DRAMATIC STUDIES- (Eatnbrftige : PRINTED BY C. J. CLAY, M. A. AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS. DRAMATIC STUDIES. / AUGUSTA WEBSTER. 3* Hontiott anti ©ambritige: MACMILLAN AND CO, 1866. CONTENTS. -V'^ PAGE ^ Preacher ... '. . . .3 A Painter . .15 Jeanne d'Arc 29 Sister Annunciata:— I. An Anniversary 39 II. Abbess Ursula's Lecture . . . .08 The Snow Waste . . . . . . .113 With the Dead 133 By the Looking-Glass M9. Too Late 161 A PREACHER. A PAINTER. j° A PREACHER. "Lest that by any means When L have preached to others I myself Should be a castaway." If some one now Would take that text and preach to us that preach, — Some one who could forget his truths were old And what were in a thousand bawling mouths While they filled his — some one who could so throw His life into the old dull skeletons Of points and morals, inferences, proofs, Hopes, doubts, persuasions, all for time untold Worn out of the flesh, that one could lose from mind How well one knew his lesson, how oneself Could with another, may be choicer, style Enforce it, treat it from another view I 2 4 A Preacher. And with another logic — some one warm With the rare heart that trusts itself and knows Because it loves — yes such a one perchance, With such a theme, might waken me as I Have wakened others, I who am no more Than steward of an eloquence God gives For others' use not mine. But no one bears Apostleship for us. We teach and teach Until, like drumming pedagogues, we lose The thought that what we teach has higher ends Than being taught and learned. And if a man Out of ourselves should cry aloud, "I sin, And ye are sinning, all of us who talk Our Sunday half-hour on the love of God, Trying to move our peoples, then go home To sleep upon it and, when fresh again, To plan another sermon, nothing moved, Serving our God like clock-work sentinels, We who have souls ourselves," why I like the rest Should turn in anger : " Hush this charlatan Who, in his blatant arrogance, assumes Over us who know our duties." Yet that text A Preacher, i Which galls me, what a sermon might be made Upon its theme ! How even I myself Could stir some of our priesthood ! Ah ! but then Who would stir me? I know not how it is; I take the faith in earnest, I believe, Even at happy times I think I love, I try to pattern me upon the type My Master left us, am no hypocrite Playing my soul against good men's applause, Nor monger of the Gospel for a cure, But serve a Master whom I chose because It seemed to me I loved him, whom till now My longing is to love; and yet I feel A falseness somewhere clogging me. I seem Divided from myself; I can speak words Of burning faith and fire myself with them ;. I can, while upturned faces gaze on me As if I were their Gospel manifest, Break into unplanned turns as natural As the blind man's cry for healing, pass beyond My bounded manhood in the earnestness Of a messenger from God. And then I come 6 A Preacher. And in my study's quiet find again The callous actor who, because long since He had some feelings in him like the talk The book puts in his mouth, still warms his pit And even, in his lucky moods, himself With the passion of his part, but lays aside His heroism with his satin suit And thinks "the part is good and well conceived And very natural — no flaw to find" — And then forgets it. Yes I preach to others And am — I know not what — a castaway? No, but a man who feels his heart asleep, As he might feel his hand or foot. The limb Will not awake without a little shock, A little pain perhaps, a nip or blow, And that one gives and feels the waking pricks. But for one's heart I know not I can give No shock to make mine prick. I seem to be Just such a man as those who claim the power Or have it, (say, to serve the thought), of willing That such a one should break an iron bar, And such a one resist the strength of ten, A Preacher. 7 And the thing is done, yet cannot will themselves One least small breath of power beyond the wont. To-night now I might triumph. Not a breath But shivered when I pictured the dead soul Awaking when the body dies to know Itself has lived too late, and drew in long With yearning when I shewed how perfect love Might make Earth's self be but an earlier Heaven. And I may say and not be over-bold, Judging from former fruits, "Some one to-night Has come more near to God, some one has felt What it may mean to love Him, some one learned A new great horror against death and sin, Some one at least — it may be many." Yet — And yet — Why I the preacher look for God, Saying "I know thee Lord, what I should see If I could see thee as some can on earth, But I do not see thee," and " I know thee Lord, What loving thee is like, as if I loved, But I cannot love thee." And even with the thought The answer grows "Thine is the greater sin," And I stand self-convic~led yet not shamed, But quiet, reasoning why it should be thus, 8 A Preacher. And almost wishing I could suddenly Fall in some awful sin, that so might come A living sense of God, if but by fear, And a repentance sharp as is the need. But now, the sin being indifference, Repentance too is tepid. There are some, Good men and honest though not overwise Nor studious of the subtler depths of minds Below the surface strata, who would teach, In such a case, to scare oneself awake (As girls do, telling ghost-tales in the dark), With scriptural terrors, all the judgments spoken Against the tyrant empires, all the wrath On them who slew the prophets and forsook Their God for Baal, and the awful threat For him whose dark dread sin is pardonless, So that in terror one might cling to God — As the poor wretch, who, angry with his life, Has dashed into a dank and hungry pool, Learns in the death-gasp to love life again And clings unreasoning to the saving hand. Well I know some — for the most part with thin minds A Preacher. Of the effervescent kind, easy to froth, Though easier to let stagnate — who thus wrought Convulsive pious moods upon themselves And, thinking all tears sorrow and all texts Repentance, are in peace upon the trust That a grand necessary stage is past, And do love God as I desire to love. And now they'll look on their hysteric time And wonder at it, seeing it not real And yet not feigned. They'll say "A special time Of God's diredl own working — you may see It was not natural." And there I stand In face with it, and know it. Not for me; Because I know it, cannot trust in it; It is not natural. It does not root Silently in the dark as God's seeds root, Then day by day move upward in the light. It does not wake a tremulous glimmering dawn, Then swell to perfecSt day as God's light does. It does not give to life a lowly child To grow by days and morrows to man's strength, As do God's natural birthdays. God who sets io A Preacher. Some little seed of good in everything May bring his good from this, but not for one Who calmly says "I know — this is a dream, A mere mirage sprung up of heat and mist; It cannot slake my thirst : but I will try To fool my fancy to it, and will rush To cool my burning throat, as if there welled Clear waters in the visionary lake, That so perchance Heaven pitying me may send Its own fresh showers upon me." I perchance Might, with occasion, spite of steady will And steady nerve, bring on the ecstasy: But what avails without the simple faith? I should not cheat myself, and who cheats God? And wherefore should I count love more than truth, And buy the loving him with such a price, Even if 'twere possible to school myself To an unbased belief and love him more Only through a delusion? Not so, Lord. Let me not buy my peace, nay not my soul, At price of one least word of thy strong truth Which is Thyself. The perfe6l love must be A Preacher. n When one shall know thee. Better one should lose The present peace of loving, nay of trusting, Better to doubt and be perplexed in soul Because thy truth seems many and not one, Than cease to seek thee, even through reverence, In the fulness and minuteness of thy truth. If it be sin, forgive me : I am bold, My God, but I would rather touch the ark To find if thou be there than — thinking hushed "'Tis better to believe, I will believe, Though, were't not for belief, 'tis far from proved" — Shout with the people "Lo our God is there," And stun my doubts by iterating faith. And yet, I know not why it is, this knack Of sermon-making seems to carry me Athwart the truth at times before I know — In little things at least; thank God the greater Have not yet grown by the familiar use Such puppets of a phrase a*s to slip by Without clear recognition. Take to-night — I preached a careful sermon, gravely planned, All of it written. Not a line was meant To fit the mood of any differing 12 A Preacher. From my own judgment : not the less I find — (I thought of it coming home while my good Jane Talked of the Shetland pony I must get For the boys to learn to ride :) yes here it is, And here again on this page — blame by rote, Where by my private judgment I blame not. " We think our own thoughts on this day" I said, u Har??iless it may be, kindly even, still "Not Heaven's thoughts — not Sunday thoughts Fll say." Well now do I, now that I think of it, Advise a separation of our thoughts By Sundays and by week-days, Heaven's and ours ? By no means, for I think the bar is bad. I'll teach my children "Keep ail thinkings pure, And think them when you like, if but the time Is free to any thinking. Think of God So often that in anything you do It cannot seem you have forgotten Him, Just as you would not have forgotten us, Your mother and myself, although your thoughts Were not distinctly on us, while you played ; And, if you do this, in the Sunday's rest You will most naturally think of Him; A Preacher. J 3 Just as your thoughts, though in a different way, (God being the great mystery He is And so far from us and so strangely near), Would on your mother's birthday-holiday Come often back to her." But I'd not urge A treadmill Sunday labour for their mind, Constant on one forced round : nor should I blame Their constant chatter upon daily themes. I did not blame Jane for her project told, Though she had heard my sermon, and no doubt Ought, as I told my flock, to dwell on that Then here again "the pleasures of the world That tempt the younger members of my flock." Now I think really that they've not enough Of these same pleasures. Grey and joyless lives A many of them have, whom I would see Sharing the natural gaieties of youth. I wish they'd more temptations of the kind. Now Donne and Allan preach such things as these Meaning them and believing. As for me, What did I mean? Neither to feign nor teach A Pharisaic service. 'Twas just this, That there are lessons and rebukes long made 14 A Preacher. So much a thing of course that, un observing, One sets them down as one puts dots to z's Crosses to fs. A simple carelessness; No more than that. There's the excuse — and I, Who know that every carelessness is falsehood Against my trust, what guide or check have I Being, what I have called myself, an adtor Able to be awhile the man he plays But in himself a heartless common hack? I felt no falseness as I spoke the trash, I was thrilled to see it moved the listeners, Grew warmer to my task ! 'Twas written well, Habit had made the thoughts come fluently As if they had been real — Yes, Jane, yes, I hear you — Prayers and supper waiting me — I'll come- Dear Jane, who thinks me half a saint. A PAINTER. O 'tis completed — not an added touch But would do mischief — and, though so far short Of what I aimed at, I can praise my work. If I, as some more fortunate men can do, Could have absorbed my life into one task, Could have made studies, tried effects, designed And re-designed until some happy touch Revealed the secret of the perfect group In a moment's flash, could day by day have dwelt On that one germinant theme, till it became Memory and hope and present truth, have worked Only upon that canvass where it grew To the other eyes a shadow of what mine 1 6 A Painter. Had seen and knew for truth, it could have been It should have been, yes should have been, in the teeth Of narrow knowledge and half-tutored skill And the impotence I chafe at of my hand To mark my meaning, such a thing as those Who, stooping to me, "A fair promise, sirs, In that young man — if he'll attend to us, The critics, he may hit the public taste With a taking thing some day," approve the points And count the flaws and say "For a new man 'Tis a fair picture," while they'd throw themselves In ecstasies before some vapid peepshow With a standard name for foreground and the rest A clever careless toying with the brush By a hand grown to the trick — critics forsooth Because they have learned grammar — such a thing, I say, as these should shrink from measuring With blame or praise of theirs, but stand aside And let the old ones speak, the men who worked For something more than our great crown of art The small green label in the corner, knew Another public than our May-fair crowds, A Painter. 17 Raphael and Michael Angelo and such — Whose works sold well too. They should have been left My judges whether something of the soul That was their art had not been given me. Ah well I am a poor man and must earn — And little dablets of a round-faced blonde, Or pretty pert brunette who drops her fan, Or else the kind the public, save the mark, Calls poem-like, ideal, and the rest — I have a sort of aptness for the style — A buttercup or so made prominent To point a moral, how youth fades like grass Or some such wisdom, a lace handkerchief Or broidered hem mapped out as if one meant To give a seamstress patterns — that's to show How " conscientious," that's the word, one is — And a girl dying, crying, marrying, what you will, With a blue-light tint about her — these will sell : And they take time, and if they take no thought Weary one over much for thinking well. A man with wife and children, and no more To give them than his hackwork brings him in, Must be a hack and let his masterpiece 18 A Painter. Go to the devil. Well my masterpiece, As to the present, is achieved at last; But by what straining of a wearied hand ilnd wearied eyes and wearied aching head Worn with the day's forced work ! And now I come And fold my arms before it, and play the judge, And am, though not content, yet proud of it. And after all what is it? So much width Of my best canvass made unserviceable, Spoilt for the dablets, so much time defrauded From my tradesman work. What will it gain for me? And why I do not answer at first blush Just "disappointment," is that I have grown Too used to disappointment now to set A hope on any issue. I shall hear My work observed with vacant hems and has, And a slur of timorous praise. And I shall see A quiet face or two light up with thought — And these, although perhaps they think no more Of the painter or his work nor care to keep Remembrance of my unfamiliar name, Will be my friends for the moment, and will note A Painter. 19 With a sort of kind regret where I fall short And some severer connoisseur will fume : "Now here's a man with a certain faculty. The more shame for him ! Were he some schooled drudge Doing his best one would forgive the fault. But here's a harebrained fellow comes to us 'I am a painter I — no need to study — Here's genius at my back — splash, dash away — I'll win a fortune and a name at once, And deserve them bye and bye ?' He ought to take Two or three years at least of study, draw More than he paints, scan how the masters did it, Go to school in Rome. But no, his vanity- Pats his genius on the back. Pooh ! He descend To dull apprentice plodding ! He take time Before he paints for the world ! — Fie on it though To see a man so sin against his gift." And then another says "Yes he should wait," And another "Wait," and "Wait," and once more "Wait." Out on them fools ! Do they know a man may die Waiting? Waiting, when waiting means to starve 20 A Painter. Do they think of that? What Ruth, my pretty one, Come to learn what's my trouble? Startle you, Did I with sudden steps and speaking loud? 'Tis nothing, dearest — only the old tale That you and I keep fretting at, what cross And spirit-killing work it is to slave At these man-wasting trifles day by day, Cutting one's life in mess-pieces, and see No better chance for freedom than to cheat The fashionable world that chatters art By some chance masterpiece into paying one Enough to buy the time to wait and learn. And then the critics say " You should have waited. 'Tis the fault of the age, our young men will not wait. " And the fashionable world says "To be sure — The fault of the age ! Indeed he should have waited : We might have bought his pictures then :" and flies With open purse, on a race for who bids first, To its latest darling's studio — takes all there, If he did it awake, or sleeping, or by proxy, At equal price. What matter? There's his name! A Painter. 21 Ah Ruth! If I could only win a name! And then, love, then! For I know there is in me Another power than what men's eyes yet find In these poor works of mine. But who can tell If now I ever shall become myself? My one believer, I have learned from you To use that phrase : but what is a man's self Excepting what he is, what he has learned I And what he does? You make it what he hopes. Well love, persuade me with your earnest voice And look of long belief, this twentieth time — Persuade me that the day we hope must come, Because it is myself. I am worn out, Sick to the heart. I need your love so much. Talk to me love; find fault; dispute with me, With smiles and kisses ready all the while, And your dear arms clinging to me; prophesy, You happy prophet who can fill your eyes With sunshine and see brightness where you will. And come now, find me in my picture there Something to praise ; I can believe your praise Although you love me. No you cannot stay — 22 A Painter. Yes, yes, I hear the summons. If Blanche cries — Poor Ruth! I could be jealous of your care For the children, were it not so hard to me To see you forced to play the handmaid to them. Come back when the child sleeps. Going she leaves A darkness after her. Ruth, but for you I could not paint a sunbeam, could not bear To have a happy thought look out on me From my own canvass : now because of you I do not envy brightness. Yet she says And, I fear me, almost thinks it, my poor wife, " If I had never come to burden you, You might have won your way by now." Ah well, A sunless way without her, yet perhaps It is a true sad word. I might have been Without her what she'd have me be. No, no — A handier painter possibly, more apt With nice true touches and the fearless brush Exact without restraint, most certainly A more successful man, but not the man A Painter. 23 My earnest Ruth believes in. Darling, you Who, under all your pretty fitful ways, Your coaxings and your poutings, have the strength Of the noblest kind of women, helping strength For any man with worth enough to use it — You keep me to the level of my hopes : I shall not fall beneath them while you live. It was a good day for me when you came Into my fretted life, and I thank God It was no evil one for you. Dear wife, If you had been one torn to pleasant things, Cared for and praised in a familiar home, Not knowing what it is to say, "Well this Costs sixpence, I can do without, " and "This Is marked a penny and will serve the turn" — If you had had one other in the world To take up your dead father's guardianship And watch a little for you, then long since I should have cursed myself who brought you here To live on empty hopes and drudge the while. But you are happier even in our want And your enduring than you would have been Still pining, smiling, on, the mere fed slave 24 A Painter. Of a cross idiot and her hoyden brats. You were a fool, the mistress-creature thought, To leave the comfort she had graciously Designed to keep you in some half score years, Raised salary and so forth, for a home So poor as I yet had to give. But you Still said "It will be Home" and you and I Knew something, even then, by hope or instinct Of the meaning of that common word which she Poor soul, among her gewgaw drawing-rooms Had never dreamed of. You are happy, love; We have our many troubles, many doubts, We are at war with fate and a hard world, And God knows whether we shall overcome; But you are happy, love, because you know You are my happiness. And I might say, In the bitterness of these dull wearing days, While like that poor caged squirrel in the street I beat my ceaseless way and gain no step, I have no other left me, were it not That, even at this moment, the warm glow Of yellow evening sunshine brightening down A Painter. 25 Upon the red geraniums she has placed To feast my eyes with colour, bringing out That line of shadow deeper on the wall, With the exquisite half lights thrown from those white folds, Softer than mists at sundawn, gladden me With the old joy and make me know again How one can live on beauty and be rich Having only that — a thing not hard to find, For all the world is beauty. We know that We painters, we whom God shows how to see. We have beauty ours, we take it where we go. Aye my wise critics, rob me of my bread, You can do that, but of my birthright no. Imprison me away from skies . and seas And the open sight of earth and her rich life And the lesson of a face or golden hair : I'll find it for you on a whitewashed wall Where the slow shadows only change so much As shows the street has different darknesses At noontime and at twilight. Only that Could make me poor of beauty which I dread 26 A Painter. Sometimes, I know not why, save that it is The one thing which I could not bear, not bear Even with Ruth by me, even for Ruth's sake — If this perpetual plodding with the brush Should blind my fretted eyes. Would the children starve, Poor pretty playthings who have not yet learned That they are poor? And Ruth — Well, baby sleeps? Ah love, you come in time to chase some thoughts I do not care to dwell on. Come, stand there And criticise my pidlure. It has failed Of course — I always fail. Yet on the whole I think the world would praise it were I known. JEANNE D'ARC. SISTER ANNUNCIATA. I. AN ANNIVERSARY. II. ABBESS URSULA'S LECTURE. JEANNE D'ARC O me — to me ! Dunois ! La Hire ! Old Daulon, Thou at the least shouldst stand by me — Oh haste ! The soul of France is in me, rescue me ! — Turn back the flyers — Cowards, have you learned These English can be conquered, yet you flee? To me ! — Oh ! I am wounded ! Oh ! this time We shall not sleep in Paris— What is this? Is this not Paris but sieged Compiegne? Back, to the fort ! This once we needs must fly. In, in ! They are closing on us— in ! — Oh Christ ! The gate drops down ! And I without, alone ! Open, the foe is on me. Help ! Oh now 30 Jeanne d'Arc. I feel I am a woman and 'mong foes ! Oh save me ! — Oh you blessed saints of Heaven, Do you come down to me again? You smile A wondrous holiness, ineffable. Oh what a brightness stars upon your brows ! It grows — it grows ! I see you clearly now, You who first sent me forth, and all this while Have nerved me to be forward 'mid these men Who press to carnage as a lightsome girl Hastens her steps to where the dancers wait; You who have warned me, counselled, comforted, Given me persuasion and the gift to awe And the strong soldier spirit of Command; My guardians and consolers, who, beyond All other saints, have taken part for me, Me and my France — St Catherine, thou pure Thou holy bride, and brave St Margaret. You bring me peace, dear saints, and I had need : Oh help me from myself and these mad dreams. Oh hear me, I have had most fearful visions : I thought I fought before the walls of Paris Jeanne cTArc. 31 And did not conquer — Oh the agony Even to dream of that first shamed defeat ! — And then the dream was shifted : I was thronged By furious enemies before the gate Of Compiegne, and taken prisoner ! They were haling me along, and still I strove, And strove, and strove. And all the while it seemed As if by an awful prescience I knew My waiting death, more dreadful than to lie Shattered and gashed beneath the onward rush Of the frantic horses spurred into our ranks, And die amid the roar of English shouts — Meseemed my living limbs were to be given To scorch and writhe and shrivel in the fire — I was to know like torment and like shame With those who front our God with blasphemies And loathsome magic — Ah ! my head swims round Still dizzy with the terror of my dream. But you are come, you gracious messengers, To chase the troubled visions that the Fiend Tortures me with. Stay with me for awhile, And let me feel your mystic influence Thrill all my being into rapt delight: 32 Jeanne d'Arc. Then I shall feel in me a threefold strength, And go forth eager in the morn, athirst For the madness of the battle and the flush Of conquest and the pride of leadership, Go forth, as I am wont, to victory. Oh you are dimmer ! — Woe ! woe ! was my dream But a confused remembering in sleep? Where you were standing do I see the moonlight Falling on prison-walls ? Oh ! I have waked From the bewilderings of cruel sleep To dreadful sharp reality. Woe ! woe ! The chains are heavy on me ! I am lost ! But which is dream then ? For it seemed to me I woke, as I have often waked at night From troubled fancies, and I saw those Holy "Who lead me, and my heart leaped with the thought That I should raise the fortunes of our France Yet higher in the coming fight. Yes surely We give battle in the morning, surely they, Those holy ones, they warned me even now. They would not mock me. This must be the dream : These chains, this prison, they must be the dream. Oh Mother of the Blessed, hear me; come Jeanne d'A?r. 2>2> Down from thy throne ringed round about with angels, Come from His side, that Holy One, our Christ, And comfort me with love, and show me truth. Oh ! come, ye virgin saints, and teach me here, A poor weak girl, lone in my helplessness, Crying to you for that once strength you gave. They come — Lady of Heaven, it is thou ! Oh ! Mary-Mother, blessed among women, For thy life's sorrow's sake deliver me In this distress : Oh ! show me which is truth. The vision grows. Oh look ! they show me all My true career ! — I see it — Yes, my home In the far village. Those were dreamy days, And pleasant till the visions made me know My higher destiny and I grew restless In the oppressive quiet. Waning — Gone ! Ah well, I would have lost a longer while Gladly in that kind dreaming* ***Yes 5 my king, So did he honour me when I declared him Among his courtiers* ***Yes, so Orleans fell — Oh ! my brave glory ! yes / beat them back, These Englishmen that were invincible!**** Yes, so I set the crown upon his head 3 34 Jea7ine d'Arc. In sacred Rheims. Oh noble ! how the crowd, Eager to kiss my vesture, touch me, throngs Around me, me a simple peasant girl Made first of women and of warriors In all our France ! — Hush, hush, vainglorious heart, How often have the voices chidden thee For thy too arrogant delight ! Not mine The honour, but the Lord's who sent me forth. I a mean herd-wench from the fields — what more? But made God's instrument, to show Himself And not the power of man conquers for France, How dare I boast ? Oh ! was it for this fault, This foolish fault of pride, that check was sent ? What needs this vision of it? But too well I keep the memory of that first shame, My first defeat. Yes, Paris, I still fire With angry blushes at thy name****And this — Oh ! but my brain whirls — whirls — what is it ? Cloud And dull confusion. Who is it that stands Mouthing and gecking at me ? Why now, Pierre, Because, forsooth, thou art our neighbour's son, Must I be bound to dance with thee at mil? Why flout me with so stale a grudge, my friend ? Jeanne d'Arc. 35 Is the face changed? It was Dame Madelon's Pierre, The poor good clumsy youth, whose suits and sulks Had so passed from my mind, I thought I saw. And now — I know it, the long fiendish sneer, The sudden glare ! Ah ! so the vision grows Perfedl again. A trial call they this? A. pastime rather for their lordly hearts; They bait the tethered prey before they kill. Is it Christian, my lord bishop, so to taunt me, Me innocent and helpless ? — Ah ! I look But on a vision: I am here alone; In prison and condemned ! Ah me ! the dreams, They did not mock me. This then is the truth, The prison and the chains — Christ ! and the death ! Stay yet with me ye blessed. They are gone ! They touched my forehead with their martyr palms ; And the dear Heaven-Mother smiled on them, And the same smile on me. But they are gone, And I am left unaided to my fate. Was it for this that I was chosen out, From my first infancy — marked out to be Strange 'mid my kindred and alone in heart, 3^2 36 Jeanne cCArc] Never to cherish thoughts of happy love Such as some women know in happy homes, Laying their heads upon a husband's breast, Or singing, as the merry wheel whirrs round, Sweet cradle songs to lull their babes to sleep? Was it for this that I forbore to deck My beauty with the pleasant woman arts That other maidens use and are not blamed, Hid me in steel, and for my chaplet wore A dented helmet on my weary brows ? Ah ! I like other women might have lived A home-sweet life in happy lowly peace, And France had not been free but I content, A simple woman only taking thought For the kind drudgery of household cares. But I obeyed the visions : I arose, And France is free — And I ere the next sun Droops to the west shall be a whitened mass — Dead ashes on the place where the wild flames Shot up— Oh horrible ! Oh ! God, my God, Dost thou behold, and shall these men, unjust, Slay me, thy servant ? Oh ! and shall my name Jeanne cPArc. 37 Be muttered low hereafter in my France, A sorceress and one impure? They say I commune with the Fiend and he has led My way so high. Yes, if he could do this, And I, deserted as I am of God, Might cease to war with him and buy my life, And greatness — and revenge ! — Oh God ! forgive. I sin. Oh deadliest sin of all my life ! Oh ! pardon ! pardon ! Oh ! have I condemned My soul to everlasting fire by this? My brain whirls — whirls — Forgive ! Oh see they come, They touch me with their palms ! She smiles again, The holy Mother ! Yes, they beckon me. Now they are vanished in a cloud of light. I shall not see them more: but I shall know They will hold fast my trembling soul in death And bear me to my home — a better home Than earth has given me. The dawn begins. How fast the hours leap on towards the end! — 38 Jeanne d*Arc. Will the pain wring me long ? Ah me ! that fire ! They might have given me a gentler death. The sound of footsteps ! They are coming now. No, they pass on — No, now they are at the door. They are coming to pursue me to the last; They will mock me once again with promises, To buy from me the whiteness of my name And have me blast it by my own last lie. No matter; now they cannot bait me long. My God, I thank Thee who hast chosen me To be Thy messenger to drive them forth: And, since my death was destined with the mission, Lord of my life, I thank Thee for my death. SISTER ANNUNCIATA. I. AN ANNIVERSARY. My wedding day ! A simple happy wife, Stolen from her husband's sight a little while To think how much she loved him, might so kneel Alone with God and love a little while, (For if the Church bless love, is love a sin ?) And, coming back into the happy stir Of children keeping the home festival, Might bring the Heaven's quiet in her heart; Yes, even coming to him, coaxing him With the free hand that wears his fetter on it, Sunning her boldly in his look of love, And facing him with unabashed fond eyes 40 Sister Annunciata. Might, being all her husband's, still be God's And know it — happy with no less a faith Than we who, ever serving at His shrine, Know ourselves His alone. Am I sinning now To think it ? Nay, no doubt I went too far : The bride of Christ is more than other women; I must not dare to even such to me. They have their happiness, I mine; but mine Is it not of Heaven heavenly, theirs of earth, And therefore tainted with earth's curse of sin ? Did Mary envy Martha? Oh my Lord Forgive thy handmaid if her spirit lone, A little lone because the clog of flesh That sunders it from Thee still burdens it With the poor human want of human love, Hungry a moment and by weakness snared, Has dared, with the holy manna feast in reach, To think on Egypt's fleshpots and not loathe. Oh ! Virgin Mother, pray thou for thy child, That I who have escaped the dangerous world, Rising above it on thy altar steps, May feel the heavens round me lifting me, Sister Annunciata. 41 Lifting me higher, higher, day by day, Until the glory blinds me, and my ears Hear only Heaven's voices, and my thoughts Have passed into one blending with His will, And earth's dulled memories seem nothingness ! Ah me ! poor soul, even here 'tis a hard fight With the wiles of Satan ! Was the Abbess wise To set me, in the night too when one most Is tempted to let loose forbidden dreams And float with them back to the far-off life Of foolish old delights, — yes, was she wise To set me in the night-hush such a watch, Wherein "to think upon my ancient life With all its sins and follies, and prepare To keep my festival for that good day That wedded me out of the world to Christ ? " She has forgotten doubtless, 'tis so long Since she came here, how, trying to recall Girl sins and follies, some things of the past Might be recalled too tenderly, and so The poisonous sad sweet sin of looking back Steal on one unawares. Oh hush ! alas 42 Sister Annunciata. How easy 'tis to sin ! Now I have tripped ; Obedience must not question. But one learns With every hour of growing holiness How bitter Satan is against the Saints. I muse if I, who of the sisterhood Am surely, now that Agatha is dead, The nearest saintly practice, most in prayer, And most in penance, crucifying most The carnal nature, till they point to me With pride for the convent and some envy too For themselves left lower in the race — if I Am tripped so often, how then fare the rest? Though doubtless Satan does not track so close Until he fears one. But they are less armed : Alas how he may break them ! Poor weak souls, How I shall pray for them : for bye and bye, Doubtless, I shall be freer from the self I have yet to guard, my victory will be won And I shall tread on sin, invulnerable, As the Saints do at last. If I, that is, Might reach the goal I strain at, the one goal Ambition may seek sinless — though I faint Sister Annunciata. 43 The goal I will attain. I think in truth My feet are on the road, and, let them bleed Among the thorns, I still press on. Perhaps It is because she sees how strong I grow, She gave me this ordeal, this the first year-day, Out of the several, she has risked it. No. She'd not have tried one of the others thus; She sees I shall not fail. I cannot think, Although she knows me her successor here, She plans to lessen me from a renown Of sanctity that bids to dwindle hers. No — she is kind, there is no seeming in it, And simply good, although no miracle Of self-set discipline, and her meek mind Would find a daughter's merit glorying The convent's name glory enough for her — She is my friend. Ah ! I remember me In the first days — when I was sad and restless And seemed an alien in a hopeless world, All form and pious parrot-talk, a home For stunting dull despair shut from the sun, 44 Sister Annimciata. A nursery to bloat the sick self in To a mis-shapen God to feed whose fires The loves and hopes and faiths, the very life Of the young heart must perish, and I knew For the best future nothing but a blank, For then the present bitterness of death, The horrible death in life — my first belief In any comfort earlier than the grave's Came from a touch of tenderness in her, Only a tone, a look as she passed by "Where I was sitting by the broken well, Looking at the green growth that overslimed The never heaven waters, thinking "this, The image of the thing my life becomes, Unlighted, unlightgiving, ignorant Of sunnash and of shadow, with the slime Of utter foul stagnation hiding heaven As surely as its narrow walls fair earth, And under all, chill, chill!" "God bless you daughter," She said; her usual greeting, but it came With the kind of sound one likes to dwell upon — A little trivial phrase in the right tone Makes music for so long. "God bless you daughter" Sister Annunciata. 45 As if she meant it — and there was the touch Of a mere womanly pity in her eyes. So her blessing loosed the bands about my heart, And the passion of tears broke out. 'Twas the first time Since the night before they brought me to my vows In a passive dream; I think because since then I had been hopeless, and it must have been That the feeling of a human tenderness Still folding me, made something like a hope, Feeding my withering heart like water drops Given the poor plant brought from the fresh free air And natural dewings of the skyward soil, Where its wild growth took bent at the wind's will, To leam indoors an artificial bloom Or die. Before it had been too near death For weeping — And the comfort of those tears! I almost wish that I could weep so now! No, no, I take again my wish, which was a sin ; It was no wish, a fancy at the most; Lord, let it not be numbered with my sins ! What mere mad sin against the spirit, that, If I could wish to lose my hard-won state 46 Sister Annunciata. Of holy peace. And wherefore should I weep? For what endurance? I who have inhaled The rich beatitude of my spousalship, To the heart's core. But then I only saw The human side, knew but the present loss Of the outer bloom of life, and did not know That, stripped of the flower-wings, the fruit grew on, Yea, and to ripe to immortality, In this sure shelter. Or I knew it, say, As I know that bye and bye, when I am dead, I shall be sunned in the grave on summer days, While, if one now were standing in the frosts, The chariest winter beam were something, all; And what such summers waiting for the time Of silence and of change? A sorry mocking Of hungering hope with bitter dead sea fruit She preached to me, good woman, when she turned, Catching the breath of my outswelling grief, And, with the softened smile some mothers rest Upon their children, came to me quietly, And sat beside me there. No doubt she ran Sister Annunciata. 47 Her whole small simple round of eloquence; I have heard it all since then, I think; but then I did not hear — a murmur in my ears That hummed on, soothing, like a lullaby. And through it I perceived some scraps of texts, And godly phrases, and examples drawn From the lives of the saints, and wise encourage- ments ; And I wept on. But the warm touch of her hands Nursing my right hand in them motherly, And the feeling of her kindly neighbourhood, These spoke a language that I understood And thrilled to in my desolate mood. Through them That heavy sense of prison loneliness, Whether I moved alone or companied, Was lifted from my heart, broken away In the rushing of my tears ; and even from then, Wherefore I know not, I was moved to grope Up from the dark towards the light of Heaven. But ah the long ascent! It was enough At first to learn the patience that subdued My throbbing heart to its new quiet rule, The hope of Heaven that bore down earth's despair — 48 Sister Annunciata. But these were comfort, and the craving grew As natural for them as the sick man's For the pain-soothing draught he learned perforce To school his palate to. But then the effort To be another self, to know no more The fine-linked dreams of youth, the flying thoughts Like sparkles on the wave-tops changing place And all one scattered brightness, the high schemes And glorious wild endeavours after good, Fond, bubble-soaring, but how, beautiful ! The sweet unreal reveries, the gush Of voiceless songs deep in the swelling heart, The dear delight of happy girlish hopes — Of, ah my folly ! some hopes too strange sweet That I dare think of them even to rebuke — Ah not to be forgotten though they lie Too deep for even memory. Alas ! Even if I would, how could I now recall To their long-faded forms those phantasies Of a far, other, consciousness which now Beneath the ashes of their former selves Lie a dead part of me, but still a part, Oh evermore a part Sister Annunciata. 49 I do not think There can be sin in that, in knowing it. I am not nursing the old foolish love Which clogged my spirit in those bitter days. Ah no, dear as it was even in its pain, I have trampled on it, crushed its last life out. I do not dread the beautiful serpent now; It cannot breathe again, not if I tried To warm it at my breast, it is too dead And my heart has grown too cold ; the Lord himself, I thank Him, has renewed it virgin-cold To give to Him. I do but recognize \ A simple truth, that that which has been lived, Lived down to the deeps of the true being, is Even when past for ever, has become Inseparable from the lifelong self: But yet it lives not with the present life. So, in this wise, I may unshamed perceive That the dead life, that the dead love, are still A part of me. Nay do I fool myself? Why do I fever so thinking of him? Why do I think of him ? What brought his face 50 Sister Annwiciata. So vividly before me? Angelo, Art thou in the night-stillness waking now Remembering me, remembering me who came A little moment into thy bright life And seemed to make it brighter, and then passed, Leaving no doubt a little cloud behind, Till when? Till now? Till death comes with the end ? Or till the other's smile had lighted it With the rich rose of dawn to brighter day? While she lies dreaming of the dainty dress Ordered for next night's ball, art thou indeed Thinking, alone in heart, of former days, And asking the dull hush to speak of me ? Or is it but a careless memory Passing thy dreamy thought a moment long, A wondering lightly "Is she reconciled To the lot they gave her?" But, whate'er it be, Surely some thought of thine came to me now And called mine to thee. Nay, it must not be. Oh once my own beloved, now a mere name, A name of something that one day was dear, In an old world, to one who is no more, Sister Annunciata. 51 Vex me no more with idle communings, — Love me, love her, what matters it to me? I stand as far apart as angels are From earthly passion — not by my own strength, But by the grace shewn in me, and the bar Of my divine espousal. Stand far off Even in thought. Yes, though this was thy word, That long fond evening when we stole apart Out of the music and the talking, when We stood below the orange-boughs abloom, And the sweet night was silent, and the waves Were rocking softly underneath the moon, Asleep in the white calm, and we, alone, Were whispering all our hearts each into each : "Eva, my Eva, darling of my life, If they should part us still you are my all. I will not love the other. She might bear My name, gild with the purchase money for it Our houses' tarnished splendours, rear the heirs Of its new greatness. — You, you, only you, In your cold prison, would be wife to me, Wife of my soul. Are we not one, love, so ? 4—2 52 Sister Anminciata. They could not beat down that; and I would live In a secret world with you, so that in Heaven I could claim you boldly, 'this was my own wife 5 And all the angels know it true." Ah me! How long that wild rapt promise hindered me In my first struggles for the Saints' cold peace, Because he spoke it in a certain tone — Sometimes he used it — that had a strange power To thrill me with strange pleasure through and through And leave long after echoes still possessed Of something more than most tones, even his, And easier to recall at will; and these Remained with me; I could not quite forego Their dangerous sweetness. So the Tempter came Saying always " He too thinks of them" and I Would be so weak, so wicked, that I thought, "I cannot try to be in perfectness One of the Heavenly Brides, lest I succeed And, standing white-robed with the virgin train Who in the after kingdom follow Christ, See him and know him and am lost to him, Sister Annunciata. 53 Even there where the last hope was." But now, No more my love for ever, now at length In this more perfect day of my raised soul, I can say calmly : " Though this was thy word I do not bid thee honour it." It was The dream of a mad moment, let it pass : I would not hold thee to it if I could : I scale a heavenward height, and if I shiver A little, just a little, in the snows, On the darker days, should I for this descend Into the earth-balmed valley and forego The victories of my toiling steps, the crown Of my long enterprize ! No, though thy voice Were thrice and thrice as eager-sweet as when Long since it said u be mine in earth " to say "Be mine in heaven" I could not wait for thee. I go alone, wearing my spousal ring, My bridal throne is ready. But, although I . love thee now with only such a love As a dead saint might love that looked from Heaven, It is no sin that I should yearn for thee 54 Sister Annunciata. That thou mightst also rise and lift thyself Out from the world, leaving its honeyed wines That overglad the heart, its corn and oil, For the barren mountain-summit near God's stars, In the cold pure air where the earth's growths dwine off, Leaving the joys of common life, the pride, The beauty and the love; perceiving nought Except the goal of such a holiness As I would bid thee strive for. Ah ! my brother, If this might be, and we two, though apart, Were one in such an aim ! But can I tell If thou art Angelo whom once I knew? She with her silly beauty, smiling forth The brightness of her self-complacency Till one might easily be taken in And fancy she'd at least just so much heart As served to wish one well with — may she not By now have dazzled thee or flattered thee Till thou hast given her thy heart for plaything — All she could make of it ! It might be so : For there were times, when thou and I, poor children, Sister Anniinciata. 55 Were chafing impotent while stronger hands Made havoc of our simple lovers' plot, That I half jealous, though I doubted not Thy inmost faith to me, thought piteously: "Ah but for the marvellous gold of those loose curls, And the glitter of those crystal-brown strange eyes Perfect in sudden glances and drooped coyness, He might have made them know the task too hard To bend him to their scheming." Yes, I feared, Even while I said : "I wrong him by the thought" My own own lover, like the warriors In some old fight I knew of ere the lore Of secular things grew babble talk to me, Was dazzled in the eyes by the strong sun, The sun that was her beauty, and so fought As if in the dark and vainly. Could it be? I do not think it. In the days of love One doubts because one loves, because one knows One is too willing to be credulous : But, now that there is no sweet weakness left To daze my judgment, I can vouch for him. 56 Sister Annunciata. He, having, in the teeth of interest And the worldly prudence preached from both our homes, Chosen me to love, me with a mind and soul And woman's worth enough on me to love In something more than pretty kitten's play ; Me with some dusky beauty of my own — If in all else made less by hers yet more, I think, to those who care to see a life Shew through the breathing mask, more by the power (Mine and not hers let her be earth's most fair) To steal from gazing eyes the accurate sense Of parts and shapings of it and to leave "The long impression" — thus he imaged it — " Of a beauty like the sky's on some rare eve, When glow and shadow, and the luminous change Of perfect-blended yet contrasted dyes, And blueness of the ether, make a oneness Of something higher than the different names We fit to different kinds of beauty hold A meaning for; and we can only feel The soul-deep influence, and cannot scan Sister Annunciata. 5-7 The several parts, nor say 'the best is there' Nor 'I have seen sometimes a richer rose, One morn a purer gold'; nor can retain A perfect presence of it, but retain Mid the deep memories that build up lives, Though out of sight beneath and overlapped By the hiding Present, a long consciousness Of something known beyond mere perfectness." He, prizing me at this, he, knowing me In my true self, and knowing that I loved him, Could he turn patiently to a mere face, A mere most lovely dainty-blossomed face And statue-moulded body — only this ? Nothing to meet him in his higher moods * Nothing to rise with him from the d~'±i round Of the drudging daily self; nothing to hold The overflowings of his deeper soul ; No mind in which to measure his grave thoughts; No thoughts with which to swell them. Could he drop From the proud height of my love to such as hers, Unconscious of the fall and well-content? No : time may have perchance, (tho' for his sake I cannot hope it), levelled down to her 58 Sister Annnnciata. His husband's heart, but that were but the fret And gradual moulding of the many days, And over-mastering custom: she had never That triumph on me. Though my mother once, (Breaking the shadowy twilight where I sat Lest she should see me weep, with flouting light, And the sad quiet of my lonely thoughts With most unwonted icy comforting), Bade me believe, because she had the proofs, Or almost proofs, that Angelo was glad To be compelled to her whom he would call Even in my hearing ' Fairest of the roses' And, though he prized me in a certain sort For the memory of a boyhood's rash first love And out of kindness to my love for him, It was perceived by those who knew him best — Nay more was growing common talk to them — That his fancy for me palled apace and love For the bright Giulia overmastered quite The stress he put to hide it for the sake Of humouring my weakness to the last, And saving me from scorn's deriding finger Sister Annunciata. 59 That mocks the maiden who is true too long. She said it, yes, just in such sudden words, Unwavering : but I, did I believe ? Too much was said; no doubt a little less, An inference, a little sharp-barbed hint Touching my sometimes fears and making them More real to me, might have served the need; But such a tale was idle as the threats Of the outside wind wild-storming in the dark To one who sleeps well-housed. Why, all the more Because he never shrank from giving praise To that most evident beauty though I heard, I knew what worth the pretty plaything's smiles Were counted at in his more earnest moods. She touch his heart ! my very bitterest fears Were that his mere man's fancy might be caught, And harm be done before the cloying came. You did but anger me, proud mother mine, With your pretended soothings. Was it worth, Having queened it for so many frigid years Over your daughters' lives and never once Stooped to a little pet word, or a kiss Beyond the formal seal that stamped receipt 60 Sister Annunciafa. Of our daily homage paid, or just a look To shew you knew what mother-loving meant — Was it worth to come down from your pedestal At the last moment thus to play the part Of a mere common woman softening down Her girl's weak grief at fate inevitable? You could not do it either; for your talk Of sorrow and of sympathy was such As singing might be coming from one deaf But newly learning speech by watching lips. Yet, maybe, at the last she felt some pang, Maybe, altho' she would not change her purpose — Could not perhaps — our uncle has some power I think, beyond advising, in the house He rules with her by such an iron rod, And, once our destinies mapped out by him What human will, what human suffering Could alter them? "We have concluded thus" — Swelling himself in the authority Of priestly greatness and of guardianship ; "We have concluded thus" — and then my mother Would nod assent, and what remained to us His brother's children, hers, but mute submission? Sister Anmmciata. 61 But she, maybe, the parting near, was moved, The mother-heart in her touched thro' the frosts Long custom had clogged round it; or else why Should she at all have tried to mould my will Into content? She might have kept her height Of questionless command: what mattered it If I should fret or no? Thus stood the case: There were too many daughters in our home, Too scanty portioning, and, with a name So high as ours, need was that none should wed But with the other noblest houses : then It must not be that one of the three sons Should be too poor to bear up from the dust The honour of his heirship of long race: And where were dowers for such brides, and where Gold purses for the spending of such sons? At least one dower might be saved, one girl Must choose the cloister. Who but Eva then? Eva • who, wise with fifteen years of life, Had recognized her call to saintly life: Eva who, in her folly of eighteen, Had chosen for herself such a mad match, Impossible, with one even as herself 62 Sister Annunciata. Of an impoverished house, whose princely kin Wise-judging knew the pair must never wed And had a richer bride in hand for him. What mattered it if I said 'yea' or 'nay' 'It likes me' or 'it likes me not'? There stood The argument, could weeping alter it, Or a girl's angers? Why should she have cared To set herself a task so out of wont, Unless she felt some yearning to her child And fain would have me sorrow something less And go from her in peace? Yes, I will think You did mean kindness and the comforting That angered pride might give me in my need. But, mother, had you known a little more Of your child's heart, of any human heart, You would have known what bitter death in life Your words believed would bring me, stabbing me With the last despair of scorning while I loved. And, since you could not fail to recognize Something of your own pride retraced in me, I marvel you saw not how you must rouse Its strength against belief with such a tale. Sister Annunciata. 6$ A meek prompt faith! for the blowing of some breaths Of "thus they say"s to think oneself so slight As to be brushed off like a clinging burr, Shaken into the mud beneath his feet By the man one honoured with one's whole of love ! And more, I marvel that you did not feel " Her Angelo is out of reach of scorn, And she could not believe unless she scorned," And know untried the vainness of your talk. Oh, only love, I never broke my truth By questionings of yours, and you, I know, Had in me that blind trust that was my right — And yet we are apart. Oh ! it is hard ! Has God condemned all love except of Him? Will He have only market marriages Or sprung from passion fancies soon worn out, Lest any two on earth should partly miss The anger and distrust that haunt earth's homes And cease to know there is no calm till death? None for who lives the outside waking life : We are calm here, calm enough. Oh Angelo Why am I here in the ceaseless formal calm That makes the soul swell to one bursting self 64 Sister Annunciata. And seem the whole great universe, the while It only sees itself, learns of itself, Hopes for itself, feeds, preys upon itself And not one call conies to it from without "Think of me too, a little live for me, Take me with thee in growing nearer God"? Why am I — ? Am I mad? Am I mad? I rave Some blasphemy which is not of myself! What is it? Was there a demon here just now By me, within me? Those were not my thoughts Which just were thought or spoken — which was it? Oh not my thoughts, not mine ! All saints of heaven Be for me, answer for me ; I am yours, I am your Master's, how can I be Satan's? I have not lost my soul by the wild words. Not yet, not yet. Oh this was what I feared. The night-watch is a long one and I flag, My head is hot, I feel the fever fire Of weariness before the languor comes. I am left prey to Satan's snares for those Who too much live again the former life Sister Amiunciata. 65 In the dangerous times of unwatched loneliness. He lurks in those retrodden paths, he makes His snaky coils of all these memories, Clogging them round my spirit. Is the work Of long long months, of years, undone in a night? Alas ! the ordeal is too hard for me. I am shut out in the dark ! where is the oil To feed the virgin's lamp? What! are these tears Only of water? They should be of blood Fitter to weep my sin in. I will wait ; I cannot gather those old histories. My mind is wandering. I cannot tell How far I went, nay, if I had begun. I cannot think. But I can weep and pray. Surely I may break thus much the command And yet obey. Oh I may stop to pray And to repent. Oh I may weep and pray, So broken as I am. All saints of Heaven Pray with me, for me, pray or I am lost. I lost ! I lost ! Heaven's mercy on me, lost ! * * # * * * Have I slept ? But no, I think I was in prayer 5 66 Sister Annunciata, The whole time that I knelt — unless indeed A little heavy moment at the last; It is too chill for sleep. How strange and grey The morning glimmers ! What an awful thing, Although one feels not why, the silence is When the new creeping light treads on the dark Like a white mist above it, and beside Its leaden pallor hollow blacknesses Lurk, shifting into limp uncertain shapes. No place so long familiar but it seems Weird and unwonted in such eery hours. I wish my taper could have lingered out Until the yellow dawn. Was that the wind Hissing between the jarring lattice crannies, Or a whispering voice in the room? Hush there again ! Nay 'tis the wind. What voice should come to me? I hear no voices, I ; no visions yet Break on my tranced eyes when I seek God. I have not risen so high ; neither I think Fallen so at Satan's mercy that he dare Front me with open tokens of the watch Which he keeps whensoe'er one of his foes Keeps holy watch alone. Yes, there again ! Sister Aminnciata. 67 It is the rising wind-gust How it moves The shadow of that pine-bough on the wall, Just growing plain-defined upon the square The window makes of light across the room. One might see it like an arm now, finger stretched In a6l to curse — a withered witch-like arm Waving its spells. But then another shadow, The cross from the mullions, lies athwart it there And that is steady. So the cross prevails Over the curse. Nay I am idle now Wasting my vigil time in childish pranks With unloosed fancy. Though I seem too tired To school my wayward thoughts it must be done, They must not wander thus. But this grey glint, Not light nor darkness, but between, like dreams When one has slept and struggles to awake, Unfits one for the real things of thought. I wonder is the spirit-world more near In the mystery of twilight than when day Floods its broad reckless sunlight everywhere. One feels it nearer. In these creeping hours One might so readily, when one had prayed 5—2 68 Sister Ankunciata. With a spiritual passion half the night To have some message sent one, something shown That should reveal one clearly chosen His To glorify Him to the world, be fooled By eager faith and think that in the dusk One saw the longed-for vision, or one knew A voice inborne upon one's soul ; while yet The high revealings were not granted one Found too unworthy still. Sometimes I think For me there is that danger — not to-night, I am so heavy with the weight of sleep Upon my struggling lips — no not to-night; I feel too far from God even to be duped By poor rapt fancy, communing with shadows, Exulting ignorant in the dread deceit Which sets in place of God's most marvellous blessing A mocking and a curse. Yet why a curse? If honour grow to God and nought be falsed Save something in the powers of one poor mind That dreams and is the holier and more glad, What were so much amiss? Why it might be That God works so upon his messengers, Sister Annunciata. 69 Not giving them the visions, as they think, In some true substance, heavenly, made pure From the earth matter, yet left evident To eyes and ears; but giving to their souls A consciousness, nay why not say a dream, Real because He wills, not in itself, Having no outward counterpart ? . And thus — Sometimes I think it, pondering on the lives Of some of those most favoured — they might say " I heard, I saw," and speak Heaven's perfect truth, And yet be dreamers in the human sense. Dreamers ! and I who fear to dream, and pray To be saved, as from a lurking enemy, From my too eager self! But, if 'twere thus That God revealed Himself, what should one think Of keeping guard against one's passioned hopes For fear of self-deceit? Would that be war Against oneself or God? Why, self deceit Would be that God deceived one, would be truth Beyond the truest human yea and nay. It rather seems one should be effortless, A leaf upon the river, or a leaf At the will of the unwarning winds of heaven. 70 Sister Annunciata. Yes, could one, being in a state of grace, Grow vacant of all will and merely wait In a moodless passive lull, what likelier Than that such were the moment to receive The glow spiritual, and that the quick tide Of thoughts and rapt imaginings flooding in Upon the soul upbreaking from its hush Were not one's own, but Heaven's? Needs there voice Heard with the ears, or shape seen with the eyes, Or aught in contact with the body's sense, To make the spirit's high realities? Who knows what visions are? Why should I fear To think I see and see not? If the Lord Be pleased to press upon His handmaid's soul Revealings of His glory, should I urge Our crude material tests and then " If dreams Then these were nothings "'? But such dreams vouchsafed Must be — can I err in thinking this? — God's facts, Beside which all we know by outward proof Were liker nothings, mere clay images To evidence to the lower human life What the divine life in the saint's freed soul Perceives as souls perceive in Heaven. Sister Anminciata. ji And yet Signs outward have been proved : some have been seen By the eyes of many, crowned with marvellous light, Or in their presence lifted from the earth. There have been visible tokens — was there not Our own St Catherine who received the wounds In an awful mystery, bearing them till death? Or could such be a constant vision pressed On the eyes of all who looked ? Yet scarcely that. Still she and such as she would need no proofs; Would know when Heaven was open to them — proofs Are for bystanders; but when lonely saints Unwatched, in still communion with their God, Kneel silently and have forgotten earth, Need the outward sense bear part in ecstasies Sent to the soul or — ? What have I to do With questioning knotty matters hard for me A babe in the faith? The dawn is mellowing A little gold into its leaden lights: My time for retrospect creeps to its end, And I cannot think, although I know I dreamed 72 Sister Annunciate, A something of my old life in the night, That I have met the order given me To the true fullness. Let me try at least Somewhat more like confession of the faults That should be to me in this better state Each a distinct and hated memory. But ah ! it is so hard to summon them ! Would I were not so weary ! Fainting star, Shivering above the strip of presage dawn, Do you tremble at the glory stealing on In which the world will lose you presently? You are like one dying, one who chills and fears While Heaven is closing round to hide his life, He knows not how, with God. Why, it is darked : A little cloud come on it — one might say Death on it, and that when it issues thence It will be flooded with the waiting glory As the saint's soul is. So the martyrs passed — The blackness of an hour of agony, And then the eternal light, the warmth, the love, The triumph ! Ah the second Catherine, Sister Annunciata. 73 Whose painful course I keep before my eyes As one we who live late may still achieve, Has left a sadder wearier history Than the first, the Alexandrian saint's. To live A few short lifeful years made glorious By the open courage daily fronting death, By battle in God's name, and victories On souls fought from false gods, and then to die In the highest victory God has given His own, Die His before the eyes of thousands, die In honour that earth cannot parallel, Nor Heaven itself surpass, die martyr-crowned, The glory of the Church to the end of time, The marvel of the onlooking heathen world ! Yes, that, if in this dull indifferent age That owns the creed and neither makes nor mars But lets the saintship grow in the shade and then Scores it to its own credit, such a life Could find a place and such a death be earned, That were the leadership to follow forth With one's whole will and passion. Not perplexed, I think, would such a stirring conflict be, Like that my slow life wages in the dark: 74 Sister Annunciata. And then the grander ending! Yet the years . Of patient war on sin and the poor flesh, Of the second Catherine, won her ecstasies Not less than tranced the other, and at last She had her meed of honour, and her name Is all I ought — Oh but I am too fond In my aspiring when I say so much — Is more than all I ought to hope for mine Among names everlasting. And why not My name among the holy ones like hers? Can I not fast and pray, tear my scarred flesh, Keep vigils day and night, dim my tired eyes With constant weepings, stint my earthly heart Of its most innocent food and starve it numb With ceaseless self-denial, check my life Even in its holiest vents? What could she more? And I, weak as I am and prone to faint, The fever of young life in the free world So newly passed from me, I do not shrink From the sharpest discipline. These many months, Not always fainting, I have schooled myself Upon her rigorous pattern — God alone Sister Annunciata. 75 Knows with what strained endurance — and the proofs Of my hardwon advance are not withheld. At times I feel my soul borne up to Heaven In holy rapture and I seem to breathe A life that is not earth's : at times a hush Falls on my being and I feel at hand The Holy Presence, feeling nought beside, Dulled to all passing round me : and at times An influence is upon me and the fire Is kindled in my heart and my words break Into exultant praises, bursts of love, Or else in warnings and in passionate pleadings Torn out with sobbings and with eloquence That is not mine and urges me myself Even more than the awed sisters who press round, Weeping and shaken to the very souls, And know not what to think of the strange power That thrills them through and through. The mother says "'Tis a good gift — let it have vent, my child; A blessed gift for bettering your soul And ours;" but I perceive that secretly She holds it more than that. The other day 76 Sister Annimciata. She said — a speech so venturous for her That she must long have weighed it — " Daughter, I know That God has work for one like you to do, Although I know not what : prepare for it : Be patient, but be ready." And I knew A reverence in her voice, as though she spoke To one above her. "God has work" she said. Would it were come ! I hunger for my work, And see none nearer than my coming rule Over this convent, none more glorious Than the restricting some small laxities In the general discipline. A petty task For which to spur oneself. And yet I know not — To carry such a change as I have planned To be, as 'twere, through the new saintly practice The second founder of our sisterhood, Perhaps of our whole order, were this not A work to be remembered, work worth me ? A troubled one perhaps : the better then. More room for zeal for God, and, overcoming, Sister Annicnciata. 77 More to have overcome. Enough to do. The mother, pious as she is, falls short In courage to constrain less pious wills, And wavers at a tear or a chafed look. She is content moreover, sees no lapse In the rigour of our system. 'Twill be mine To bring the stricter laws, to wake the glow Of a new zeal among the sisterhood And fan it into flame, to check the growth Of such self-sparing in the duller sort And baby prattlings and small baby joys In the lighter-natured as we have here now. They must have longer vigils, sharper fasts, Be more alone, have many hours for silence Being together, learn to find their rest, Their pleasure and their converse all in prayer. Our novices must have their freedoms clipped ; They are spared too much at first, and spared too long; They need a separate monitress, less lax, Less pitiful-hearted than the mother is, Yet loving them no less, one I shall choose 7 8 Sister Annunciata. Among those of the sisterhood most true To the new type, one of the saintly band Who, gathering round the flame I shall have lit, Will keep it living and fan on its course Until it soars a beacon to the world, A pure accepted altar-fire to Heaven. I plan and plan, as if in all the years That have to run till then there were not time To fix my. ceaseless purposes in shape, And look not meanwhile how these minutes lose The purpose given them and grow too few. The morning flush has broken on the clouds While I sat blindly watching, and wanes off: The shimmering light is broadening into day : The night is gone — another night laid by | To wait for us in the sepulchre of Time With his dead children that return no more, Until they rise in witness on The Day To show us as we were when they beheld. The night is gone — and I how have I used it? Ah me ! I think, amiss ; but I know not. I call to mind a night-long wilderment Of memories and dreams, and some regrets — Sister Annunciata. 79 I fear me much some semblance of regrets, And a great penitence. Or am I wrong ? Did I fall asleep and dream the penitence ? For how did I so greatly sin? And yet I do not think sleep snared me, for my mind Was all absorbed, and when 'tis thus the body Is triumphed over. Then I dimly know Some deep mysterious moments — as if then — How was it? Nay I have forgotten all; It is but like recalling waking dreams After a slumbrous night has dropped on them. But this I think, I cannot cross myself And say " I have performed the allotted task," And take the innocent hour of sleep allowed Before the matin chime. I have not used The sharp assaying meant, but in the place Of pitiless self-rebuke and searchings out Have dreamed, I know not what, a misty world Of shapeless thoughts that stand like new-made ghosts Between the dead and living. Is there time? I must redeem the time. Go, tempting sleep : My rest shall be to earn rest for my conscience. 8o Sister Annunciata. How the day brightens on ! " My ancient life With all its sins and follies." Well I set That which for over-long was my all life First on the roll. " My folly and my sin " What else, since for so long it darkened Heaven Out from my tear-blurred sight ? But dwelling on it Even now comes nearer sin than penitence. Let the poor love-tale go ! Oh never more Let the treacherous memory stir me; it was that That broke my calm last night and — Let it be, Oh idle heart ! Why wilt thou tempt thyself? The dead wasp stings lying in the faded rose When the chills have killed them both — Let the wasp rot : No need to risk a sudden hand to crush it. Let the rose rot too, though its last breath be sweet, Let it drop into the hiding mould-heaps dead With the dead burden that is danger in it. And so, the dead love reckoned, what stands next? Ah the long haunting voice that called my sin Sister Annunciata. 81 Of taking back the life once meant for God So darkly, deadly, near — that only hope Called it not quite — the sin against the Spirit! No, that, the horror of so many months, Had been the foremost,- worst, the all, to reckon, Hiding all others in its