their cage, no gilded one, I trow — I read no more the prisoner's mute wail Scribbled or carved upon the pitiless stone; I find hard rocks, hard life, hard cheer, or none, For I am emptier than a friar's brains ; But God is with me in this wilderness, These wet black passes and foam- churning chasms — And God's free air, and hope of bet- ter things. I would I knew their speech; not now to glean. Not now — I hope to do it — some scatter'd ears, Some ears for Christ in this wild field of Wales — But, bread, merely for bread. This tongue that wagg'd They said with such heretical arro- gance Against the proud archbishop Arun- del— So much God's cause was fluent in it — is here But as a Latin Bible to the crowd ; " Bara ! " — what use ^ The Shepherd when I speak. Vailing a sudden eyelid with his hard "Dim Saesneg" passes, wroth at things of old — No fault of mine. Had he God's woril in Welsh He might be kindlier : happily come the day! Not least art thou, thou little Bethle hem 576 STR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COB HAM. In Judah,forin thee the Lord was born; Nor thou in Britain, little Lutterworth, Least, for in thee the word was ))orn again. Heaven-sweet Evangel, ever-living word, Who whilome spakest to the South in Greek About the soft Mediterranean shores, And then in Latin to the Latin c-rowd, As good need was — thou liast come to talk our isle. Hereafter thou, fulfilling Pentecost, Must learn to use the tongues of all the world. Yet art thou tliine own witness that thou bringest Not peace, a sword, a fire. What did he say. My frighted Wiclif-preacher whom I orost In flying hither? that one night a crowd Throng'd the waste field about the city gates . The king was on them suddenly with a host. Why there ? they came to hear their preacher. Then Some cried on Cobham, on the good Lord Cobham; Ay, for they love me ! but the king — nor voice Nor finger raised against him — took and hang'd, Took, hang'd and burnt — how many — thirty-nine — Call'd it rebellion — liang'd, poor friends, as rebels And burn'd alive as heretics ! for your Priest Labels — to take the king along with him — All heresy, treason : but to call men traitors May make men traitors. Rose of Lancaster, Red in thy birth, redder with house- hold war, Now reddest with the blood of holy men, Redder to be, red rose of Lancaster — If somewhere in the North, as Rumor sang Fluttering the hawks of this crown- lusting line — By firth and loch thy silver sister grow,i That^ were my rose, there my allegi- ance due. Self-starved, they say — nay, mur- der'd, doubtless dead. So to this king I cleaved : my friend was he, Once my fast friend: I would have given my life To help his own from scathe, a thou- sand lives To save his soul. He might have come to learn Our Wiclif's learning; but the worldly Priests Who fear the king's hard common- sense should find What rotten piles uphold their mason- Avork, Urge him to foreign war. O had he will'd I might have stricken a lusty stroke for him. But he would not ; far liever led my friend Back to the pure and universal church, But he would not : whether that heir- less flaw In his throne's title make him feel so frail. He leans on Antichrist; or that his mind, So quick, so capable in soldiership. In matters of the faith, alas the while! More worth than all the kingdoms of this world, Runs in the rut, a coward to the Priest. Burnt — good Sir Roger Acton, my dear friend ! Burnt too, my faithful preacher, Beverley ! 1 Richard II. SIR JOHN- OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM. 577 Lord give thou power to thy two wit- nesses ! Lest the false faith make merry over them! Two — nay bnt thirty-nine have risen and stand, Dark with the smoke of human sacri- fice, Before thy light, and cry continually — Cry — against whom ? Him, who should bear the sword Of Justice — what! the kingly, kindly boy; Who took the world so easily hereto- fore, My boon companion, tavern-fellow — him Who gibed and japed — in many a merry tale That shook our sides — at Pardoners, Summoners, Friars, absolution-sellers, monkeries And nunneries, when the wild hour and the wine Had set the wits aflame. Harry of Monmouth, Or Amurath of the East ^ Better to sink Thy fleurs-de-lys in slime again, and fling Thy royalty back into the riotous fits Of wine and harlotry — thy shame, and mine, Thy comrade — than to persecute the Lord, And play the Saul that never will be Paul. Burnt, burnt! and while this mitred Arundel Dooms our unlicensed preacher to tlie flame, The mitre-sanction'd harlot draws his clerks Into the suburb — their hard celibacy, Sworn to be veriest ice of pureness, molten Into adulterous living, or such crimes As holy Paul — a shame to speak of them — Among the heathen — Sanctuary granted To bandit, thief, assassin — yea to him Who hacks his mother's throat — denied to liim, Who finds the Saviour in his mother tongue. The Gospel, the Priest's pearl, flung down to swine — The swine, lay-men, lay-women, who will come, God willing, to outlearn the filthy friar. Ah rather, Lord, than that thy Gospel, meant To course and range thro' all the world, should be Tether'd to these dead pillars of the Church — Rather than so, if thou wilt have it so. Burst vein, snap sinew, and crack heart, and life Pass in the fire of Babylon ! but how long, O Lord, how long ! My friend should meet me here. Here is the copse, the fountain and — a Cross ! To thee, dead wood, I bow not head nor knees. Rather to thee, green boscage, work of God, Black holly, and white-flower'd way- faring-tree ! Rather to thee, thou living water, drawn By this good Wiclif mountain down from heaven, And speaking clearly in thy native tongue — No Latin — He that thirsteth, come and drink ! Eh ! how I anger'd Arundel asking me To worship Holy Cross ! I spread mine arms, God's work, I said, a cross of flesh and blood And holier. That was heresy. (My good friend By this time should be with me ) " Images ? " " Bury them as God's truer images 578 5//? JOHN OLDCASTLEy LORD COBHAM, Are daily buried." " Heresy. — Penance ^ " " Fast, Hairsliirt and scourge — nay, let a man repent. Do penance in his heart, God hears him." " Heresy — Not shriven, not saved '^ " " What profits an ill Priest Between me and my God '^ I would not spurn Good counsel of good friends, but shrive myself No, not to an Apostle " " Heresy." (My friend is long in coming.) " Pil- grimages '^ " Drink, bagpipes, revelling, devil's- dances, vice. The poor man's money gone to fat the friar. Who reads of begging saints in Scrip- ture ' " — " Heresy " — (Hath he been here — not found me — gone again ? Have 1 mislearnt our place of meet- ing '?) "Bread — Bread left after the blessing ? " how they stared. That was their main test-question — glared at me ! " He veil'd himself in flesh, and now He veils His flesh in bread, body and bread together." Then rose the howl of all the cassock'd wolves, " No bread, no bread. God's body ! " Archbishop, Bishop, Priors, Canons, Friars, bellringers. Parish-clerks — *' No bread, no bread ! " — " Authority of the Church, Power of the keys!" — Then I, God help me, I Bo mock'd, so spurn'd, so baited two whole days — I lost myself and fell from evenness. And rail'd at all the Popes, that ever since Sylvester shed the venom of world- wealth Into the church, had only prov'n themselves Poisoners, murderers. Well — God pardon all — Me, them, and all the world — yea. that proud Pnest That mock-meek mouth of utter Anti- christ, That traitor to King Richard and the truth. Who rose and doom'd me to the fire. Amen ! Nay, I can burn, so that the Lord of life Be by me in my death. Those three ! the fourth Was like the Son of God ! Not burnt were they. On thoii the smell of burning had not past. That was a miracle to convert the king These PhariseeSjthisCaiaphas- Arundel What miracle could turn '' He here again. He thwarting their traditions of Him- self, He would be found a heretic to Him- self, And doom'd to burn alive. So, caught, I burn. Burn? heathen men have borne as much as this. For freedom, or the sake of those they loved, Or some less cause, some cause far less than mine ; For every other cause is less than mine. The moth will singe her wings, and singed return. Her love of light quenching her fear of pain — How now, my soul, we do not heed the fire"? Faint - hearted '^ tut ! — faint - stom - ' ach'd ! faint as I am, God willing, I will burn for Him. Who comes ? A thousand marks are set upon ray head. Friend ? — foe perhaps — a tussle for it then! I Nay, but my friend. Thou art so well disguised, COLUMBUS. 579 I knew thee not. Hast thou brought bread with thee ? 1 have not broken bread for fifty hours. None ? I am damn'd already by the Priest For holding there was bread where bread was none — No bread. My friends await me yon- der ^ Yes. Lead on then. Up the mountain ? Is it far \ Not far. Climb first and reach me down thy hand. I am not like to die for lack of bread, For I must live to testify by fire.^ COLUMBUS. Chains, my good lord : in your raised brows I read Some wonder at our chamber orna- ments. We brought this iron from our isles of gold. Does the king know you deign to visit him Whom once he rose from oif his throne to greet Before his people, like his brother king? I saw your face that morning in the crowd. At Barcelona — tho' you were not then So bearded. Yes. The city deck'd herself To meet me, roai-'d my name ; the king, tlie queen Bade me be seated, speak, and tell them all The story of my voyage, and while I spoke The crowd's roar fell as at the " Peace, be still ! " And when I ceased to speak, the king, the queen, Sank from their thrones, and melted into tears, 1 He was burnt on Christmas Day, 1417. And knelt, and lifted hand and heart and voice In praise to God who led me thro' the waste. And then the great " Laudamus " rose to heaven. Chains for the Admiral of the Ocean ! chains For him who gave a new heaven, a new earth. As holy John had prophesied of me. Gave glory and more empire to the kings Of Spain tlian all their battles ! chains for him Who push'd his prows into the setting sun. And made West East, and sail'd the Dragon's mouth. And came upon the Mountain of the AVorld, And saw the rivers roll from Paradise ! Chains! we are Admirals of the Ocean, we, We and our sons for ever. Ferdinand Hath sign'd it and our Holy Catholic queen — Of the Ocean — of the Indies — Ad- mirals we — Our title, which we never mean to yield, Our guerdon not alone for what we did. But our amends for all we miglit have done — The vast occasion of our stronger life — Eighteen long years of waste, seven in your Spain, Lost, sliowing courts and kings a truth the babe Will suck in with his milk hereafter — earth A sphere. Were ijon at Salamanca "^ No. We fronted there the learnmg of all Spain, All their cosmogonies, their astrono- mies : 580 COLUMBUS. Guess-work they guess'd it, but the golden guess Is morning-star to the full round of truth. No guess-work ! I was certain of my goal ; Some thought it heresy, but that would not hold. King David call'd the heavens a hide, a tent Spread over earth, and so this earth was flat : Some cited old Lactantius : could it be That trees grew downward, rain fell upward, men Walk'd like the fly on ceilings '^ and besides, The great Augustine wrote that none could breathe Within the zone of heat ; so might there be Two Adams, two mankinds, and that was clean Against God's word : thus was I beaten back, And chiefly to my sorrow by the Church, And thought to turn my face from Spain, appeal Once more to France or England; but our Queen Recall'd me, for at last their High- nesses Were half-assured this earth might be a sphere. All glory to the all-blessed Trinity, All glory to the mother of our Lord, And Holy Church, from whom I never swerved Not even by one hair's-brc-adtli of heresy, I have accomplish'd what I came to do. Not yet — not all — last night a dream — I sail'd On my first voyage, harass'd by the frights Of my first crew, their curses and their groans. The great flame-banner borne by Tene- rifCe, j The compass, like an old friend false j at last I In our most need, appall'd them, and I the wind Still westward, and the weedy seas — 1 at length I The landbird, and the branch with berries on it, The carven staff — -and last the light, the light On Guanahani! but I changed the name ; San Salvador I call'd it; and the light Grew as I gazed, and brought out a broad sky Of dawning over — not those alien palms, The marvel of that fair new nature — not That Indian isle, but our most ancient East Moriah with Jerusalem ; and I saw The glory of the Lord flash up, and beat Thro' all the homely town from jas- per, sapphire. Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sar- dius. Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, Jacynth, and amethyst — and those twelve gates, Pearl — and I woke, and thought — death — I shall die — I am written in tlie Lamb's own Book of Life To walk within the glory of the Lord Sunless and moonless, utter light — but no ! The Lord had sent this bright, strange dream to me To mind me of the secret vow I made When Spain was waging war against the Moor — I strove myself with Spain against the Moor. There came two voices from the Sep- ulchre, Two friars crying that if Spain should oust The Moslem from her limit, he, the fierce COLUMBUS. 581 Soldan of Egypt, would break down and raze The blessed tomb of Christ ; whereon I vow'd That, if our Princes harken'd to my prayer, Wliatever wealth I brought from that new world Should, in this old, be consecrate to lead A new crusade against the Saracen, And free the Holy Sepulchre from thrall. Gold ? I had brought your Princes gold enough If left alone ! Being but a Genovese, I am handled worse than had I been a Moor, And breach'd tl)e belting wall of Cambalu, And given the Great Khan's palaces to the Moor, Or clutch'd the sacred crown of Pres- ter John, And cast it to the Moor: but had I brought From Solomon's now-recover'd Ophir all The gold that Solomon's navies car- ried home, Would that have gilded we? Blue blood of Spain, Tho' quartering your own royal arms of Spain, I have not: blue blood and black blood of Spain, The noble and the convict of Cas- tile, Howl'd me from Hispaniola ; for you know The flies at home, that ever swarm about And cloud the highest heads, and murmur down Truth in the distance — these out- buzz'd me so That even our prudent king, our right- eous queen — 1 pray'd them being so calumniated They would commission one of weight and worth To judge between my slander'd self and me — Fonseca my main enemy at their court. They send me out his tool, Bovadilla, one As ignorant and impolitic as a beast — Blockish irreverence, brainless greed — who sack'd My dwelling, seized upon my papers, loosed My captives, feed the rebels of the crown. Sold the crown-farms for all but noth- ing, gave All but free leave for all to work the mines. Drove me and my good brothers home in chains. And gathering ruthless gold — a sin- gle piece Weigh'd nigh four thousand Castil- lanos — so They tell me — weigh'd him down into the abysm — The hurricane of the latitude on him fell. The seas of our discovering over-roll Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel, With what was mine, came happily to the shore. There was a glimmering of God's hand. And God Hath more than glimmer'd on me. O my lord, I swear to you I heard his voice be- tween The thunders in the black Veragua nights, " O soul of little faith, slow to believe ! Have I not been about thee from thy birth ? Given thee the keys of the great Ocean-sea "? Set thee in light till time shall be no more ? Is it I who have deceived thee or the world '' Endure ! thou hast done so well for men, that men Cry out against thee was it otherwise With mine own Son ^ " 582 COLUMBUS. And more than once in days | Of doubt and cloud and storm, when drowning hope Sank all but out of sight, I heard his voice, "Be not cast down. I lead thee by the hand. Fear not." And I shall hear his voice again — I know that he has led me all my life, I am not yet too old to work his will — His voice again. Still for all that, my lord, I lying here bedridden and alone, Cast off, put by, scouted by court and king — The first discoverer starves — his fol- lowers, all Flower into fortune — our world's way — and I, "Without a roof that I can call mine own, With scarce a coin to buy a meal withal, And seeing what a door for scoundrel scum I open'd to the West, thro' which the lust, Villany, violence, avarice, of your Spain Pour'd in on all those happy naked isles — Their kindly native princes slain or slaved, Their wives and children Spanish con- cubines. Their innocent hospitalities quench'd in blood, Some dead of hunger, some beneath the scourge. Some over-labor'd, some by their own hands, — Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Nature > kill Their babies at the breast for hate of Spain — Ah God, the harmless people whom we found In Hispaniola's island-Paradise ! Who took us for the very Gods from Heaven, And we have sent them very fiends from Hell ; And I myself, myself not blameless, I Could sometimes wish I had never led the way. Only the ghost of our great Catholic Queen Smiles on me, saying, " Be thou com- forted ! ~ This creedless people will be brouglit to Christ And own the holy governance of Rome." But who could dream that we, who bore the Cross Thither, were excommunicated there, For curbing crimes that scandalized the Cross, By him, the Cataloman Minorite, Rome's Vicar in our Indies '^ who be- lieve These hard memorials of our truth to Spain Clung closer to us for a longer term Than any friend of ours at Court ? «5 and yet Pardon — too harsh, unjust. I am rack'd with pains. You see that I have hung them by my bed, And I will have them buried in my grave. Sir, in that flight of ages which are God's Own voice to justify the dead — per- chance Spain once the most chivalric race on earth, Spain then the mightiest, wealthiest ^ realm on earth. So made by me, may seek to unbury me, To lay me in some shrine of this old Spain, Or in that vaster Spain I leave to Spain. Then some one standing by my grave will say, THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 583 "Behold the bones of Christopher Colon " — " Ay, but the cl)ains, what do ihexj mean — the chains "^ " — I sorrow for that kindly child of Spain Who then will have to answer, " These same chains Bound these same bones l)ack tliro' the Atlantic sea, \ Which he unchain'd for all the world to come." Queen of Heaven who seest the souls in Hell And purgatory, I suffer all as mucli As they do — for the moment. Stay, my son Is here anon : my son will speak for me Ablier than I can in these spasms that grind Bone against bone. You will not. One last word. You move about the Court, I pray you tell King Ferdinand who plays with mo, that one, Whose life has been no play with him and his Hidalgos — shipwrecks, famines, fe- vers, fights, Mutinies, treacheries — wink'd at, and condoned — That I am loyal to him till the death. And ready — tho' our Holy Catholic Queen, Who fain had pledged her jewels on my first voyage. Whose hope was mine to spread the Catholic faith. Who wept with me when I return'd in chains, Who sits beside the blessed Virgin now, To whom I send my prayer by night and day — She is gone — but you will tell the King, that I, Rack'd as I am with gout, and w^rench'd with pains Gain'd in the service of His Highness, yet Am ready to sail forth on one last voyage. And readier, if the King would liear, to lead One last crusade against the Saracen, And save the Holy Sepulchre from thrall. Going "? I am old and slighted : you have dared Somewhat perhaps in coming ? my poor thanks ! I am but an alien and a Genovese. THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. (founded on an IRISH LEGEND. A.D. 700.) I AVAS the chief of the race — he had stricken my father dead — But I gather'd my fellows together, I swore I would strike off his head. Each one of them look'd like a king, and was noble in birth as in worth, And each of them boasted he sprang from the oldest race upon earth. Each was as brave in the fight as the bravest hero of song, And each of them liefer liad died than have done one another a wrong. He lived on an isle in the ocean — we sail'd on a Friday morn — He that had slain my father the day before I was born. And we came to the isle in the ocean, and there on the shore was he. But a sudden blast blew us out and away thro' a boundless sea. And we came to the Silent Isle that we never had touch'd at before, Where a silent ocean always broke on a silent shore. 584 THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. And the brooks glitter'd on in the light without sound, and the long waterfalls Pour'd in a tlumderless plunge to the base of the mountain walls, And the poplar and cypress unshaken by storm flourish'd up beyond sight. And the pine shot aloft from the crag to an unbelievable height, And high in the heaven above it there flicker'd a songless lark, And the cock couldn't crow, and the bull couldn't low, and the dog couldn't bark. And round it we went, and thro' it, but never a murmur, a breath — It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it quiet as death. And we hated the beautiful Isle, for whenever we strove to speak Our voices were thinner and fainter than any flittermouse-shriek ; And the men that were mighty of tongue and could raise such a battle-cry That a hundred who heard it would rush on a thousand lances and die — O they to be dumb'd by the charm ! — so fluster'd with anger were they They almost fell on each other ; but after we sail'd away. And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we landed, a score of wild birds Cried from the topmost summit with human voices and words ; Once in an hour they cried, and when- ever their voices peal'd The steer fell down at the plow and the harvest died from the field, And the men dropt dead in the valleys and half of the cattle went lame, And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwelling broke into flame ; And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the hearts of my crew, Till they shouted along with the shout- ing and seized one another and slew ; But I drew them the one from the other ; I saw that we could not stay, And we left the dead to the birds and we sail'd with our wounded away. And we came to the Isle of Flowers : their breath met us out on the seas, For the Spring and the middle Sum- mer sat each on the lap of the breeze ; And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, and the dark-blue cle- matis, clung, And starr'd with a myriad blossom the long convolvulus hung ; And the topmost spire of the moun- tain was lilies in lieu of snow, And the lilies like glaciers winded down, running out below Thro' the fire of the tulip and poppy, *^ the blaze of gorse, and the blush Of millions of roses that sprang with- out leaf or a thorn from the bush ; And the whole isle-side flashing down from the peak without ever a tree Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea ; And we roU'd upon capes of crocus and vaunted our kith and our kin, And we wallow'd in beds of lilies, and chanted the triumph of Finn, ^ Till each like a golden image was pollen'd from head to feet And each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the middle-day heat. Blossom and blossom, and promise of blossom, but never a fruit ! And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the isle that was mute, THE VOYAGE OF MA ELD UN E. 585 And we tore up the flowers by tlie million and flung them in bight and bay, And we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail'd away. y\nd we came to the Isle of Fruits : all round from the cliffs and the capes, Purple or amber, dangled a hundred fathom of grapes. And the warm melon lay like a little sun on the tawny sand, And the fig ran -up from the beach and rioted over the land. And the mountain arose like a jew- ell'd throne thro' the fragrant air, Glowing with all-color'd plums and with golden masses of pear. And the crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed upon bine and vine, But in every berry and fruit was the poisonous pleasure of wine ; And the peak of the mountain was apples, the hugest that ever were seen, And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with hardly a leaflet be- tween, And all of them redder than rosiest health or than utterest shame, And setting, when Even descended, the very sunset aflame ; And we stay'd three days, and we gorged and we madden'd, till every one drew His sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they struck and they slew ; And myself, I had eaten but sparely, and fought till I sunder'd tlie fray, Then I bade them remember my father's death, and we sail'd away. And we came to the Isle of Fire : we were lured by the light from afar, For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star ; Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand upright. For the whole isle sliudder'd and shook like a man in a mortal affright : We were giddy besides with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed that at last There were some leap'd into the fire ; and away we sail'd, and we past Over that undersea isle, where the water is clearer than air : Down we look'd : what a garden ! O bliss, what a Paradise there ! Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainboAv deep Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep ! And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate'er I could say, Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled away. VIII. And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land, And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter'd o'er us a sunbright hand. Then it open'd and dropt at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest. Bread enough for his need till the laborless day dipt under the West; And we wander'd about it and thro' it. never was time so good ! And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood. And we gazed at the wandering wave as we sat by the gurgle of springs. And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings : 586 THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn, Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the sunbright hand of the dawn, For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green Isle was our own, iind we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone, And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play, For the passion of the battle was in us, we slew and we sail'd away. IX. And we came to the Isle of Witches and heard their musical cry — " Come to us, O come, come " in the stormy red of a sky Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes, For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each of the loftiest capes, And a hundred ranged on the rock like white sea-birds in a row. And a hundred gamboU'd and pranced on the wrecks in the sand be- low. And a hundred splash'd from the ledges, and bosom'd the burst of tlie spray, But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail'd away. And we came in an evil time to the Isle of tlie Double Towers, One was of smooth-cut stone, one carved all over with flowers. But an eartliquake always moved in the hollows under the dells, And they shock'd on each other and butted each other with clashing of bells. And the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled and wrangled in vain, And the clash and boom of the bells rang mto the heart and the brain. Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took sides with the Towers, There were some for the clean-cut stone, there were more for the carven flowers, And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd over us all the day, j For the one half slew the other and after we sail'd away. And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail'd with St. Brendan of yore, He had lived ever since on the Isle and his wmters were fifteen score, And his voice was low as from other worlds, and his eyes were sweet. And his white hair sank to his heels and his white beard fell to his feet. And he spake to me, " O Maeldune, let be this purpose of thine ! Remember the words of the Lord when he told us ' Vengeance is mtL mine ! ' ^ His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in single strife. Thy fathers have slain his fathers, each taken a life for a life. Thy father had slain his father, how long shall the murder last "^ Go back to the Isle of Finn and suffer the Past to be Past." And we kiss'd the fringe of his beard and we pray'd as we heard him pray, And the Holy man he assoil'd us, and sadly we sail'd away. And we came to the Isle we were blown from, and there on the shore was he, The man that had slain my father, I saw him and let him be. O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife and the sin. When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on the Isle of Finn. DE PRO FUND rs. 587 DE PROFUNDIS: THE TWO GREETINGS. I. Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, Where all that was to be, in all that was, Whirl'd for a million aeons thro' the vast Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddy- ing light — Out of tlie deep, my child, out of the deep. Thro' all this changing world of changeless law. And every phase of ever-heightening life. And nine long months of antenatal gloom, With this last moon, this crescent — her dark orb Touch'd with earth's light — thou comest, darling boy ; Our own ; a babe in lineament and limb Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man; Whose face and form are hers and mine in one, Indissolubly married like our love ; Live, and be happy in thyself, and serve This mortal race thy kin so well, that men May bless thee as we bless thee, young life Breaking with laughter from the dark; and may The fated channel where thy motion lives Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy course Along the years of haste and random youth Unshatter'd; then full-current thro' full man ; And last in kindly curves, with gen- tlest fall, By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power, To that last deep where we and thou are still. II. Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep. From that great deep, before our world begins. Whereon the Spirit of God moves as he will — Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep. From that true world within the world we sec, Whereof our world is but the bound- ing shore — Out of the deep, Spirit, out of the deep. With this ninth moon, that sends the hidden sun Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling boy. For in the world, which is not ours, They said " Let us make man " and that which should be man. From that one light no man can look upon. Drew to this shore lit by the suns and moons And all the shadows. O dear Spirit half -lost In thine own sliadow and this fleshly sign That thou art thou — who wailest being born And banisli'd into mystery, and tlie pain Of this divisible-indivisible world Among the numerable-innumerable Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-infinite space In finite-infinite Time — our mortal veil And shatter'd phantom of that infinite One, Who made thee unconceivably Thy- self Out of His whole World-self and all in all — 588 PRE FA TORY SONNE T, E TC, — MONTENE GR O. Live thou ! and of the gram and husk, the grape And ivyberry, choose ; and still depart From death to death thro' life and , life, and find i Nearer and ever nearer Him, who j wrought Not Matter, nor the finite-infinite. But this main-miracle, that thou art thou. With power on thine own act and on the world. THE HUMAN CRY. Hallowed be Thy name — Halle- luiah ! — Infinite Ideality ! Immeasurable Eeality ! Infinite Personality ! Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! We feel we are nothing — for all is Thou and in Thee ; We feel we are something — that also has come from Thee ; We know we are nothing — but Thou wilt help us to be. Hallowed be Thy name — Halleluiah ! PREFATORY SONNET TO THE " NINETEENTH CENTURY." Those that of late had fleeted far and i' fast To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill Of others their old craft seaworthy still. Have charter'd this ; where, mindful of the past, Our true co-mates regather round the mast ; Of diverse tongue, but with a com- mon will Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast ; For some, descending from the sacred peak Of hoar high-templed Faith, have leagued again Their lot with ours to rove the world about; And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek If any golden harbor be for men In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt. TO THE REV. W. H. BROOK- FIELD. Bkooks, for they call'd you so that knew you best. Old Brooks, who loved so well to mouth my rhymes. How oft we two have heard St. Mary's chimes ! How oft the Cantab supper, host and guest, Would echo helpless laughter to your jest ! How oft with him we paced that walk of lines, Him, the lost light of those dawn- golden times, Wlio loved you well ! Now both are gone to rest. You man of humorous-melancholy mark. Dead of some inward agony — is it so ? Our kindlier, trustier Jaques, past away ! I cannot laud this life, it looks so dark : 5/cms uvap — dream of a shadow, go — God bless you. I shall j oin you in a day. MONTENEGRO. They rose to where tlieir sovran eagle sails. They kept their faith, their freedom, on the height, Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day and night Against the Turk ; whose inroad no- where scales Their headlong passes, but his foot- step fails, BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. 589 And red with blood the Crescent reels from fight Before their dauntless hundreds, in prone flight By thousands down the crags and thro' the vales. O smallest among peoples! rough rock-throne Of Freedom ! warriors beating back the swarm Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years, Great Tsernogora ! never since thine own Black ridges drew the cloud and brake the storm Has breathed a race of mightier mountaineers. TO VICTOR HUGO. Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears, French of the French, and Lord of human tears ; Child-lover ; Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance, Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers ; Weird Titan by thy winter weight of years As yet unbroken, Stormy voice of France ! Who dost not love our England — so they say ; I know not — England, France, all man to be Will make one people ere man's race be run : And I, desiring that diviner day, Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy To younger England in the boy my son. TRANSLATIONS, ETC. BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. Constantinua, King of the Scots, after having sworn allegiance to Athelstan, allied himself with the Danes of Ireland under Anlaf, and invading England, was defeated by Athelstan and his brother Edmund with great slaughter at Brunanburh in the year 937. ^Athelstax King, Lord among Earls, Bracelet-bestower and Baron of Barons, He with his brother, Edmund Atheling, Gaining a lifelong Glory in battle, * I have more or less availed myself of my eon's prose translation of this poem in the Contemporary Review (November 1876) . Slew with the sword-edge There by Brunanburh, Brake the shield-wall, Hew'd the linden-wood,* Hack'd the battleshield, Sons of Edward with hammer'd brands. Theirs was a greatness Got from their Grandsires — Theirs that so often in Strife with their enemies Struck for their hoards and their hearths and their homes. III. Bow'd the spoiler, Bent the Scotsman, 1 Shields of lindenwood. >90 BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH. Fell the shipcrews Doom'd to the death. All the field with blood of the fighters Flow'd, from wheiifirst the great Sun-star of morningtide, Lamp of tlie Lord God Lord everlasting, Glode over earth till the glorious creature Sank to his setting. There lay many a man Marr'd hy the javelin, Men of the Northland Shot over shield. There was the Scotsman Weary of war. V- We the West-Saxons, Long as the daylight Lasted, in companies Troubled the track of the host that we hated, Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grindstone, Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before us. Mighty the Mercian, Hard was his hand-play. Sparing not any of Those that with Anlaf, Warriors over the Weltering waters Borne in the bark's-bosom. Drew to this island : Doom'd to the death. A'll. Five young kings put asleep by the sword-stroke, Seven strong Earls of the arn)y of Anlaf Fell on the war-field, numberless numbers, Shipmen and Scotsmen. VIII. Then the Norse leader, Dire was his need of it, Few were his following, Fled to his warship : Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king in it, Saving his life on the fallow flood. Also the crafty one, Constantinus, Crept to his North again, Hoar-headed hero ! Slender warrant had He to be proud of The welcome of war-knives — He that was reft of his Folk and his friends that had Fallen in conflict, Leaving his son too Lost in the carnage, Mangled to morsels, A youngster in war ! XI. Slender reason had He to be glad of The clash of the war-glaive — Traitor and trickster And spurner of treaties — He nor had Anlaf With armies so broken A reason for bragging Tiiat they had the better In perils of battle On places of slaughter — The struggle of standards, The rush of the javelins, The crash of the charges,' The wielding of weapons — The play that they play'd witli The children of Edward. Then with their nail'd prows Parted the Norsemen, a Blood-redden'd relic of Javelins over The jarring breaker, the deep- sea billow. Shaping their way toward Dy- flen 2 again. Shamed in their souls. 1 Lit. " the gathering of men." - Diibliu. ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH. 591 Also the brethren, King and Athelmg, Each in his glory, Went to his own in his own West- Saxonland, Glad of the war. Many a carcase they left to be carrion. Many a livid one, many a sallow- skin — Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear it, and Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to rend it, and Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. Never had huger Slaughter of heroes Slain by the sword-edge — Such as old writers Have writ of in histories — Hapt in this isle, since Up from the East hither Saxon and Angle from Over the broad billow Broke into Britain with Hauglity war-workers who Harried the Welshman, when Earls that were lured by the Hunger of glory gat Hold of the land. ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH. ILIAD, xviii. 202. So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus ; and round The warrior's puissant shoulders Pallas flung Her fringed aegis, and around his head The glorious goddess wreath'd a golden cloud, And from it lighted an ail-shining flame. As when a smoke from a city goes to heaven Ear off from out an island girt by foes, All day the men contend in grievous war From their own city, but with set of sun Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the glare Flies streaming, if perchance the neighbors round May see, and sail to help them in the war ; So from his head the splendor went to heaven. From wall to dyke he stept, he stood, nor join'd The Achaeans — honoring his wise mother's word — Tliere standing, shouted, and Pallas far away Caird ; and a boundless panic shook the foe. For like the clear voice when a trum- pet shrills, Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a town. So rang the clear voice of ^akides ; And when the brazen cry of ^akides Was heard among the Trojans, all their hearts Were troubled, and the full-maned horses whirl'd The chariots backward, knowing griefs at hand ; And sheer-astounded were the chari- oteers To see the dread, unweariable fire That always o'er the great Peleion's head Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess made it burn. Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty shout. Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allies ; And there and then twelve of their noblest died Among their spears and chariots. 592 TO THE PRINCESS FREDERIC A — TO DANTE. TO "princess FREDERICA ON HER MARRIACxE. YOU that were eyes and light to the King till he past away From the darkness of life — He saw not his daughter — ho blest her: the blind King sees you to-day, He blesses the wife. SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Not here ! the white North has thy bones ; and thou, Heroic sailor-soul, Art passing on thine happier voyage now Toward no earthly pole. TO DANTE. (written at REQUEST OF THE FLORENTINES.) King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, and grown In power, and ever growest, since thine own Fair Florence honoring thy nativity. Thy Florence now the crown of Italy, Hath sought the tribute of a verse from me, I, wearing but the garland of a day, Cast at thy feet one flower that fades away. LRB S '21 ! f LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 546 513 8