WATER, /or anguish of the solstice : — nay. 
 But dip tke vessel slowlj; — ttaj', but lean 
 And bark bow at its verge the wave sighs in 
 Reluctant. Htisb ! Beyond all depth away 
 The beat lies silent at the brink of day : 
 Now the band trails upon the viol-string 
 That sobs, and the brown faces cease to sing, 
 Sad with the whole of pleasure. IVbitber stray 
 Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim pipes creep 
 And leave it pouting, while the shadowed grass 
 Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — 
 Say nothing now unto her lest she weep. 
 Nor name this ever. Be it as it was, — 
 Life touching lips with Immortality. 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 A LITTLE BOOK OF POEMS 
 SELECTED FROM THE 
 WORKS OF 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 
 
 BOSTON, MASS. 
 
 WILLIAM G. COLESWORTHY 
 
 1896 
 

 Four Hundred Fifty Copies. 
 This is >lo./.l£ 
 
 13 3 oo 
 '0} 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The White Ship .... 9 
 
 The Blessed Damozel . . 21 
 
 Eden Bower 26 
 
 Sister Helen .... 33 
 
 Chimes 42 
 
 Soothsay 45 
 
 A Little While .... 48 
 
 Love's Nocturn .... 49 
 
 Troy Town 54 
 
 The Burden of Nineveh . . 57 
 
 The Song of the Bower . . 63 
 
 Jenny 65 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Stratton Water . 
 
 77 
 
 The Stream's Secret . 
 
 • 83 
 
 The Card Dealer 
 
 91 
 
 Mv Sister's Sleep 
 
 93 
 
The White Ship 
 
THE WHITE SHIP. 
 
 HENRY I. OF ENGLAND. 
 25TH NOVEMBER 1 1 20. 
 
 BY none but me can the tale be told. 
 The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 
 (Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.) 
 ' Twas a royal train put forth to sea, 
 Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 
 (The sea hath no King but God alone.) 
 
 King Henry held it as life's uhole gain 
 That after his death his son should reign. 
 
 ' Twas so in my youth I heard men say, 
 And my old age calls it back to-day. 
 
 King Henry of England's realm was be, 
 t^nd Henry Duke of Normandy. 
 
 The times bad changed when on either coast 
 " Clerkly Harry " was all his boast. 
 
 Of ruthless strokes full many an one 
 
 He had struck to crown himself and his son ; 
 
 And bis elder brother's eyes were gone. 
 
 t/Jnd when to the chase his court would crowd, 
 
 The poor flung ploughshares on his road, 
 
 t/Jnd shrieked : " Our cry is from King to God! ' 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 "But all the chiefs of the English land 
 Had knelt and kissed the Princess hand. 
 
 tAnd next with his son he sailed to France 
 To claim the Norman allegiance : 
 
 tAnd every baron in Normandy 
 Had taken the oath of fealty. 
 
 ' Twas sworn and sealed, and the dqv had come 
 IVhen the King and the Prince might journey home : 
 
 For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear, 
 And Christmas now was drawing near. 
 
 Stout Fit^-Stephen came to the King, — 
 A pilot famous in seafaring ; 
 
 tAnd he held to the King, in all men's sight, 
 (A mark of gold for his tribute's right. 
 
 "Liege Lord! my father guided the ship 
 From whose boat your father' s foot did slip 
 IV hen he caught the English soil in his grip, 
 
 " And cried : ' 'By this clasp I claim command 
 O'er every rood of English land!' 
 
 "He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now 
 In that ship with the archer carved at her prow : 
 
 " (And thither I'll bear, an it be my due, 
 Your father's son and his grandson too. 
 
 " The famed White Ship is mine in the bay. 
 From Harfleur's harbour she sails to-day, ' 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 " IVitb masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears 
 KAnd with fifty well-tried mariners." 
 
 Quoth the King : " My ships are chosen each one, 
 But ni not say nay to Stephen's son. 
 
 " CMy son and daughter and fellowship 
 Shall cross the water in the IVhite Ship." 
 
 The King set sail with the eve's south wind, 
 And soon he left that coast behind. 
 
 The Prince and all his, a princely show, 
 T^emained in the good IVhite Ship to go. 
 
 IVith noble knights and with ladies fair, 
 IVith courtiers and sailors gathered there, 
 Three hundred living souls we were : 
 
 And I Berold was the meanest hind 
 In all that train to the Prince assigned. 
 
 The Pritice was a lawless shameless youth ; 
 From his father's loins he sprang without ruth : 
 
 Eighteen years till then he had seen, 
 And the devil's dues in him were eighteen. 
 
 (And now he cried : " Bring wine from below ; 
 Let the sailors revel ere yet they row : 
 
 " Our speed shall overtake my father's JJight 
 Though we sail from the harbour at midnight." 
 
 The rozvers made good cheer without check ; 
 
 The lords and ladies obeyed his beck ; 
 
 The night was light, and they danced on the deck. 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 "But at midnight's stroke tbej> cleared the bay, 
 And the IVhite Ship furrowed the water-way. 
 
 The sails were set, and the oars kept tune 
 
 To the double flight of the ship and the moon : 
 
 Swifter and swifter the IVhite Ship sped 
 Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead: 
 
 As white as a lily glimmered she 
 Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea. 
 
 And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing! 
 Is a songbird's course so swift on the wing?" 
 
 t/Ind under the winter stars' still throng. 
 
 From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, 
 
 The knights and the ladies raised a song. 
 
 A song, — nay, a shriek that rent the sky. 
 That leaped o'er the deep! — the grievous cry 
 Of three hundred living that now must die. 
 
 tAn instant shriek that sprang to the shock 
 (As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock. 
 
 ' Tis said that afar — a shrill strange sigh — 
 The King's ships heard it and knew not why. 
 
 "Pale Fit^-Stephen stood by the helm 
 
 '(Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm. 
 
 tA great King's heir for the waves to whelm, 
 (And the helpless pilot pale at the helm ! 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 The ship was eager and sucked athirst. 
 
 By the stealthjy stab of the sharp reef pierc" d : 
 
 And like the moil round a sinking cup, 
 The waters against her crowded up. 
 
 A moment the pilot's senses spin, — 
 
 The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din. 
 
 Cut the boat loose, and thej>outh leaped in. 
 
 A few friends leaped with him, standing near. 
 "Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!" 
 
 " IVbat ! none to be saved but these and I?" 
 " Row, row asjyou'd live ! All here must die / " 
 
 Out of the churn of the choking ship, 
 IVhicb the gulf grapples and the waves strip, 
 Thej> struck with the strained oars' flash and dip. 
 
 ' Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim 
 The Prince's sister screamed to him. 
 
 He ga^ed aloft, still rowing apace. 
 
 And through the whirled surf he knew her face. 
 
 To the toppling decks clave one and all 
 tAs a fly cleaves to a chamber-wall. 
 
 I Berold was clinging anear ; 
 
 I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, 
 
 "But I saw his eyes as he looked at her. 
 
 He knew her face and he beard her cry, 
 And he said, " Put back ! she must not die!" 
 
 13 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 j4nd back with the current's force they reel 
 Like a leaf that's drawn to a water-wheel. 
 
 'Neath the ship's travail the_y scarce might float. 
 But he rose and stood in the rocking boat. 
 
 Low the poor ship leaned on the tide : 
 O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, 
 The sister toiled to the brother's side. 
 
 He reached an oar to her from below, 
 And stiffened bis arms to clutch her so. 
 
 "But now from the ship some spied the boat, 
 And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat. 
 
 And down to the boat thej> leaped and fell : 
 
 It turned as a bucket turns in a well. 
 
 And nothing was there but the surge and swell. 
 
 The Prince that was and the King to come, 
 There in an instant gone to his doom, 
 
 TDespite of all England's bended knee 
 And maugre the Norman fealty ! 
 
 He was a Prince of lust and pride ; 
 He showed no grace till the hour he died. 
 
 IVhen he should be King, he oft would vow, 
 He'd yoke the peasant to his own plough. 
 O'er bim the ships score their furrows now. 
 
 God only knows where bis soul did wake, 
 "But I saw him die for his sister's sake. 
 
 14 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 'By none but me can the tale he told, 
 The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 
 
 (Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.) 
 ' Twas a royal train put forth to sea, 
 Yet the tale can be told bj' none but me. 
 
 (The sea hath no King but God alone.) 
 
 yind now the end came o'er the waters' womb 
 Like the last great Daj> that's yet to come. 
 
 H'^ith prayers in vain and curses in vain. 
 The JVhite Ship sundered on the mid-main : 
 
 And what were men and what was a ship 
 Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip. 
 
 I Berold was down in the sea ; 
 
 t/!nd passing strange though the thing may be. 
 
 Of dreams then known I remember me. 
 
 "Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand 
 [Vhen morning lights the sails to land : 
 
 t/Ind blithe is Hon/Jeur's echoing gloam 
 IVhen mothers call the children home : 
 
 And high do the bells of Rouen beat 
 
 IVhen the Body of Christ goes down the street. 
 
 These things and the like were heard and shown 
 In a moment's trance 'neath the sea atone : 
 
 And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem, 
 And not these things, to be all a dream. 
 
 IS 
 
THE WHITK -SHIP 
 
 The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, 
 y4ud the deep shuddered and the moon shone, 
 
 /Ind in a strait grasp mj> arms did span 
 
 The mainjiard rent from the mast where it ran ; 
 
 And on it with me was another man. 
 
 IVbere lands were none 'neatb the dim sea-sky. 
 We told our names, that man and I. 
 
 " O I am God^/rqv de V/ligle higbt, 
 t^nd son I am to a belted knight.^' 
 
 " t/lnd I am Berold the butcher's son 
 Who slaj's the beasts in Rouen town." 
 
 Then cried we upon God's name, as we 
 Th'd drift on the bitter winter sea. 
 
 "But lo ! a third man rose o'er the wave, 
 
 t/lnd we said, " Thank God.' us three may He save!" 
 
 He clutched to thej'ard with panting stare. 
 And we looked and knew Fit ^-Stephen there. 
 
 He clung, and " What of the Prince?" quoth he. 
 "Lost, lost .'" we cried. He cried, " Woe on me .' " 
 And loosed his hold and sank through the sea. 
 
 And soul with soul again in that space 
 We two were together face to face: 
 
 (And each knew each, as the moments sped, 
 Less for one living than for one dead: 
 
 i6 
 
THE WHITF, SHIP 
 
 t/Ind every still star overhead 
 
 Seemed an eye that knew we were hut dead. 
 
 And the hours passed; till the noble's son 
 
 Sighed, " God be thy help! my strength' s foredone ! 
 
 " O farewell, friend, for I can no more!'' 
 
 '^Christ take thee!" I moaned; and bis life was o'er. 
 
 Three hundred souls were all lost but one, 
 And I drifted over the sea alone. 
 
 At last the morning rose on the sea 
 
 Like an angel's wing that beat tow'rds me. 
 
 Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat ; 
 Half dead I hung, and might nothing note. 
 Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher-boat. 
 
 The sun was high o'er the eastern brim 
 As I praised God and gave thanks to Him. 
 
 That day I told my tale to a priest, 
 
 IVho charged me, till the shrift were releas'd. 
 
 That I should keep it in mine own breast. 
 
 And with the priest I thence did fare 
 To King Henry's court at IVincbester. 
 
 We spoke with the King's high chamberlain. 
 And he wept and mourned again and again. 
 As if his own son had been slain : 
 
 i/Jnd round us ever there crowded fast 
 Great men with faces all aghast : 
 
 17 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 And who so hold that might tell the thing 
 IVbicb now thev knew to their lord the King ? 
 Much woe I learnt in their communing. 
 
 The King bad watched with a heart sore stirred 
 For two whole daj>s, and this was the third: 
 
 And still to all his court would he say, 
 " IVbat keeps mj> son so long awaj> ? " 
 
 t/Ind thej> said : " The ports lie far and wide 
 That skirt the swell of the English tide ; 
 
 " ^nd England's cliffs are not more white 
 Than ber women are, and scarce so light 
 Her skies as their ejyes are blue and bright ; 
 
 " tAnd in some port that he reached from France 
 The Prince has lingered for his pleasaiince." 
 
 "But once the King asked : " IVhat distant crj> 
 IV as that we heard 'twixt the sea and skv?" 
 
 And one said: " fVitb suchlike shouts, pardie ! 
 
 T>o the fishers fling their nets at sea^ 
 
 And one : " IVbo knows not the shrieking quest 
 When the sea-nwu' misses its voung from the nest?" 
 
 ' Twas thus till now they bad soothed his dread, 
 lAlbeit they knew not what tbej> said : 
 
 But who should speak to-day of the thing 
 That all knew there except the King ? 
 
 i8 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 Then pondering much they found a way, 
 (/Ind met round the King's high seat that day : 
 
 And the King sat with a heart sore stirred, 
 And seldom he spoke and seldom heard. 
 
 ' Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware 
 Of a little boy with golden hair. 
 
 As bright as the golden poppy is 
 
 That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss : 
 
 Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in Spring, 
 And his garb black like the raven's wing. 
 
 Nothing beard but bis foot through the ball. 
 For now the lords were silent all. 
 
 And the King wondered, and said, " Alack ! 
 IVho sends me a fair boy dressed in black ? 
 
 " IVhy, sweet heart, do you pace through the ball 
 t/ls though my court were a funeral ?" 
 
 Then lowly knelt the child at the dais. 
 And looked up weeping in the King's face. 
 
 " O wherefore black, O King,ye may say. 
 For white is the hue of death to-day. 
 
 " Your son and all his fellowship 
 
 Lie low in the sea 7vitb the IVhite Ship." 
 
 King Henry fell as a man struck dead; 
 And speechless still he stared from his bed 
 IVhen to him next dav my rede I read. 
 
 19 
 
THE WHITE SHIP 
 
 There's ntanv Jit hour uiiist iuu\h brs[iulf 
 A King's high brart that be should snrt'li-, — 
 
 Full lujuv a lordly hour, full fain 
 
 Of his rt'jlin's rule and pride of his reign: — 
 
 But this h'ifig never smiled again. 
 
 Bv none but me can the tale be told. 
 The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 
 
 (Lands are swayed by a King on a throne.) 
 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea. 
 Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 
 
 (The sea hath no King but God alone.) 
 
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 
 
 THE blessed damage I leaned out 
 From the gold bar of Heaven ; 
 Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
 
 Of waters stilled at even ; 
 She had three lilies in her hand. 
 
 And the stars in her hair were seven. 
 
 Her robe, tmgirt from clasp to hem, 
 No wrought /lowers did adorn, 
 
 "But a white rose of Marys gift. 
 For service meetl_y worn; 
 
 Her hair that lay along her back 
 tVas yellow like ripe corn. 
 
 Herseemed she scarce had been a day 
 
 One of God's choristers ; 
 The wonder was not yet quite gone 
 
 From that still look of hers ; 
 Albeit, to them she left, her day 
 
 Had counted as ten years. 
 
 (To one, it is ten years of years. 
 
 . . . Yet now, and in this place. 
 Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 
 
 Fell all about my face. . . . 
 Nothing : the autumn-fall of leaves. 
 
 The whole year sets apace.) 
 
 It was the rampart of God's bouse 
 That she was standing on ; 
 
TlIK BLESSED PAMOZEL 
 
 Br God built ovtr the sheer depth 
 
 The which is Spare begun ; 
 So high, that looking downward thence 
 
 She scarce could see the sun. 
 
 It ties in Heaven, across the flood 
 
 Of ether, as a bridge. 
 'Heneath, the tides of dar and night 
 
 IVith flame and darkness ridge 
 The -coid, as low as where this earth 
 
 Spins like a fretful nudge. 
 
 Around her, lovers, newlv wet 
 
 'Mid deathless lo'ce's acclaims. 
 Spoke tTcrniore among themselves 
 
 Their heart-remembered names ; 
 And the souls mounting up to God 
 
 Went by her like thin flames. 
 
 And still she bowed herself and stooped 
 
 Out of the circling charm ; 
 Until her bosom nuist have made 
 
 The bar she leaned on warm, 
 And the lilies lar as if asleep 
 
 Along her bended arm. 
 
 From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 
 
 Time like a pulse shake flerce 
 Through all the worlds. Her ga^e still stro'L 
 
 lyithin the gulf to pierce 
 Its path ; and now she spoke as when 
 
 The stars sang in their .'ipheres. 
 
 The sun was gone new ; the curled moon 
 
 H^'as like a little feather 
 Fluttering far diKcn the gulf; and nou 
 
 She .^pokc through the still weather. 
 
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 
 
 Her voice was like the voice the stars 
 Had when tbej> sang together. 
 
 (Ah sweet ! Even now, in that bird's song, 
 
 Strove not her accents there, 
 Fain to be hearkened ? IVben those bells 
 
 "Possessed the mid-day air, 
 Strove not her steps to reach tnjy side 
 
 Down all the echoing stair ? ) 
 
 " / wish that he were come to me. 
 
 For he will come,'' she said. 
 " Have I not prayed in Heaven? — on earth, 
 
 Lord, Lord, has he not pray' d? 
 Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 
 
 And shall I feel afraid ? 
 
 " H^hen round his head the aureole clings. 
 
 And he is clothed in white, 
 I'll take his hand and go with him 
 
 To the deep wells of light ; 
 As unto a stream we will step down. 
 
 And bathe there in God's sight. 
 
 " IVe two will stand beside that shrine. 
 
 Occult, withheld, untrod, 
 IVhose lamps are stirred continually' 
 
 IVith prayer sent up to God; 
 And see our old prayers, granted, melt 
 
 Each like a little cloud. 
 
 " IV e two will lie i' the shadow of 
 
 That living niystic tree 
 IVithin whose secret growth the Dove 
 
 Is sometimes felt to be, 
 While every leaf that His plumes touch 
 
 Saith His Name audibly. 
 
 23 
 
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 
 
 " And I myself will teach to him, 
 
 I myself, lying so. 
 The songs I sing here ; which his voice 
 
 Shall pause in, hushed and slow. 
 And find some knowledge at each pause, 
 
 Or some new thing to know." 
 
 (Alas ! We two, we two, thou say'st ! 
 
 Yea, one wast thou with me 
 That once of old. But shall God lift 
 
 To endless unity 
 The soul whose likeness with thy soul 
 
 Was but its love for thee ? ) 
 
 " We two," she said, "will seek the groves 
 
 Where the lady Mary is. 
 With her five handmaidens, whose names 
 
 Are five sweet symphonies, 
 Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 
 
 Margaret and Rosalys. 
 
 " Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 
 
 A nd foreheads garlanded; 
 Into the fine cloth white like fi a me 
 
 Weaving the golden thread. 
 To fashion the birth-robes for them 
 
 Who are just born, being dead. 
 
 "He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: 
 
 Then will I lay my cheek 
 To his, and tell about our love, 
 
 U^ot once abashed or weak : 
 And the dear Mother will approve 
 
 My pride, and let me speak. 
 
 " Herself shall bring us, hand in hand. 
 To Him round whom all souls 
 
 24 
 
\ 
 
 THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 
 
 Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads 
 
 'Bowed with their aureoles : 
 And angels meeting us shall sing 
 
 To their citherns and citoles. 
 
 " There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
 Thus much for him and me : — 
 
 Onlj' to live as once cm earth 
 IVith Love, — only to be, 
 
 As then awhile, for ever now 
 Together, I and he J' 
 
 She ga^ed and listened and then said. 
 Less sad of speech than mild, — 
 
 ^^ All this is when be comes.^' She ceased. 
 The light thrilled towards her, fill' d 
 
 IVith angels in strong level flight. 
 Her ejyes prayed, and she smil'd. 
 
 (/ saw her smile.) But soon their path 
 IVas vague in distant spheres : 
 
 And then she cast her arms along 
 The golden barriers. 
 
 And laid her face between her hands, 
 And wept. (I beard her tears.) 
 
 25 
 
EDEN BOWER. 
 
 IT was Lilitb the wife of Adam : 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Not a drop of her blood was human. 
 But she was made like a soft sweet woman, 
 
 Lilitb stood on the skirts of Eden ; 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 She was the first that thence was driven; 
 IVith her was hell and with Eve was heaven. 
 
 In the ear of the Snake said Lilitb : — 
 
 (Smg Eden Bower!) 
 " To thee I come when the rest is over ; 
 A snake was I when thou wast my lover. 
 
 " / was the fairest snake in Eden : 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Bf the earth's will, new form and feature 
 Made me a wife for the earth's new creature 
 
 " Take me thou as I come from Adam : 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Once again shall my love subdue thee ; 
 The past is past and I am come to thee. 
 
 " O but Adam was tl^rall to Lilitb ! 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 All the threads of my hair are golden, 
 And there in a tut his heart was bolden. 
 
 26 
 
EDEN BOWER 
 
 " O and Lilitb was queen of Adam ! 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 All the day and the night together 
 Mjy breath could shake his soul like a feather. 
 
 " IVhat great joys had Adam and Lilith ! — 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Sweet close rings of the serpent's twining. 
 As heart in heart lay sighing and pining. 
 
 " IVhat bright babes had Lilith and Adam ! — 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Shapes that coiled in the woods and waters, 
 Glittering sons and radiant daughters. 
 
 " O thou God, the Lord God of 'Eden ! 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Say, was this fair body for no man. 
 That of Adam's flesh thou mak'st him a woman ? 
 
 "O thou Snake, the King-snake of Eden! 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 God's strong will our necks are tinder. 
 But thou and I may cleave it in sunder. 
 
 "Help, sweet Snake, sweet lover of Lilith! 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 And let God learn how I loved and hated 
 Man in the image of God created. 
 
 " Help me once against Eve and Adam ! 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Help me once for this one endeavour, 
 And then my love shall be thine for ever ! 
 
 "Strong is God, the fell foe of Lilith : 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Nought in heaven or earth may affright Him ; 
 But join thou with me and we will smite Him. 
 
 27 
 
EDEN KOWER 
 
 " Strong is God, the great God of Eden : 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Over all He made He batb power ; 
 But lend nie tbou tky shape for an hour! 
 
 " Lend tby shape for the love of Lilitb ! 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Look, nir mouth and mv cheek are ruddy, 
 And thou art cold, and fire is my body. 
 
 "Lend tby shape for the bate of ^4 dam! 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 That be mar wail my Joy that forsook bim. 
 And curse the day when the bride-sleep took bim. 
 
 " Lend tby shape for the sbanu of Ed^n ! 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Is not the foe-God weak as the foeman 
 IVbrn love grows bate in the heart of a womati ? 
 
 " IVouldst tbou know the heart's hope of L<lith? 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Then bring thou close thine head till it glisten 
 Along my breast, and lip me and listen. 
 
 " Am I sweet, O sweet Sttak^ of Ede-n ? 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Then ope tbine ear to my warm mouth's cooing 
 And learn what deed remains for our doing. 
 
 " Tbou didst hear when God said to Adam : — 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower !) 
 'Of all this wealth I have made thee warcUn; 
 Thou' rt free to eat of the trees of the garden : 
 
 " ' Only of one tree eat not in Edm ; 
 (Alas the hour I) 
 All save otu I give to tby freexeill, — 
 The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.' 
 
 Sft 
 
EOEN UOWKR 
 
 " O nvy love, come nearer to l.ilUh ! 
 
 (Sinjij PIden Howcr!) 
 In Ihv sweet J olds hind nic and hcnd nie, 
 &nd let me feel the shape thou shall lend me! 
 
 " In ihv shape I'll go hack to Rden ; 
 (Alas the hour I) 
 In these coils that Tree will I grapple. 
 And stretch this crowned head forth by the apple. 
 
 " I.o, Hve hends to the breath of l.ilith ! 
 
 (Siiif^ Ivluii liower I) 
 O how then shall niv heart desire 
 All her blood as food to its fire ! 
 
 " Lo, Eve hends to the words of l.ilith ! — 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 'Nay, this Tree's fruit, — why should ye hate it, 
 Or Death he horn the day that ve ate it ? 
 
 " ' Nay, but on that great day in Rden, 
 
 (Sing lulen liower!) 
 By the help that in this wise Tree is, 
 God knows well ye shall be as He is.' 
 
 " Then Rve shall eat and give unto Adam ; 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 And then they both shall know they are naked, 
 And their hearts ache as my heart hath acbid. 
 
 " Ay, let them hide 'mid the trees of Eden, 
 
 (Sing Eden Hower!) 
 As in the cool of the day in the garden 
 God shall walk without pity or pardon. 
 
 " Hear, thou Eve, the man's heart in Adam ! 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Of his brave words hark to the bravest : — 
 ' This the woman gave that thou gavest.' 
 
 «9 
 
EDEN BOWER 
 
 ''Hear Eve speak, jyea list to her, Lilith! 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Feast thine heart with words that shall sate it — 
 ' This the serpent gave and I ate it' 
 
 " O proud Eve, cling close to thine Adam, 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Driven forth as the beasts of his naming 
 By the sword that for ever is flaming. 
 
 "Know, thy path is known unto Lilith! 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 IVhile the blithe birds sang at thy wedding. 
 There her tears grew thorns for thy treading. 
 
 " O my love, thou Love-snake of Eden! 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 
 to-day and the day to come after ! 
 
 Loose me, love, — give breath to my laughter. 
 
 " O bright Snake, the Death-worm of Adam! 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 IVreathe thy neck with my hair's bright tether, 
 And wear my gold and thy gold together ! 
 
 " On that day on the skirts of Eden, 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 In thy shape shall I glide back to thee, 
 And in my shape for an instant view thee. 
 
 ''But when thou'rt thou and Lilith is Lilith, 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 In what bliss past hearing or seeing 
 Shall each one drink of the other's being! 
 
 " IVith cries of ' Eve ! ' and ' Eden ! ' and ' Adam ! ' 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 How shall we mingle our love's caresses, 
 
 1 in thy coils, and thou in my tresses ! 
 
 30 
 
EDEN BOWER 
 
 " IVith those names, ye echoes of Eden, 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower !) 
 Fire shall cry from my heart that hurneth, — 
 ' Dust he is and to dust returnetb ! ' 
 
 " Yet to-day, thou master of Lilitb, — 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 IVrap me round in the form III borrow 
 And let me tell thee of sweet to-morrow. 
 
 " In the planted garden eastward in Edin, 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Where the river goes forth to water the garden. 
 The springs shall dry and the soil shall harden. 
 
 " Yea, where the bride-sleep fell upon Adam, 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 hlone shall bear when the storm-wind whistles 
 Through roses choked among thorns and thistles. 
 
 " Yea, beside the east-gate of Eden, 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower !) 
 IVhere God joined them and none might sever. 
 The sword turns this way and that for ever. 
 
 " IVhat of Adam cast out of Eden ? 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Lo ! with care like a shadow shaken. 
 He tills the bard earth whence he was taken. 
 
 " IVhat of Eve too, cast out of Eden ? 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 Nay, but she, the bride of God's giving, 
 Must yet be mother of all men living. 
 
 " Lo, God's grace, bv the grace of Lilith! 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 To Eve's womb, from our sweet to-morrow, 
 God shall greatly multiply sorrow. 
 
 31 
 
EDEN BOWER 
 
 " Fold me fast, O God-snake of Eden! 
 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 JVhat more pri^e than love to impel thee ? 
 Grip and lip mj> limbs as I tell thee ! 
 
 "Lo! two babes for Eve and for Adam! 
 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 Lo ! sweet Snake, the travail and treasure, — 
 Two men-children born for their pleasure ! 
 
 " The first is Cain and the second Abel : 
 (Sing Eden Bower!) 
 The soul of one shall be made thy brother. 
 And thjf tongue shall lap the blood of the other. 
 (Alas the hour!) 
 
 3a 
 
SISTER HELEN. 
 
 Wf HY didjyoti meUjyour waxen man, 
 " ' Sister Helen ? 
 
 To-dqp is the third since j>ou began." 
 " The time was long,yet the time ran. 
 Little brother:' 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " But if you have done your work aright. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 You'll let me play, for you said I might." 
 " Be very still in your play to-night. 
 
 Little Brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " You said it must melt ere vesper-bell. 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 If now it be molten, all is well." 
 " Even so, — nay, peace! you cannot tell, 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 O what is this, between Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 " Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day. 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 How like dead folk he has dropped away !" 
 " Nay now, of the dead what can you say, 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 33 
 
SISTER HELEN 
 
 ''See, see, the sunken pile of wood. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!" 
 " Na_y now, when looked jyotij>et on blood, 
 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " Now close your eyes, for they^re sick and sore. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And r II play without the gallery door." 
 "Aye, let me rest, — 77/ lie on the floor. 
 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?) 
 
 " Here high up in the balcony. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 The moon flies face to face with me." 
 " Aye, look and say whatever you see. 
 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 " Outside it's merry in the wind's wake. 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 In the shaken trees the chill stars shake." 
 "Hush, heardyou a horse-tread as you spake. 
 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 " / hear a horse-tread, and I see, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 Three horsemen that ride terribly." 
 " Little brother, wbeiue come the three, 
 
 Little brother ?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?) 
 
 34 
 
SISTER HELEN 
 
 " They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And one draws nigh, but two are afar.''' 
 "Look, look, do you know them who thej> are. 
 
 Little brother}''' 
 (O Mother. Mary Mother, 
 Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?) 
 
 " Oh, ifs Keith of Eastbolm rides so fast, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 For I know the white mane on the blast." 
 " The hour has come, has come at last. 
 
 Little brother .'" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " He has made a sign and called " Halloo! 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 tAnd he says that he would speak with you." 
 " Oh tell him I fear the frozen dew. 
 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?) 
 
 " The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 That Keith of Ewern's like to die." 
 " And he and thou, and thou and I, 
 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 And they and we, between Hell and Heaven 1) 
 
 " Three days ago, on his marriage-morn. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 He sickened, and lies since then forlorn." 
 " For bridegroom' s side is the bride a thorn. 
 
 Little brother ?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven I) 
 
 35 
 
SISTER HELEN 
 
 " Three days and nights be has lain abed. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And he prays in torment to be dead." 
 " The thing may chance, if he have prayed, 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 If he have prayed, between Hell and Heaven I) 
 
 " But he has not ceased to crjy to-daj>, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 Thatyou should takejyour curse away." 
 " My prayer was heard, — he need but prajy. 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 "But he says, tillj>ou take backjyour ban, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 His soul would pass, yet never can. " 
 " Nay then, shall I slay a living man. 
 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 A living soul, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 "But he calls for ever on your name. 
 Sister Helen, 
 
 And says that he melts before aflame." 
 
 "My heart for his pleasure fared the same. 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 
 Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 "Here's Keith of IVestholm riding fast. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 For I know the white plume on the blast." 
 " The hour, the sweet hour I forecast. 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 36 
 
SISTER HELEN 
 
 "He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 But his words are drowned in the wind's course'^ 
 "■'Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce. 
 Little brother !" 
 (O Mother Mary Mother, 
 What word now heard, between Hell and Heaven 1) 
 
 "Oh he says that Keith of Ewern's cry, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 Is ever to see you ere he die." 
 " In all that bis soul sees, there am I, 
 
 Little brother !" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 The soul's one sight, between Hell and Heaven!) 
 
 " He sends a ring and a broken coin, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And bids vou mind the banks of BoyneT 
 " What else he broke will he ever join. 
 
 Little brother }''' 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven 1) 
 
 " He yields you these and craves full fain. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 You pardon him in his mortal pain." 
 " IVhat else he took will he give again. 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " He calls your name in an agony. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 That even dead Love must weep to see." 
 " Hate, born of Love, is blind as he. 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 yj 
 
SISTER HELEN 
 
 " Ob ifs Keith of Keith now that ridisfast, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 For 1 know the white hair on the blast." 
 " The short short hour will soon be past, 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!) 
 
 " He looks at me and he tries to speak, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 But oh ! his voice is sad and weak ! " 
 " IVhat here should the nugh(v Baron seek, 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?) 
 
 " Oh his son still cries, if you forgive. 
 Sister Helen, 
 
 The body dies but the soul shall live." 
 
 " Fire shall forgive me as 1 forgive, 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 
 As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " Oh be prays vou, as his heart would rive. 
 Sister Helen, 
 
 To save bis dear son's soul alive." 
 
 "Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive. 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 
 Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!) 
 
 " He cries to you, kneeling in the road, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 To go with him for the love of God!" 
 " The way is long to bis son's abode. 
 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 The way is long, between Hell and Heaven!) 
 
 38 
 
SISTER HELEN 
 
 "tA lady's here, by a dark steed brought, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 So darkly clad, I saw her not." 
 " See her now or never see aught, 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?) 
 
 "Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair" 
 " Blest hour of my power and her despair, 
 
 Little brother !" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Hour blest and hann'd, between Hell and Heaven I) 
 
 " Pale, pale her cheeks that in pride did glow. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago." 
 " One morn for pride and three days for woe. 
 
 Little brother !" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head. 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 IVith the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed." 
 " IVhat wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed. 
 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 "She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon, 
 
 Sister Helen, — 
 She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." 
 " Oh ! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune, 
 
 Little brother!" 
 {() Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Her woe's dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!) 
 
 39 
 
SISTER HELEN 
 
 " Theyve caught her to iVestholm^s saddle-bovu 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow. ^^ 
 " Let it turn whiter than winter snow, 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " O Sister Helen, j'on heard the bell, 
 
 Sister Helen ! 
 More loud than the vesper-chime it fell." 
 " No vesper-chime, but a dj'ing knell. 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mdther, 
 His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!) 
 
 " t/llas ! but I fear the heavy sound, 
 
 Sister Helen; 
 Is it in the skv or in the ground?" 
 " Say, have they turned their horses round. 
 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What would she more, between Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 " They have raised the old man from his knee, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And they ride in silence hastily." 
 " More fast the naked soul doth flee. 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 "Flank to flank are the three steeds gone, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 But the lady's dark steed goes alone." 
 "And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown. 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 40 
 
SISTER HELEN 
 
 " Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill, 
 Sister Helen, 
 tJlnd wearjy sad they look by the hill." 
 " But be and I are sadder still. 
 
 Little brother!'''' 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Most sad of all, between Hell and Heaven I) 
 
 ''See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And the flames are winning up apace!'" 
 " Yet here they burn but for a space. 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " Ah ! what white thing at the door has cross" d. 
 
 Sister Helen ? 
 Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost ?" 
 " A soul that's lost as wine is lost, 
 
 Little brother!" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Lost, lost, all lost, between Hell and Heaven I) 
 
 41 
 
CHIMES. 
 
 H 
 
 ONEY-FLOWERS to tie botuy-comb 
 And the boney-hei s from home. 
 
 A honey-comh and a honey-flower. 
 And the bee shall have his hour. 
 
 A honeyed heart for the honev-comb, 
 And the humming bee flies home. 
 
 A heavy heart in the honey-flower, 
 And the bee has had his hour. 
 
 tA honey cell's in the honeysuckle, 
 tAnd the botuy-bee knows it well. 
 
 The honey-comb has a heart of honey. 
 And the humming bee's so bonny. 
 
 A honey-flower' s the honeysuckle. 
 And the bee's in the homy-bell. 
 
 The honeysuckle is sucked of honey, 
 And the bee is heavy and bonny. 
 
 42 
 
III. 
 
 Brown shell first for the butterflj> 
 cAnd a bright wing bjf and by. 
 
 Butterfly, good-bye to your shell, 
 /Ind, bright wings, speed you well. 
 
 'Bright lamplight for the butterfly 
 t^lnd a burnt wing by and by. 
 
 Butterfly, alas for your shell, 
 /Ind, bright wings, fare you well. 
 
 Lost love-labour and lullaby, 
 And lowly let love lie. 
 
 Lost love-morrow and love-fellou 
 And love's life lying low. 
 
 Lovelorn labour and life laid by 
 And lowly let love lie. 
 
 Late love-longing and life-sorrow 
 t/Ind love's life lying low. 
 
 Beauty's body and benison 
 IVith a bosom-flower new blown. 
 
 'Bitter beauty and blessing bann'd 
 IVith a breast to burn and brand. 
 
 Beauty's bower in the dust o'erblown 
 IVith a bare white breast of bone. 
 
 Barren beauty and bower of sand 
 IVith a blast on either hand. 
 
 43 
 
'Buried bars in the breakwater 
 t/lnd bubble of the brimming weir. 
 
 "Bodys blood in the breakwater 
 And a buried bodjy's bier. 
 
 Buried bones in the breakwater 
 And bubble of the brawling weir. 
 
 'Bitter tears in the breakwater 
 e/lnd a breaking heart to bear. 
 
 Hollow heaven and the hurricane 
 And hurrjf of the heavy rain. 
 
 Hurried clouds in the hollow heaven 
 And a heavy rain hard-driven. 
 
 The heavy rain it hurries amain 
 And heaven and the hurricane. 
 
 Hurrj>ittg wind o'er the heaven's hollow 
 And the heavy rain to follow. 
 
 44 
 
SOOTHSAY. 
 
 LET no man ask thee of anything 
 Notyearborn between Spring and Spring. 
 More of all worlds than he can know, 
 Each day the single sun doth show. 
 A trustier gloss than thou canst give 
 From all wise scrolls demonstrative, 
 The sea doth sigh and the wind sing. 
 
 Let no man awe thee on any height 
 
 Of earthly kingship's mouldering might. 
 
 The dust his heel holds meet for thy brow 
 
 Hath all of it been what both are now ; 
 
 And thou and he may plague together 
 
 A beggar's eyes in some dusty weather 
 
 When none that is tiow knows sound or sight. 
 
 Crave thou no dower of earthly things 
 
 Unworthy Hope's imaginings. 
 
 To have brought true birth of Song to be 
 
 And to have won hearts to Poesy, 
 
 Or anywhere in the sun or rain 
 
 To have loved and been beloved again. 
 
 Is loftiest reach of Hope's bright wings. 
 
 The wild waifs cast up by the sea 
 
 Are diverse ever seasonably. 
 
 Even so the soul-tides still may land 
 
 A different drift upon the sand. 
 
 But one the sea is evermore : 
 
 And one be still, 'twixt shore and shore, 
 
 As the sea's life, thy soul in thee. 
 
 45 
 
SOOTHSAY 
 
 Say, hast thou pride ? How then majy fit 
 
 Thji wood with flatterers' silk-spun wit ? 
 
 Haply tb^ sweet voice lifts thf crest, 
 
 A breeze of fame made manifest. 
 
 U^aj/, but then chaf'st at flattery? Tause : 
 
 Tie sure thy wrath is not because 
 
 It makes thee feel thou lovest it. 
 
 Let tbj' soul strive that still the same 
 "Be early friendship' s sacred flame. 
 The affinities have strongest part 
 In youth, and draw men heart to heart: 
 As life wears on and finds no rest, 
 The individual in each breast 
 Is tyrannous to sunder them. 
 
 In the life-drama' s stern cue-call, 
 
 A friend's a part well-pri{ed by all: 
 
 And if thou meet an enemy 
 
 IVbat art thou that none such should be ? 
 
 Even so : but if the two parts run 
 
 Into each other and grow one, 
 
 Then comes the curtain's cue to fall. 
 
 IVbate'er by other's need is claimed 
 
 More than by thine, — to him unblamed 
 
 Resign it : and if he should hold 
 
 IVhat more than he thou lack'st, bread, gold. 
 
 Or any good whereby we live, — 
 
 To thee such substance let him give 
 
 Freely : nor he nor thou be shamed. 
 
 Strive that thy works prove equal : lest 
 That work which thou hast done the best 
 Should come to be to thee at length 
 (Even as to envy seems the strength 
 Of others) hateful and abhor r'd, — 
 Thine own above thyself made lord, — 
 Of self -rebuke the bitterest. 
 
 Al^ 
 
SOOTHSAY 
 
 Unto the man of yearning thought 
 And aspiration, to do nought 
 Is in itself almost an act, — 
 Being chasm-fire and cataract 
 Of the souVs utter depths unseal' d. 
 Yet woe to thee if once thou yield 
 Unto the act of doing nought ! 
 
 How callous seems beyond revoke 
 
 The clock with its last listless stroke! 
 
 How much too late at length ! — to trace 
 
 The hour on its forewarning face, 
 
 The thing thou hast not dared to do! . . . 
 
 "Behold, this may be thus ! Ere true 
 
 It prove, arise and bear thy yoke. 
 
 Let lore of all Theology 
 
 Be to thy soul what it can be : 
 
 But know, — the Power that fashions man 
 
 Measured not out thy little span 
 
 For thee to take the meting-rod 
 
 In turn, and so approve on God 
 
 Thy science of Theometry. 
 
 To God at best, to Chance at worst, 
 Give thanks for good things, last as first. 
 But windstrown blossom is that good 
 IVhose apple is not gratitude. 
 Even if no prayer uplift thy face. 
 Let the sweet right to render grace 
 As thy soul's cherished child be nursed. 
 
 Didst ever say, " Lo, I forget " .? 
 Such thought was to remember yet. 
 As in a gravegarth, count to see 
 The monuments of memory. 
 Be this thy soul's appointed scope : — 
 Ga^e onward without claim to hope, 
 Nor, gating backward, court regret. 
 
 47 
 
A LITTLE WHILE. 
 
 A LITTLE while a little love 
 The hourj>et bears for thee and me 
 IVho have not drawn the veil to see 
 If still our heaven be lit above. 
 Thou merely, at the day's last sigh, 
 
 Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone; 
 And I have heard the night-wind cry 
 And deemed its speech mine own. 
 
 A little while a little love 
 
 The scattering autumn hoards for us 
 IVhose bower is not yet ruinous 
 
 Nor quite unleaved our songless grove. 
 
 Only across the shaken boughs 
 
 We hear the flood-tides seek the sea. 
 
 And deep in both our hearts they rouse 
 One wail for thee and me. 
 
 A little while a little love 
 
 May yet be ours who have not said 
 The word it makes our eyes afraid 
 
 To know that each is thinking of. 
 
 Not yet the end: be our lips dumb 
 In smiles a little season yet : 
 
 Til tell thee, when the end is come, 
 How we may best forget. 
 
LOVES NOCTURN. 
 
 MASTER of the murmuring courts 
 IVhere the shapes of sleep convene ! — 
 Lo ! my spirit here exhorts 
 All the powers of thy demesne 
 For their aid to woo my queen. 
 
 What reports 
 Yield thy jealous courts unseen ? 
 
 Vaporous, unaccountable. 
 Dreamworld lies forlorn of light, 
 
 Hollow like a breathing shell. 
 
 Ah ! that from all dreams I might 
 Choose one dream and guide its flight ! 
 
 I know well 
 IVhat her sleep should tell to-night. 
 
 There the dreams are multitudes : 
 
 Some that will not wait for sleep, 
 Deep within the August woods ; 
 
 Some that hum while rest may steep 
 
 IVeary labour laid a-heap ; 
 Interludes, 
 
 Some, of grievous moods that weep. 
 
 Toets' fancies all are there : 
 
 There the elf- girls flood with wings 
 
 y alleys full of plaintive air ; 
 
 There breathe perfumes ; there in rings 
 Whirl the foam-bewildered springs ; 
 
 Siren there 
 Winds her di^p> hair and sings. 
 
 49 
 
love's nocturn 
 
 Thence the one dream muttM,llj> 
 
 Dreamed in bridal unison, 
 Less than waking ecstasy ; 
 
 Half-formed visions that make moan 
 
 In the house of birth alone ; 
 And what we 
 
 At death's wicket see, unknown. 
 
 But for mine own sleep, it lies 
 
 In one gracious form' s control, 
 Fair with honourable eyes. 
 
 Lamps of a translucent soul : 
 
 O their glance is loftiest dole. 
 Sweet and wise, 
 
 IVherein Love descries his goal. 
 
 Reft of her, my dreams are all 
 
 Clamvvy trance that fears the skj' : 
 Changing footpaths shift and fall ; 
 
 From polluted coverts nigh, 
 
 Miserable phantoms sigh ; 
 Quakes the pall. 
 
 And the funeral goes bj>. 
 
 Master, is it soothly said 
 
 That, as echoes of man's speech 
 Far in secret clefts are made. 
 
 So do all men's bodies reach 
 
 Shadows o'er thj> sunken beach, — 
 Shape or shade 
 
 In those halls pourtrayed of each ? 
 
 Ah ! might I, by thj> good grace 
 
 Groping in the windy stair, 
 (Darkness and the breath of space 
 
 Like loud waters everywhere,) 
 
 Meeting mine own image there 
 Face to face. 
 
 Send it from that place to her .'' 
 
 SO 
 
love's nocturn 
 
 Nay, not I; but oh! do thou, 
 Master, from thy shadow kind 
 
 Call my body's phantom now : 
 "Bid it bear its face declined 
 Till its flight her slumbers find. 
 
 And her brow 
 Feel its presence bow like wind. 
 
 Where in graves the gracile Spring 
 
 Trembles, with mute orison 
 Confidently strengthening, 
 
 Water's voice and wind's as one 
 
 Shed an echo in the sun. 
 Soft as Spring, 
 
 Master, bid it sing and moan. 
 
 Song shall tell how glad and strong 
 Is the night she soothes alway ; 
 
 Moan shall grieve with that parched tongue 
 Of the brazen hours of day : 
 Sounds as of the springtide they. 
 
 Moan and song. 
 While the chill months long for May. 
 
 Not the prayers which with all leave 
 
 The world's fiuent woes prefer, — 
 Not the praise the world doth give, 
 
 T)ulcet fulsome whisperer ; — 
 
 Let it yield my love to her. 
 And achieve 
 
 Strength that shall not grieve or err. 
 
 Wheresoe'er my dreams befall, 
 Both at night-watch, (let it say,) 
 
 And where round the sundial 
 The reluctant hours of day, 
 Heartless, hopeless of their way, 
 
 Rest and call; — 
 There her glance doth fall and stay. 
 
 SI 
 
love's nocturn 
 
 Stiddenly ber face is there : 
 
 So do mounting vapours wreathe 
 
 Subtle-scented transports where 
 The black firwood sets its teeth 
 Tart the boughs and look beneath, — 
 
 Lilies share 
 Secret waters there, and breathe. 
 
 iMaster, bid my shadow bend 
 
 IVhispering thus till birth of light, 
 
 Lest new shapes that sleep may send 
 Scatter all its work to flight ; — 
 {Master, master of the night. 
 
 Bid it spend 
 Speech, song, prayer, and end aright. 
 
 Yet, ah me I if at her head 
 There another phantom lean 
 
 Murmuring o'er the fragrant bed, — 
 ylh ! and if my spirit's queen 
 Smile those alien prayers between, — 
 
 y^h I poor shad4 ! 
 Shall it strive, or fade unseen? 
 
 How should love's own messenger 
 
 Strive with love and be love's foe ? 
 {Master, nay ! If thus, in her. 
 
 Sleep a wedded heart should show, — 
 
 Silent let mine image go. 
 Its old share 
 
 Of thy spell-bound air to know. 
 
 Like a vapour wan and mute, 
 
 Like aflame, so let it pass ; 
 One low sigh across her lute. 
 
 One dull breath against her glass ; 
 
 /tnd to my sad soul, alas ! 
 One salute 
 
 Cold as when death's foot shall pass. 
 
 52 
 
love's nocturn 
 
 Then, too, let all hopes of mine, 
 
 All vain hopes by night and daj>, 
 Slowly at thy summoning sign 
 
 Rise up pallid and obey. 
 
 Dreams, if this is thus, were they : — 
 Be they thine, 
 
 And to dreamworld pine away. 
 
 Yet from old time, life, not death, 
 
 Master, in thy rule is rife : 
 Lo ! through thee, with mingling breath, 
 
 Adam woke beside his wife. 
 
 O Love bring me so, for strife. 
 Force and faith. 
 
 Bring me so not death but life ! 
 
 Yea, to Love himself is poured 
 This frail song of hope and fear. 
 
 Thou art Love, of one accord 
 With kind Sleep to bring her near. 
 Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear ! 
 
 Master, Lord, 
 In her name implored, O hear ! 
 
 53 
 
TROY TOWN. 
 
 HEAVENBORN Helen, Sparta's queen, 
 (O Troy Town !) 
 Had two breasts of heavenljy sheen, 
 The sun and moon of the heart's desire : 
 All Love's lordship lay between. 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 
 Saying, " A little gift is mine, 
 
 A little gift for a heart's desire. 
 
 Hear \ne speak and make me a sign ! 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 " Look, I bring thee a carven cup ; 
 
 (O Troy Town !) 
 See it here as I hold it up, — 
 Shaped it is to the heart's desire. 
 Fit to fill when the gods would sup. 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 " // was moulded like my breast ; 
 (O Troy Town !) 
 
 He that sees it may not rest. 
 
 Rest at all for his heart's desire. 
 
 O give ear to my heart's behest! 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 54 
 
TROY TOWN , 
 
 " See my breast, how like it is ; 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 
 See it bare for the air to kiss! 
 
 Is the cup to thy hearfs desire ? 
 
 O for the breast, O make it bis! 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 " Yea, for mj' bosom here I sue ; 
 (O Troy Town !) 
 
 Thou must give it where 'tis due, 
 
 Give it there to the hearfs desire. 
 
 IVhom do I give my bosom to ? 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire I) 
 
 " Each twin breast is an apple sweet. 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 Ottce an apple stirred the beat 
 Of thy heart xvith the heart's desire : - 
 Say, who brought it then to thy feet? 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 " They that claimed it then were three : 
 (O Troy Town !) 
 
 For thy sake two hearts did he 
 
 Make forlorn of the heart's desire. 
 
 Do for him as he did for thee! 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire I) 
 
 " Mine are apples grown to the south, 
 
 (O Troy Town !) 
 Grown to taste in the days of drouth. 
 Taste and waste to the heart's desire : 
 CMine are apples meet for his mouth." 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 ss 
 
TROY TOWN 
 
 yenus looked on Helenas gift, 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 Looked and smiled with subtle drift, 
 Saw the work of her hearfs desire: — 
 " There thou kneeVst for Love to liftV 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire 1) 
 
 Venus looked in Helen's face, 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 
 Knew far off an hour and place, 
 
 And fire lit from the heart's desire ; 
 
 Laughed and said, " Thv gift hath grace ! " 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 Cupid looked on Helen's breast, 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 Saw the heart within its nest. 
 Saw the flame of the heart's desire, — 
 Marked his arrow's burning crest. 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 Cupid took another dart, 
 
 (O Troy Town !) 
 
 Fledged it for another heart, 
 
 IVinged the shaft with the heart's desire, 
 
 Drew the string and said, "Depart!" 
 (O Troy's down. 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 Paris turned upon his bed, 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 
 Turned upon his bed and said. 
 
 Dead at heart with the heart's desire, — 
 
 " Oh to clasp her golden head!" 
 (O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire I) 
 
 56 
 
THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH. 
 
 IN our Museum galleries 
 To-day I lingered o'er the pri^e 
 Dead Greece vouchsafes to living eyes, — 
 Her Art for ever in fresh wise 
 
 From hour to hour rejoicing me. 
 Sighing I turned at last to win 
 Once more the London dirt and din ; 
 And as I made the swing-door spin 
 And issued, they were hoisting in 
 
 A winged beast from Nineveh. 
 
 A human face the creature wore. 
 And hoofs behind and hoofs before, 
 AndJJanks with dark runes fretted o*er 
 'Twas bull, 'twas mitred Minotaur, 
 
 A dead disbowelled mystery : 
 The mummy of a buried faith 
 Stark from the charnel without scathe. 
 Its wings stood for the light to bathe, — 
 Such fossil cerements as might swathe 
 
 The very corpse of Nineveh. 
 
 The print of its first rush-wrapping, 
 IVound ere it dried, still ribbed the thing. 
 IVhat song did the brown maidens sing, 
 From purple mouths alternating, 
 
 IVhen that was woven languidly ? 
 IVhat vows, what rites, what prayers preferred, 
 IVhat songs has the strange image heard? 
 In what blind vigil stood interr d 
 For ages, till an English word 
 
 Broke silence first at Nineveh ? 
 
 SI 
 
THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 
 
 Oh when upon each sculptured court, 
 IVhere even the wind might not resort, — 
 O'er which Time passed, of like import 
 IVith the wild Arab bojys at sport, — 
 
 A living face looked in to see : — 
 Oh seemed it not — the spell mice broke — 
 As though the carven warriors woke. 
 As though the shaft the string forsook. 
 The cymbals clashed, the chariots shook. 
 
 And there was life in 'Nineveh ? 
 
 On London stones our sun anew 
 The beast's recovered shadow threw. 
 {No shade that plague of darkness knew. 
 No light, no shade, while older grew 
 
 Bv ages the old earth and sea.) 
 Lo thou .' could all thy priests have shown 
 Such proof to make thy godhead known ? 
 From their dead Tast thou liv'st alone ; 
 And still thy shadow is thine own. 
 
 Even as of yore in Nineveh. 
 
 That day whereof we keep record, 
 IVhen near thy city-gates the Lord 
 Sheltered His Jonah with a gourd. 
 This sun, (I said) here present, pour' d 
 
 Even thus this shadow that I see. 
 This shadow has been shed the same 
 From sun and moon, — from lamps which came 
 For prayer, — from fifteen days of flame. 
 The last, while smouldered to a name 
 
 Sardanapalus' Nineveh. 
 
 IVithin thy shadow, haply, once 
 Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons 
 Smote him between the altar-stones : 
 Or pale Semiramis her ^ones 
 
 Of gold, her incense brought to thee. 
 In love for grace, in war for aid: .... 
 
 S8 
 
THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 
 
 Ay, and who else .?.... till 'neath thj> shade 
 IVithin his trenches newly made 
 Last year the Christian knelt and prayed — 
 Not to thy strength — in Nineveh* 
 
 tJ^ow, thou poor god, within this hall 
 Where the blank wnndows blind the wall 
 From pedestal to pedestal, 
 The kind of light shall on thee fall 
 
 IVhich London takes the day to be : 
 IVhile school-foundations in the act 
 Of holiday, three files compact, 
 Shall learn to view thee as a fact 
 Connected with that jealous tract : 
 
 "T^ome, — Babylon and Nineveh.^' 
 
 TDeemed they of this, those worshippers, 
 IVhen, in some mythic chain of verse 
 IVhich man shall not again rehearse. 
 The faces of thy ministers 
 
 Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy? 
 Greece, Egypt, Rome, — did any god 
 "Before whose feet men knelt unshod 
 Deem that in this imblest abode 
 Another scarce more unknown god 
 
 Should house with him, from Nineveh? 
 
 Ah ! in what quarries lay the stone 
 From which this pillared pile has grown. 
 Unto man's need how long unknown, 
 Since those thy temples, court and com, 
 
 T^ose far in desert history ? 
 Ah ! what is here that does not lie 
 All strange to thine awakened eye ? 
 Ah ! what is here can testify 
 (Save that dumb presence of the sky) 
 
 Unto thy day and Nineveh ? 
 
 '^ * During the excavations, the Tiyari workmen held 
 their services in the shadow of the great bulls. — {Layard's 
 "Nineveh," cb. ix.) 
 
 59 
 
THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 
 
 lVbj>, of those mummies in the room 
 
 (Above, there might indeed have come 
 One out of Egjypt to thjy hotne, 
 An alien. O^ajr, but were not some 
 
 Of these thine own " antiquitj; " .? 
 And now, — thej> and their gods and thou 
 All relics here together, — now 
 IVhose profit ? whether bull or cow, 
 Isis or Ibis, who or how, 
 
 IVhether of Thebes or Nineveh ? 
 
 The consecrated metals found, 
 And ivory tablets, underground, 
 JVinged teraphim and creatures crowned, 
 IVhen air and daylight filled the mound. 
 
 Fell into dust immediately. 
 And even as these, the images 
 Of awe and worship, — even as these, — 
 So, smitten with the sun's increase. 
 Her glory mouldered and did cease 
 
 From immemorial Nineveh. 
 
 The day her builders made their halt. 
 Those cities of the lake of salt 
 Stood firmly Established without fault, 
 Made proud with pillars of basalt, 
 
 JVith sardonyx and porphyry. 
 The day that Jonah bore abroad 
 To Nineveh the voice of God, 
 A brackish lake lay in his road, 
 IVhere erst Pride fixed her sure abode, 
 
 As then in royal Nineveh. 
 
 The day when he. Pride's lord and Man's, 
 Showed all the kingdoms at a glance 
 To Him before whose countenance 
 The years recede, the years advance. 
 
 And said. Fall down and worship me : — 
 'Mid all the pomp beneath that look, 
 
 60 
 
THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 
 
 Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke, 
 JVbere to the wind the Salt Pools shook, 
 tAnd in those tracts, of life forsook. 
 That knew thee not, O Nineveh ! 
 
 Delicate harlot ! On thj) throne 
 Thou with a world beneath thee prone 
 In state for ages safst alone ; 
 And needs were jj ears and lustres flown 
 
 Ere strength of man could vanquish thee : 
 IVhom even thjy victor foes must bring. 
 Still royal, among maids that sing 
 As with doves' voices, laboring 
 Upon their breasts, unto the King, — 
 
 A kingljf conquest, Nineveh ! 
 
 . . . Here woke mj> thought. The wind's slow sway 
 Had waxed ; and like the human play 
 Of scorn that smiling spreads awaj>, 
 The sunshine shivered off the daj' : 
 
 The callous wind, it seemed to me, 
 Swept up the shadow from the ground: 
 And pale as whom the Fates astound. 
 The god forlorn stood winged and crown" d: 
 IVithin I knew the cry lay bound 
 
 Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. 
 
 And as I turned, my sense half shut 
 Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut 
 Go past as marshalled to the strut 
 Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. 
 
 It seemed in one same pageantry 
 They followed forms which had been erst ; 
 To pass, till on my sight should burst 
 That future of the best or worst 
 When some may question which was first, 
 
 Of London or of Nineveh. 
 
 6i 
 
THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 
 
 For as that Bull- god once did stand 
 And watched the burial-clouds of sand. 
 Till these at last without a hand 
 Rose o'er his eyes, another land. 
 
 And blinded him with destiny : — 
 So may he stand again ; till now, 
 In ships of unknown sail and prow. 
 Some tribe of the Australian plough 
 Bear him afar, — a relic now 
 
 Of London, not of Nineveh ! 
 
 Or it may chance indeed that when 
 CMan's age is hoary among men, — 
 His centuries threescore and ten, — 
 His furthest childhood shall seem then 
 
 More clear than later times may be : 
 IVho, finding in this desert place 
 This form, shall hold us for some race 
 That walked not in Christ's lowly ways, 
 But bowed its prid^ and vowed its praise 
 
 Unto the God of Nineveh. 
 
 The smile rose first, — anon drew nigh 
 
 The thought : . . Those heavy wings spread high, 
 
 So sure of flight, which do not fly ; 
 
 That set ga{e never on the sky ; 
 
 Those scriptured flanks it cannot see ; 
 Its crown, a brow-contracting load; 
 Its planted feet which trust the sod ; . . . 
 (So grew the image as I trod :) 
 O Nineveh, was this thy God, — 
 
 Thine also, mighty Nineveh ? 
 
 62 
 
THE SONG OF THE BOWER. 
 
 SAY, is it daj>, is it dusk in thy bower, 
 Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? 
 Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour, 
 
 Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free. 
 Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber. 
 
 Oh ! the last time, and the hundred before : 
 Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember. 
 
 Yet something that sighs from him passes the door. 
 
 Naj', but my heart when it flies to thy bower, 
 
 IVhat does it find there that knows it again ? 
 There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower, 
 
 Red at the rent core and dark with the rain. 
 Ah ! yet what shelter is still shed above it, — 
 
 IVhat waters still image its leaves torn apart ? 
 Thy soul is the shade that clings rotmd it to love it. 
 
 And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart. 
 
 IVhat were my pri^e, could I enter thy bower. 
 
 This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn ? 
 Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower. 
 
 Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. 
 Kindled with love-breath, {the sun's kiss is colder .') 
 
 Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day ; 
 My band round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder, 
 
 My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away. 
 
 IVhat is it keeps me afar from thy bower, — 
 My spirit, my body, so fain to be there ? 
 
 IVaters engulfing or fires that devour ? — 
 Earth heaped against me or death in the air ? 
 
 63 
 
THE SONG OF THE BOWER 
 
 No)', but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity, 
 
 The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell ; 
 
 Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city. 
 The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell. 
 
 Shall I not one day remember thjy bower, 
 
 One day when all days are one day to me ? — 
 Thinking, " / stirred not, and yet had the power !" — 
 
 Yearning, " y4h God, if again it might be.'" 
 Peace, peace ! such a small lamp illumes, on this higlnvajy, 
 
 So dimly so few steps in front of my feet, — 
 Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . 
 
 Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet ? 
 
 64 
 
JENNY. 
 
 Vengeance of Jenny's case! Fie on her! Clever name 
 her, child! 
 
 (MRS. QUICKLY.) 
 
 LAZY laughing languid J etitty, 
 Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea, 
 Whose head upon my knee to-night 
 T^ests for a while, as if grown light 
 IVith all our dances and the sound 
 To which the wild tunes spun you round: 
 Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen 
 Of kisses which the blush between 
 Could hardly make much daintier ; 
 IVhose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair 
 Is countless gold incomparable : 
 Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell 
 Of Love's exuberant hotbed: — Nay, 
 'Poor flower left torn since yesterday 
 Until to-morrow leave you bare ; 
 Toor handful of bright spring-water 
 Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face ; 
 Toor shameful Jenny, full of grace 
 Thus with your bead upon my knee ; — 
 IVhose person or whose purse may be 
 The lodestar of your reverie ? 
 
 This room of yours, my Jenny, looks 
 A change from mine so full of books, 
 IVhose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth. 
 So many captive hours of youth, — 
 The hours they thieve from day and night 
 To make one's cherished work come right. 
 
 6S 
 
JENNY 
 
 j4nd leave it wrong for all their theft. 
 Even as to-night mjf work was left : 
 Until I vowed that since my brain 
 /ind eyes of dancing seemed so fain. 
 My feet should have some dancing too : — 
 y4nd thus it was I met with you. 
 IVell, I suppose Uwas hard to part. 
 For here I am- And now, sweetheart, 
 You seem too tired to get to bed. 
 
 It was a careless life I led 
 tVhen rooms like this were scarce so strange 
 Not long ago. IVhat breeds the change, — 
 The manv aims or the few years ? 
 Because to-night it all appears 
 Something I do not know again. 
 
 The cloud^s not danced out of my brain,— 
 The cloud that made it turn and swim 
 IVhile hour by hour the books grew dim. 
 IVhy, Jenny, as I watch you there, — 
 For all your wealth of loosened hair, 
 Your silk un girdled and unlaced 
 And warm sweets open to the waist, 
 All golden in the lamplight's gleam, — 
 You know not what a book you seem. 
 Half -read by lightning in a dream ! 
 How should you know, "ly Jenny ? CP(ay, 
 And I should be ashamed to say : — 
 Poor beauty, so well worth a kiss ! 
 "But while my thought runs on like this 
 iVith wasteful whims more than enough, 
 I wonder what you' re thinking of . 
 
 If of myself you think at all, 
 IVbat is the thought? — conjectural 
 
 66 
 
JENNY 
 
 On sorrjy matters best unsolved? — 
 Or inly is each grace revolved 
 To fit me with a lure ? — or {sad 
 To think!) perhaps you're merely glad 
 That Tm net drunk or ruffianly 
 yind let you rest upon my knee. 
 
 For sometimes, were the truth confessed, 
 YoiCre thankful for a little rest, — 
 Glad from the crush to rest within. 
 From the heart-sickness and the din 
 IVhere envy's voice at virtue's pitch 
 Mocks you because your gown is rich ; 
 And from the pale girl's dumb rebuke, 
 IVhose ill-clad grace and toil-worn look 
 Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak 
 t/Jnd other nights than yours bespeak ; 
 tyJnd from the wise unchildish elf, 
 To schoolmate lesser than himself. 
 Pointing you out, what thing you are : — 
 Yes, from the daily jeer and jar. 
 From shame and shame's outbraving too, 
 Is rest not sometimes sweet to you ? — 
 ^ut most from the hatefulness of man 
 Who spares not to end what he began. 
 Whose acts are ill and his speech ill. 
 Who, having used you at his will, 
 Thrusts you aside, as when I dine 
 I serve the dishes and the wine. 
 
 Well, handsome Jenny mine, sit up, 
 I've filled our glasses, let us sup, 
 tAnd do not let me think of you. 
 Lest shame of yours suffice for two. 
 What, stilt so tired? Well, well then, keep 
 Your head there, so you do not sleep ; 
 But that the weariness may pass 
 
 67 
 
JENNY 
 
 t/f«J leave jrou merry, take this glass. 
 Ah ! la{j> lilj> hand, more bless' d 
 If ne'er in rings it bad been dress' d 
 Nor ever bj> a glove conceal'd! 
 
 Behold the lilies of the field, 
 Thejy toil not neither do thejy spin ; 
 {So doth the ancient text begin, — 
 U^ot of such rest as one of these 
 Can share.) Another rest and ease 
 t/Jlong each summer-sated path 
 Front its new lord the garden hath, 
 Than that whose spring in blessings ran 
 IVhich praised the bounteous husbandman, 
 Ere jet, in days of hankering breath, 
 The lilies sickened unto death. 
 
 lVhat,Jennj>, are your lilies dead? 
 Aye, and the snow-white leaves are spread 
 Like winter on the garden-bed. 
 But you had roses left in May, — 
 They were not gone too. Jenny, nay. 
 But must your roses die, and those 
 Their purfled buds that should unclose ? 
 Even so ; the leaves are curled apart, 
 Still red as from the broken heart. 
 And here's the naked stem of thorns. 
 
 U^ay, nay, mere words. Here nothing warns 
 As yet of winter. Sickness here 
 Or want alone could waken fear, — 
 Nothing but passion wrings a tear. 
 Except when there may rise unsought 
 Haply at times a passing thought 
 Of the old days which seem to be 
 Much older than any history 
 That is written in any book ; 
 IVhen she would lie in fields and look 
 
 68 
 
JENNY 
 
 t/Jlong the ground through the blown grass, 
 t/lnd wonder where the city was. 
 Far out of sight, whose broil and bale 
 They told her then for a child's tale. 
 
 Jenny, you know the city now. 
 A child can tell the tale there, how 
 Some things which are not yet enrol I'd 
 In market-lists are bought and sold 
 Even till the early Sunday light, 
 IVhen Saturday night is market-night 
 Everywhere, be it dry or wet. 
 And market-night in the Havmarket. 
 Our learned London children know. 
 Poor Jenny, all your pride and woe ; 
 Have seen your lifted silken skirt 
 Advertise dainties through the dirt ; 
 Have seenyour coach-wheels splash rebuke 
 On virtue ; and have learned your look 
 IVhen, wealth and health slipped past, you stare 
 Along the streets alone, and there. 
 Round the long park, across the bridge. 
 The cold lamps at the pavement's edge 
 IVtnd on together and apart, 
 A fiery serpent for your heart. 
 
 Let the thoughts pass, an empty cloud ! 
 Suppose I were to think aloud, — 
 IVhat if to her all this were said? 
 IVhy, as a volume seldom read 
 "Being opened halfway shuts again, 
 So might the pages of her brain 
 "Be parted at such words, and thence 
 Close back upon the dusty sense. 
 For is there hue or shape defin'd 
 In Jenny's desecrated mind, 
 IVhere all contagious currents meet, 
 <A Lethe of the middle street ? 
 
 69 
 
JENNY 
 
 Nqv, it reflects not any face, 
 Nor sound is tn its sliiggisk pace, 
 But as they coil those eddies clot, 
 t/!nd night and day remember not. 
 
 IVhy, Jenny, you're asleep at last! — 
 Asleep, poor Jenny, hard and fast, — 
 So young and soft and tired; so fair, 
 IVith chin thus nestled in your hair, 
 Mouth quiet, eyelids almost blue 
 As if some sky of dreams shone through ! 
 
 Just as another woman sleeps ! 
 Enough to throw one's thoughts in heaps 
 Of doubt and horror, — what to say 
 Or think, — this awful secret sxvay, 
 The potter's power over the clay ! 
 Of the same lump (it has been said) 
 For honour and dishonour made. 
 Two sister vessels. Here is one. 
 
 My cousin Nell is fond of fun. 
 And fond of dress, and change, and praise, 
 So mere a woman in her ways : 
 And if her sweet eyes rich in youth 
 Are like her lips that tell the truth. 
 My cousin Nell is fond of love. 
 And she's the girl I'm proudest of. 
 IVho does not pri{e her, guard her well ? 
 The love of change, in cousin Nell, 
 Shall find the best and hold it dear : 
 The unconquered mirth turn quieter 
 Not through her own, through others' woe : 
 The conscious pride of beauty glow 
 Beside another's pride in her. 
 One little part of all they share. 
 For Love himself shall ripen these 
 
 70 
 
JENNY 
 
 In a kind soil to just increase 
 Through j>ears of fertilising peace. 
 
 Of the same lump (as it is said) 
 For honour and dishonour made, 
 Two sister vessels. Here is one. 
 
 It makes a goblin of the sun. 
 
 So pure, — so fall'n ! How dare to think 
 Of the first common kindred link ? 
 Yet, Jenny, till the world shall burn 
 It seems that all things take their turn ; 
 And who shall say but this fair tree 
 May need, in changes that may be. 
 Your children's children's charity ? 
 Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorn' d! 
 Shall no man hold bis pride forewarn' d 
 Till in the end, the Day of Days, 
 y^t Judgment, one of his own race. 
 As frail and lost asyou, shall rise, — 
 His daughter, with his mother's eyes ? 
 
 How Jenny's clock ticks on the shelf! 
 {Might not the dial scorn itself 
 That has such hours to register ? 
 Yet as to me, even so to her 
 Are golden sun and silver moon. 
 In daily largesse of earth's boon. 
 Counted for life-coins to one tune. 
 And if, as blindfold fates are toss'd. 
 Through some one man this life be lost. 
 Shall soul not somehow pay for soul ? 
 
 Fair shines the gilded aureole 
 In which our highest painters place 
 Some living woman's simple face. 
 And the stilled features thus descried 
 
 71 
 
JENNY 
 
 As Jenny's long throat droops aside, — 
 The shadows where the cheeks are thin, 
 /tnd pure wide curve from ear to chin, — 
 IVith RaffaeVs, Leonardo's hand 
 To show them to mens souls, might stand, 
 IVhole ages long, the whole world through. 
 For preachings of what God can do. 
 IVhat has man done here ? How atone, 
 Great God, for this which man has done ? 
 And for the body and soul which by 
 Man's pitiless doom must now comply 
 IVith lifelong hell, what lullaby 
 Of sweet forgetful second birth 
 T^emains ? All dark. CP(o sign on earth 
 IVhat measure of God's rest endows 
 The many mansions of his house. 
 
 If but a woman's heart might see 
 Such erring heart unerringly 
 For once ! ^ut that can never be. 
 
 Like a rose shut in a book 
 In which pure women may not look, 
 For its base pages claim control 
 To crush the flower within the soul; 
 Where through each dead rose-leaf that clings, 
 Tale as transparent Psyche-wings, 
 To the vile text, are traced such things 
 As might make lady's cheek indeed 
 More than a living rose to read ; 
 So nought save foolish foulness may 
 IVatch with hard eyes the sure decay ; 
 And so the life-blood of this rose, 
 Tuddled with shameful knowledge, flows 
 Through leaves no chaste hand may unclose ; 
 Yet still it keeps such faded show 
 Of when 'twas gathered' long ago. 
 That the crushed petals' lovely grain. 
 
 72 
 
JENNY 
 
 The sweetness of the sanguine stain. 
 Seen of a woman's eyes, must make 
 Her pitiful heart, so prone to ache, 
 Love roses better for its sake : — 
 Only that this can never be : — 
 Even so unto her sex is she. 
 
 Yet, Jenny, looking long at you. 
 The woman almost fades from view. 
 A cipher of man's changeless sum 
 Of lust, past, present, and to come, 
 Is left. A riddle that one shrinks 
 To challenge from the scornful sphinx. 
 
 Like a toad within a stone 
 Seated while Time crumbles on ; 
 IVhich sits there since the earth was curs' d 
 For Man's transgression at the first ; 
 IVhich, living through all centuries, 
 Not once has seen the sun arise ; 
 IVhose life, to its cold circle charmed. 
 The earth's whole summers have not warmed; 
 IVhich always — whit her so the stone 
 Be flung — sits there, deaf, blind, alone ; — 
 tAye, and shall not be driven out 
 Till that which shuts him round about 
 Break at the very Master's stroke. 
 And the dust thereof vanish as smoke, 
 And the seed of Man vanish as dust : — 
 Even so within this world is Lust. 
 
 Come, come, what use in thoughts like this ? 
 Poor little Jenny, good to kiss, — 
 You'd not believe by what strange roads 
 Thought travels, when your beauty goads 
 A man to-night to think of toads ! 
 entiy,wake up. . . . IVhy, there's the dawn! 
 
 73 
 
JENNY 
 
 t/!nd there's an early waggon drawn 
 To market, and some sheep that jog 
 Bleating before a barking dog; 
 And the old streets come peering through 
 Another night that London knew ; 
 And all as ghostlike as the lamps. 
 
 So on the wings of daj> decamps 
 My last night's frolic. Glooms begin 
 To shiver off as lights creep in 
 Past the gaii^e curtains half drawn-to, 
 And the lamp's doubled shade grows blue, — 
 Your lamp, mj> Jennjy, kept alight. 
 Like a wise virgin's, all one night! 
 And in the alcove coolly spread 
 Glimmers with dawnyour empty bed; 
 Andyonder your fair face I see 
 T^eflected lying on my knee, 
 Where teems with first foreshadowings 
 Your pier-glass scrawled with diamond rings : 
 And on your bosom all night worn 
 Yesterday's rose now droops forlorn 
 But dies not yet this summer morn. 
 
 And now without, as if some word 
 Had called upon them that they heard. 
 The London sparrows far and nigh 
 Clamor together suddenly ; 
 And Jenny's cage-bird grown awake 
 Here in their song his part must take. 
 Because here too the day doth break. 
 
 And somehow in myself the dawn 
 Among stirred clouds and veils withdrawn 
 Strikes greyly on her. Let her sleep. 
 "But will it wake her if I heap 
 These cushions thus beneath her head 
 Where my knee was ? CP{o, — there's your bed. 
 
 74 
 
JENNY 
 
 My Jenny, while you dream. And there 
 I lay among your golden hair 
 "Perhaps the subject of your dreams. 
 These golden coins. 
 
 For still one deems 
 That Jenny^ s Jlattering sleep confers 
 U^ew magic on the magic purse, — 
 Grim web, how clogged with shrivelled flies! 
 Between the threads fine fumes arise 
 And shape their pictures in the brain. 
 There roll no streets in glare and rain, 
 U^or flagrant man-swine whets his tusk; 
 But delicately sighs in musk 
 The homage of the dim boudoir ; 
 Or like a palpitating star 
 Thrilled into song, the opera-night 
 Breathes faint in the quick pulse of light ; 
 Or at the carnage-window shine 
 T^ich wares for choice ; or, free to dine, 
 IVhirls through its hour of health (divine 
 For her) the concourse of the Park. 
 t/Ind though in the discounted dark 
 Her functions there and here are one, 
 "Beneath the lamps and in the sun 
 There reigns at least the acknowledged belle 
 Apparelled beyond parallel. 
 Ah, Jenny, yes, we know your dreams. 
 
 For even the Paphian Venus seems 
 A goddess o'er the realms of love, 
 IVhen silver-shrined in shadowy grove : 
 Aye, or let offerings nicely placed 
 But hide Vriapus to the waist. 
 And whoso looks on him shall see 
 An eligible deity. 
 
 IVhy, Jenny, waking here alone 
 May helpyou to remember one, 
 
 75 
 
JENNY 
 
 Though all the memory s long outworn 
 Of majiy a double-pillowed morn. 
 I think I see you whenyou wake, 
 /tnd rub your eyes for me, and shake 
 CMy gold, in rising, from your hair, 
 A Dana'i for a moment there. 
 
 fenny, my love rang true ! for still 
 Love at first sight is vague, until 
 That tinkling makes him audible. 
 
 And must I mock you to the last. 
 Ashamed of my own shame, — aghast 
 because some thoughts not born amiss 
 Rose at a poor fair face like this ? 
 
 IVell, of such thoughts so much I know , 
 /// my lifi, as in hers, they show. 
 By a far gleam which 1 may near, 
 A dark path I can strive to clear. 
 
 Only one kiss. Good-bye, my dear. 
 
 76 
 
I 
 
 STRATTON WATER. 
 
 ' ' r~\ u AVE jyou seen the Sir atton flood 
 ^-^ That's great with rain to-day ? 
 It runs beneath your wall, Lord Sands, 
 Full of the new-mown hay. 
 
 " I led your hounds to Mutton bank 
 
 To bathe at early morn : 
 They got their bath by Borrowbrake 
 
 Above the standing cornP 
 
 Out from the castle-stair Lord Sands 
 
 Looked up the western lea ; 
 The rook was grieving on her nest, 
 
 The food was round her tree. 
 
 Over the castle-wall Lord Sands 
 Looked down the eastern hill : 
 
 The stakes swam free among the boats. 
 The food was rising still. 
 
 " IVhat's yonder far below that hes 
 So white against the slope ? " 
 
 " O it's a sail o' your binny barks 
 The waters have washed up." 
 
 " But I have never a sail so white, 
 And the water's not yet there." 
 
 " O it's the swans o' your bonny lake 
 The rising flood doth scare." 
 
 77 
 
STRATTON WATER 
 
 " The swans tbej> would not hold so still, 
 
 So high thej' would not win." 
 " O ifsjojfce mjr wife has spread her smock 
 
 And fears to fetch it in." 
 
 " Nay, knave, it's neither sail nor swans. 
 
 Nor aught that you can say ; 
 For though your wife might leave her smock, 
 
 Herself she'd bring away." 
 
 Lord Sands has passed the turret-stair, 
 
 The court, and yard, and all ; 
 The kine were in the byre that day. 
 
 The nass were in the stall. 
 
 Lord Sands has won the weltering slope 
 IVhereon the white shape lay : 
 
 The clouds were still above the hill, 
 tAnd the shape was still as they. 
 
 Oh pleasant is the ga^e of life 
 And sad is death's blind head ; 
 
 But awful are the living eyes 
 In the face of one thought dead! 
 
 "In God's name, Janet, is it me 
 Thy ghost has come to seek ? " 
 
 " Nay, wait another hour. Lord Sands, — 
 Be sure my ghost shall speak." 
 
 A moment stood he as a stone. 
 
 Then grovelled to his knee. 
 " O Janet, O my love, my love. 
 
 Rise up and come with me!" 
 " O once before you bade me come. 
 
 And it's here you have brought me! 
 
 78 
 
STRATTON WATER 
 
 " O manys the sweet word. Lord Sands, 
 
 You've spoken oft to me ; 
 But all that I have from j>ou to-daj> 
 
 Is the rain on mj> body. 
 
 " And manys the good gift. Lord Sands, 
 
 You've promised oft to me ; 
 But the gift of yours I keep to-day 
 
 Is the babe in my body. 
 
 " O it's not in any earthly bed 
 
 That first my babe I'll see ; 
 For I have brought my body here 
 
 That the food may cover me." 
 
 His face was close against her face. 
 His hands of hers were fain : 
 
 O her wet cheeks were hot with tears. 
 Her wet hands cold with rain. 
 
 " They told me you were dead, Janet, — 
 
 How could I guess the lie ? " 
 " They told me you were false. Lord Sands, 
 
 IVhat could I do but die ? " 
 
 "J^ow keep you well, my brother Giles, — 
 Through you I deemed her dead! 
 
 As wan as your towers be to-day. 
 To-morrow they'll be red. 
 
 "Look down, look down, my false mother. 
 
 That bade me not to grieve : 
 You'll look up when our marriage fires 
 
 Are lit to-morrow eve. 
 
 79 
 
 I 
 
STRATTON WATER 
 
 " O more than one and more than two 
 
 The sorrow of this shall see : 
 But iVs to-morrow, love, for them, — 
 
 To-day s for thee and me." 
 
 He's drawn her face between his hands 
 
 And her pale mouth to his : 
 No bird that was so still that day 
 
 Chirps sweeter than his kiss. 
 
 The flood was creeping round their feet. . 
 
 " O Janet, come away ! 
 The hall is warm for the marriage-rite. 
 
 The bed for the birthday." 
 
 " Nay, but I hear your mother cry, 
 
 ' Go bring this bride to bed! 
 And would she christen her babe unborn, 
 
 So wet she comes to wed .? ' 
 
 " ril be your wife to cross your door 
 And meet your mother'' s e'e. 
 
 We plighted troth to wed V the kirk. 
 And tfs thereyou'll wed with me." 
 
 He's ta'en her by the short girdle 
 tAnd by the dripping sleeve : 
 
 " Go fetch Sir Jock my mother's priest, - 
 You'll ask of him no leave. 
 
 " O it's one half-hour to reach the kirk 
 And one for the marriage-rite ; 
 
 And kirk and castle and castle-lands 
 Shall be our babe's to-night." 
 
 80 
 
STRATTON WATER 
 
 " The flood' s in the kirkyard, Lord Sands, 
 
 And round the belfrjf-stair." 
 " 1 hade you fetch the priest'^ he said, 
 
 " Myself shall bring him there. 
 
 " It's for the lilt of -wedding bells 
 
 We'll have the hail to pour, 
 And for the clink of bridle-reins 
 
 The plashing of the oar." 
 
 Beneath them on the nether bill 
 
 A boat was floating wide : 
 Lord Sands swam out and caught the oars 
 
 And rowed to the bill-side. 
 
 He's wrapped her in a green mantle 
 
 And set her softly in ; 
 Her hair was wet upon her face, 
 
 Her face was grey and thin; 
 And " Oh !" she said, " lie still, my babe, 
 
 It's out you must not win!" 
 
 But woe's my heart for Father John 
 
 As hard as he might pray, 
 There seemed no help but Noah's ark 
 
 Or Jonah's fish that day. 
 
 The first strokes that the oars struck 
 
 Were over the broad leas ; 
 The next strokes that the oars struck 
 
 They pushed beneath the trees ; 
 
 The last stroke that the oars struck. 
 The good boat's head was met, 
 
 And there the gate of the kirkyard 
 Stood like a ferry- gate. 
 
 He's set his hand upon the bar 
 And lightly leaped within : 
 
 8i 
 
STRATTON WATER 
 
 He's lifted her to his left shoulder. 
 Her knees beside his chin. 
 
 The graves lay deep beneath the flood 
 
 Under the rain alone ; 
 And when the foot-stone made him slip, 
 
 He held bj> the head-stone. 
 
 The emptjy boat thrawed i' the wind, 
 
 Against the postern tied. 
 " Hold still, foii've brought mjf love with me, 
 
 You shall take back mj> bride.'' 
 
 But woe's niy heart for Father John 
 And the saints he clamoured to ! 
 
 There's never a saint but Christopher 
 Might hale such buttocks through ! 
 
 And " Oh ! " she said, " on men's shoulders 
 
 I well had thought to wend, 
 And well to travel with a priest, 
 
 But not to have cared or ken'd. 
 
 " And oh !" she said, " it's well this way 
 That I thought to have fared, — 
 
 Not to have lighted at the kirk 
 'But stopped in the kirkj'ard. 
 
 " For it's oh and oh I prayed to God, 
 
 IVhose rest I hoped to win. 
 That when to-night at your board-head 
 
 You'd bid the feast begin, 
 This water past your window-sill 
 
 Might bear niy body in." 
 
 Now make the white bed warm and soft 
 
 And greet the merry morn. 
 The night the mother should have died, 
 
 The young son shall be born. 
 
 82 
 
THE STREAM'S SECRET. 
 
 \A/iiAT thinir unto mine ear 
 ^ ^ IVouldst thou convey, — what secret thing, 
 O wandering water ever whispering ? 
 
 Surelj> thy speech shall be of her. 
 Thou water, O thou whispering wanderer, 
 IVhat message dost thou bring ? 
 
 Sav, hath not Love leaned low 
 This hour beside thji< far well-head, 
 ylnd there through jealous hollowed Jingers said 
 
 The thing that most I long to know, — 
 Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy flow 
 And washed lips rosy red ? 
 
 He told it to thee there 
 Where thy voice hath a louder tone ; 
 But where it welters to this little moan 
 
 His will decrees that I should hear. 
 Now speak : for with the silence is no fear, 
 And I am all alone. 
 
 Shall Time not still endow 
 One hour with life, and I and she 
 Slake in one kiss the thirst of memory ? 
 Say, stream ; lest Love should disavow 
 Thy service, and the bird upon the bough 
 Sing first to tell it me. 
 
 83 
 
THE stream's secret 
 
 What whisperest thou ? (T{aj>, why 
 UX,ame the dead hours ? I mind them well : 
 Their ghosts in many darkened doorways dwell 
 
 IVith desolate eyes to know them by. 
 The hour that nmst be born ere it can die, — 
 Of that I'd have thee tell. 
 
 But hear, before thou speak ! 
 IVithhold, I pray, the vain behest ■ 
 That while the ma{e hath still its bower for quest 
 
 My burning heart should cease to seek. 
 Be sure that Love ordained for souls more meek 
 His roadside dells of rest. 
 
 Stream, when this silver thread 
 In flood-time is a torrent brown 
 CMav any bulwark bind thy foaming crown ? 
 
 Shall not the waters surge and spread 
 And to the crannied boulders of their bed 
 Still shoot the dead drift down ? 
 
 Let no rebuke find place 
 In speech of thine : or it shall prove 
 That thou dost ill expound the words of Love, 
 
 Even as thine eddf's rippling race 
 IVould blur the perfect image of his face. 
 I will have none thereof. 
 
 O learn and understand 
 That 'gainst the wrongs himself did wreak 
 Love sought her aid ; until her shadowy cheek 
 
 And eyes beseeching gave command ; 
 t/lnd compassed in her close compassionate hand 
 {My heart must burn and speak. 
 
 84 
 
THE stream's secret 
 
 For then at last we spoke 
 IVhat eyes so oft bad told to ej>es 
 Through that long-lingering silence whose half-sighs 
 
 /llone the buried secret broke, 
 IVhich with snatched hands and lips' reverberate stroke 
 Then from the heart did rise. 
 
 But she is far away 
 Now ; nor the hours of night grown hoar 
 "Bring yet to me, long ga{ing from the door. 
 
 The wind-stirred robe of roseate grey 
 /Ind rose-crown of the hour that leads the day 
 IVben we shall meet once more. 
 
 Dark as thy blinded wave 
 IVhen brimming midnight floods the glen, — 
 Bright as the laughter of thy runnels when 
 The dawn yields all the light they crave ; 
 Even so these hours to wound and that to save 
 Are sisters in Love's ken. 
 
 Oh sweet her bending grace 
 Then when I kneel beside her feet ; 
 And sweet her eyes' o'erhanging heaven ; and sweet 
 
 The gathering folds of her embrace ; 
 And her fall' n hair at last shed round my face 
 IVhen breaths and tears shall meet. 
 
 'Beneath her sheltering hair. 
 In the warm silence near her breast. 
 Our kisses and our sobs shall sink to rest ; 
 
 As in some still trance made aware 
 That day and night have wrought to fulness there 
 And Love has built our nest. 
 
 8S 
 
THE STREAM S SECRET 
 
 /Ind as in the dim grove, 
 tVheii the rains ceased that hushed them long, 
 'Mid glisieiiiiig boughs the song-birds wake to song,- 
 
 So from our hearts deep-shrined in love, 
 IVhile the leaves throb beneath, around, above, 
 The quivering notes shall throng. 
 
 , Till tenderest words found vain 
 
 Draw back to wonder mute and deep, 
 And closed lips in closed arms a silence keep. 
 
 Subdued bv memory s circling strain, — 
 The wind-rapt sound that the wind brings again 
 IVhile all the willows weep. 
 
 Then bj) ber summoning art 
 
 Shall memory conjure back the sere 
 /Autumnal Springs, from manv a dvingjyear 
 
 "Born dead ; and, bitter to the heart. 
 The very waj's where now we walk apart 
 IVho then shall cling so near. 
 
 /ind with each thought new-grown, 
 Some sweet caress or some sweet name 
 Low-breathed shall let me know her thought the same , 
 
 Making me rich with every tone 
 And touch of the dear heaven so long unknown 
 That filled mjy dreams with flame. 
 
 Pitj> and love shall burn 
 In her pressed cheek and cherishing hands ; 
 And from the living spirit of love that stands 
 
 "Between her lips to soothe and yearn. 
 Each separate breath shall clasp me round in turn 
 And loose my spirit's bands. 
 
 86 
 
THE STREAM'S SECRET 
 
 Oh passing sweet and dear. 
 Then when the worshipped form and face 
 
 tAre fell at length in darkling close embrace ; 
 T^ound which so oft the sun shone clear, 
 
 IVith mocking light and pitiless atmosphere, 
 In many an hour and place. 
 
 Ah me ! with what proud growth 
 Shall that hour's thirsting race be run ; 
 lVhile,for each several sweetness still begun 
 
 Afresh, endures love's endless drouth : [mouth, 
 
 Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, sweet eyes, sweet 
 Each singly wooed and won. 
 
 Yet most with the sweet soul 
 Shall love's espousals then be knit ; 
 For verj> passion of peace shall breathe from it 
 
 O'er tremulous wings that touch the goal, 
 As on the unmeasured height of Love's control 
 The lustral fires are lit. 
 
 Therefore, when breast and cheek 
 Now part, from long embraces free, — 
 Each on the other gating shall but see 
 
 A self that has no need to speak : 
 All things unsought, j>et nothing more to seek, — 
 One love in unitjy. 
 
 O water wandering past, — 
 Albeit to thee I speak this thing, 
 O water, thou that wander est whispering. 
 
 Thou kcep'st thf counsel to the last. 
 tVhat spell upon thj> bosom should Love cast, 
 His message thence to wring ? 
 
 87 
 
THE stream's secret 
 
 Nay, must thou hear the tale 
 Of the past days, — the heavy d^bt 
 Of life that obdurate time withholds, — ere yet 
 
 To win thine ear these prayers prevail. 
 And by thy voice Love's self with high All-hail 
 Yield up the love-secret ? 
 
 How should all this be told? — 
 All the sad sum of wayworn days ; — 
 Heart's anguish in the impenetrable ma^e. 
 
 And on the waste uticoloured wold 
 The visible burthen of the sun grown cold 
 t/lnd the moon's labouring ga^e ? 
 
 Alas ! shall hope be nurs'd 
 On life's all-succouring breast in vain. 
 And made so perfect only to be slain ? 
 Or shall not rather the sweet thirst 
 Evenyet rejoice the heart with warmth dispers'd 
 And strength grown fair again ? 
 
 Stands it not by the door — 
 Love's Hour — till she and I shall meet 
 IVith bodiless form and unapparent feet 
 
 That cast no shadow yet before. 
 Though round its head the dawn begins to pour 
 The breath that makes day sweet ? 
 
 Its eyes invisible 
 IVatch till the dial's thin-thrown shade 
 Be born, — yea, till the journeying line be laid 
 
 Upon the point that wakes the spell. 
 And there in lovelier light than tongue can tell 
 Its presence stand array' d. 
 
 L.ofC. 
 
 88 
 
THE stream's secret 
 
 Its soul rememher$j/et 
 Those sunless hours that passed it hj> ; 
 y4iid still it hears the night's disconsolate crj\ 
 
 /tnd feels the branches wringing wet 
 Cast on its brow, that mav not once forget, 
 Dumb tears from the blind sky. 
 
 But oh! when now her foot 
 "Draws near, for whose sake night and day 
 Were long in weary longing sighed away, — 
 The Hour of Love, 'mid airs grown mute. 
 Shall sing beside the door, and Love's own lute 
 Thrill to the passionate lay. 
 
 Thou know' st, for Love has told 
 Within thine ear, O stream, how soon 
 That song shall lift its sweet appointed tune. 
 
 O tell me, for my lips are cold, 
 And in my veins the blood is waxing old 
 Even while I beg the boon. 
 
 So, in that hour of sighs 
 Assuaged, shall we beside this stone 
 Yield thanks for grace ; while in thy mirror shown 
 
 The twofold image softly lies, 
 Until we kiss, and each in other's eyes 
 Is imaged all alone. 
 
 Still silent ? Can no art 
 Of Love's then move thy pity ? Nay, 
 To thee let nothing come that owns his sway : 
 
 Let happy lovers have no part 
 IVith thee ; nor even so sad and poor a heart 
 As thou hast spurned to-day. 
 
 89 
 
THE stream's secret 
 
 To-day ? Lo ! night is here. 
 The glen grows beavv with sonu veil 
 Risen from the earth or fall' n to make earth pale ; 
 
 And all stands husked to eve and ear, 
 Until the night-wind shake the shade like fear 
 And every covert quail. 
 
 Ah ! by a colder wave 
 On deathlier airs the hour must come 
 IVhich to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. 
 
 Between the lips of the low cave 
 t/! gainst that night the lapping waters lave, 
 And the dark lips are dumb. 
 
 ^ut there Love's self doth stand. 
 And with Life's weary wings far-flown, 
 i/Jnd with ^Death's eyes that make the water moan. 
 
 Gathers the water in his hand : 
 And they that drink know nought of sky or land 
 But only love alone. 
 
 O soul-sequestered face 
 Far off, — O were that night but now ! 
 So even beside that stream even I and thou 
 
 Through thirsting lips should draw Love's grace. 
 And in the {one of that supreme embrace 
 Bind aching breast and brow. 
 
 O water whispering 
 Still through the dark into mine ears, — 
 As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers ? — 
 
 {Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, 
 IVan water, wandering water weltering. 
 This hidden tide of tears. 
 
 90 
 
THE CARD -DEALER. 
 
 C OVLD jt'on not drink her ga^e like wine? 
 Yet though its splendour swoon 
 Into the silence languidly 
 As a tune into a tune, 
 Those ej>es unravel the coiled night 
 And know the stars at noon. 
 
 The gold that's heaped beside her hand, 
 
 !n truth rich pri{e it were ; 
 And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows 
 
 IVith magic stillness there ; 
 And he were rich who should unwind 
 
 That woven golden hair. 
 
 Around her, where she sits, the dance 
 
 Now breathes its eager heat ; 
 And not more lightljy or more true 
 
 Fall there the dancers' feet 
 Than fall her cards on the bright board 
 
 cAs 'twere a heart that beat. 
 
 Her fingers let them softly through, 
 
 Smooth polished silent things ; 
 And each one as it falls reflects 
 
 In swift light-shadowings. 
 Blood-red and purple, green and blue, 
 
 The great eyes of her rings. 
 
 91 
 
THE CARD-DEALER 
 
 JVbom plays she with ? IVitb thee, who lov'st 
 
 Those gems upon her hand ; 
 JVith me, who search her secret brows ; 
 
 With all men, bless' d or banned. 
 IVe play together, she and we, 
 
 IVitbin a vain strange land: 
 
 A land without anj> order, — 
 
 Daj> even as night, (one saith,) — 
 IVbere who lieth down ariseth not 
 
 Nor the sleeper awakenetb ; 
 A land of darkness as darkness itself 
 
 t^nd of the shadow of death. 
 
 IVbat be her cards, jyou ask ? Even these : — 
 
 The heart, that doth but crave 
 More, having fed ; the diamond, 
 
 Skilled to make base seem brave ; 
 The club, for smiting in the dark ; 
 
 The spade, to dig a grave. 
 
 And do you ask what game she plays ? 
 
 With me 'tis lost or won; 
 With thee it is playing still ; with him 
 
 It is not well begun ; 
 But 'tis a game she plays with all 
 
 Beneath the sway o' the sun. 
 
 Thou seest the card that falls, — she knows 
 
 The card that followeth : 
 Her game in thy tongue is called Life, 
 
 As ebbs thy daily breath : 
 When she shall speak, thou' It learn her tongue 
 
 And know she calls it Death. 
 
 92 
 
MY SISTER'S SLEEP. 
 
 SHY. fell asleep on Christmas Eve : 
 At length the long ttngranted shade 
 Of weary eyelids overweigh'd 
 The pain nought else might yet relieve. 
 
 Our mother, -who had leaned all day 
 Over the bed from chime to chime, 
 Then raised herself for the first time. 
 
 And as she sat her down, did pray. 
 
 Her little work-table was spread 
 I IVith work to finish. For the glare 
 Made by her candle, she had care 
 To work some distance from the bed. 
 
 IVilhout, there was a cold moon up. 
 Of winter radiance sheer and thin ; 
 The hollow halo it was in 
 
 IVas like an icy crystal cup. 
 
 Through the small room, with subtle sound 
 Of fame, by vents the fireshine drove 
 And reddened. In its dim alcove 
 
 The mirror shed a clearness round. 
 
 I had been sitting up some nights, 
 t^nd my tired mind felt weak and blank ; 
 Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank 
 
 The stillness and the broken lights. 
 
 93 
 
, MY sister's sleep 
 
 Twelve struck. That sound, hy dwindling vears 
 Heard in each hour, crept off ; and then 
 The ruffled silence spread again, 
 
 Like water that a pebble stirs. 
 
 Our mother rose from where she sat : 
 Her needles, as she laid them down, 
 Met lightlj', and her silken gown 
 
 Settled : no other noise than that. 
 
 " Glorjp unto the Newly Born.'" 
 So, as said angels, she did saj> ; 
 Because we were in Christmas Daj>, 
 
 Though it would still be long till morn. 
 
 Just then in the room over us 
 
 There was a pushing back of chairs, 
 tAs some who had sat unawares 
 
 So late, now beard the hour, and rose. 
 
 IVith anxious softly-stepping haste 
 Our mother went where OAargaret lay. 
 Fearing the sounds overhead — should they 
 
 Have broken her long watched-for rest ! 
 
 She stopped an instant, calm, and turned; 
 
 But suddenly turned back again ; 
 
 And all her features seemed in pain 
 With woe, and her eyes ga^ed and yearned. 
 
 For my part, I but hid my face, 
 i/lnd held my breath, and spoke no word : 
 There was none spoken ; but I beard 
 
 The silence for a little space. 
 
 94 
 
MY SISTER S SLEEP 
 
 Our mother bowed herself and wept : 
 And both my arms fell, and I said, 
 " God knows I knew that she was dead." 
 
 And there, all white, mj> sister slept. 
 
 Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn 
 A little after twelve o'clock 
 IVe said, ere the first quarter struck, 
 
 " Christ's blessing on the newly born!" 
 
 95 
 
/ 
 
 
 Trinted by CORN HILL TRESS, 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 1896 
 
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