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 (Pel A 3. ^9 6" 
 
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 Copyright, 100$ 
 By Dodd, Mead and Company 
 
 Published September, 1905 
 
 PRESSWORK BY THE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U-S.A. 
 
/// iz/tjt eefi cms 
 
 She came to the village church . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 I played with her when a child ... 8 
 At the head of the village street ... 22 
 
 Alone in an empty house 26 
 
 Gathering woodland lilies 40 
 
 Maud's own little oak-room 44 
 
 I heard her close the door 54 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud .... 72 
 
 On the Breton strand 82 
 
 The phantom cold 90 
 

 
 
 I hate the dreadful hollow behind 
 
 the little wood, 
 Its lips in the field above are dabbled 
 
 with blood-red heath, 
 The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a 
 
 silent horror of blood, 
 And Echo there, whatever is ask'd 
 
 her, answers " Death." 
 
 For there in the ghastly pit long 
 
 since a body was found, 
 His who had given me life — O father ! 
 
 O God ! was it well ? — 
 
 *>*> 
 
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, 
 and dinted into the ground : 
 
 There yet lies the rock that fell with 
 him when he fell. 
 
 Did he fling himself down ? who 
 
 knows ? for a vast speculation 
 
 had fail'd, 
 And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, 
 
 and ever wann'd with despair, 
 And out he walk'd when the wind 
 
 like a broken worlding wail'd, 
 And the flying gold of the ruin'd 
 
 woodlands drove thro' the air. 
 
 I remember the time, for the roots 
 
 of my hair were stirr'd 
 By a shuffled step, by a dead weight 
 
 trail'd, by a whisper'd fright, 
 And my pulses closed their gates with 
 
 a shock on my heart as I heard 
 The shrill-edged shriek of a mother 
 
 divide the shuddering night. 
 

 
 
 Villainy somewhere ! whose ? One 
 
 says, we are villains all. 
 Not he : his honest fame should at 
 
 least by me be maintain'd: 
 But that old man, now lord of the 
 
 broad estate and the Hall, 
 Dropt off gorged from a scheme that 
 
 had left us flaccid and drain'd. 
 
 Why do they prate of the blessings 
 
 of Peace ? we have made them 
 
 a curse, 
 Pickpockets, each hand lusting for 
 
 all that is not its own ; 
 And lust of gain, in the spirit of 
 
 Cain, is it better or worse 
 Than the heart of the citizen hissing 
 
 in the war on his own heartstone ? 
 
 But these are the days of advance, 
 the works of the men of mind, 
 
 When who but a fool would have 
 faith in a tradesman's ware or 
 his word ? 
 
 
 
 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I 
 
 think, and that of a kind 
 The viler, as underhand, not openly 
 
 bearing the sword. 
 
 Sooner or later I too may passively 
 
 take the print 
 Of the golden age — why not ? I have 
 
 neither hope nor trust ; 
 May make my heart as a millstone, 
 
 set my face as a flint, 
 Cheat and be cheated, and die : who 
 
 knows ? we are ashes and dust. 
 
 Peace sitting under her olive, and 
 
 slurring the days gone by, 
 When the poor are hovell'd and 
 
 hustled together, each sex, like 
 
 swine, 
 When only the ledger lives, and 
 
 when only not all men lie ; 
 Peace in her vineyard — yes ! but a 
 
 company forges the wine. 
 

 And the vitriol madness flushes up 
 
 in the ruffian's head, 
 Till the filthy by-lane rings to the 
 
 yell of the trampled wife., 
 While chalk and alum and plaster 
 
 are sold to the poor for bread, 
 And the spirit of murder works in 
 
 the very means of life. 
 
 And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for 
 
 the villainous centre-bits 
 Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush 
 
 of the moonless nights, 
 While another is cheating the sick or 
 
 a few last gasps, as he sits 
 To pestle a poison'd poison behind 
 
 his crimson lights. 
 
 When a Mammonite mother kills 
 
 her babe for a burial fee, 
 And Timour-Mammon grins on a 
 
 pile of children's bones, 
 
Is it peace or war ? better, war ! loud 
 
 war by land and by sea, 
 War with a thousand battles, and 
 
 shaking a hundred thrones. 
 
 For I trust if an enemy's fleet came 
 
 yonder round by the hill, 
 And the rushing battle-bolt sang from 
 
 the three-decker out of the foam, 
 That the smoothfaced snubnosed 
 
 rogue would leap from his counter 
 
 and till, 
 And strike, if he could, were it but 
 
 with his cheating yardwand, 
 
 home. 
 
 What ! am I raging alone as my 
 father raged in his mood ? 
 
 Must / too creep to the hollow and 
 dash myself down and die 
 
 Rather than hold by the law that I 
 made, nevermore to brood 
 

 
 On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a 
 wretched swindler's lie ? 
 
 Would there be sorrow for me ? there 
 
 was love in the passionate shriek, 
 Love for the silent thing that had 
 
 made false haste to the grave — 
 Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and 
 
 thought he would rise and speak 
 And rave at the lie and the liar, ah 
 
 God, as he used to rave. 
 
 I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I 
 
 am sick of the moor and the main. 
 Why should I stay ? can a sweeter 
 
 chance ever come to me here ? 
 O, having the nerves of motion as 
 
 well as the nerves of pain, 
 Were it not wise if I fled from the 
 
 place and the pit and the fear ? 
 
 There are workmen up at the Hall : 
 they are coming back from abroad ; 
 
 
 
 
The dark old place will be gilt by 
 the touch of a millionaire: 
 
 I have heard, I know not whence, of 
 the singular beauty of Maud ; 
 
 I play'd with the girl when a child ; 
 she promised then to be fair. 
 
 Maud with her venturous climbings 
 
 and tumbles and childish escapes, 
 Maud the delight of the village, the 
 
 ringing joy of the Hall, 
 Maud with her sweet purse-mouth 
 
 when my father dangled the grapes, 
 Maud the beloved of my mother, 
 
 the moon-faced darling of all, — 
 
 What is she now ? My dreams are 
 
 bad. She may bring me a curse. 
 No, there is fatter game on the 
 
 moor ; she will let me alone. 
 Thanks, for the fiend best knows 
 
 whether woman or man be the 
 
 worse. 
 I will bury myself in my books, and 
 
 the Devil may pipe to his own. 
 
c^ /y/ciytrf witA. /itr /ir/fex a &&&£ 
 

 
 
 
 Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God 
 grant I may find it at last ! 
 
 It will never be broken by Maud, 
 she has neither savour nor salt, 
 
 But a cold and clear-cut face, as I 
 found when her carriage past, 
 
 Perfectly beautiful : let it be granted 
 her : where is the fault ? 
 
 All that I saw (for her eyes were 
 downcast, not to be seen) 
 
 Faultily faultless, icily regular, splen- 
 didly null, 
 
 Dead perfection, no more ; nothing 
 more, if it had not been 
 
 For a chance of travel, a paleness, an 
 hour's defect of the rose, 
 
 
 
 
 
 <*v 
 
 ^upif^s^y 
 

 Or an underlip, you may call it a 
 
 little too ripe, too full, 
 Or the least little delicate aquiline 
 
 curve in a sensitive nose, 
 From which I escaped heart-free, with 
 
 the least little touch of spleen. 
 

 
 Cold and clear-cut face, why come 
 
 you so cruelly meek, 
 Breaking a slumber in which all 
 
 spleenful folly was drown'd, 
 Pale with the golden beam of an 
 
 eyelash dead on the cheek, 
 Passionless, pale, cold face, star- 
 sweet on a gloom profound ; 
 Womanlike, taking revenge too deep 
 
 for a transient wrong 
 Done but in thought to your beauty, 
 
 and ever as pale as before 
 Growing and fading and growing 
 
 upon me without a sound, 
 
 A 
 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, death- 
 like, half the night long 
 Growing and fading and growing, till 
 
 I could bear it no more, 
 But arose, and all by myself in my 
 
 own dark garden ground, 
 Listening now to the tide in its 
 
 broad-flung shipwrecking roar, 
 Now to the scream of a madden'd 
 
 beach dragg'd down by the wave, 
 Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly 
 
 glimmer, and found 
 The shining daffodil dead, and Orion 
 
 low in his grave. 
 
 

 
 
 
 A million emeralds break from the 
 ruby-budded lime 
 
 In the little grove where I sit — ah, 
 wherefore cannot I be 
 
 Like things of the season gay, like 
 the bountiful season bland, 
 
 When the far-off sail is blown by 
 the breeze of a softer clime, 
 
 Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom 
 of a crescent of sea, 
 
 The silent sapphire-spangled mar- 
 riage ring of the land ? 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Below me, there, is the village, and 
 
 looks how quiet and small ! 
 And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with 
 
 gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
 And Jack on his ale-house bench 
 
 has as many lies as a Czar ; 
 And here on the landward side, by a 
 
 red rock, glimmers the Hall ; 
 And up in the high Hall-garden I 
 
 see her pass like a light ; 
 But sorrow seize me if ever that light 
 
 be my leading star ! 
 
 When have I bow'd to her father, 
 
 the wrinkled head of the race ? 
 I met her to-day with her brother, 
 
 but not to her brother I bow'd ; 
 I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode 
 
 by on the moor ; 
 But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd 
 
 over her beautiful face. 
 O child, you wrong your beauty, 
 
 believe it, in being so proud ; 
 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, 
 and I am nameless and poor. 
 
 I keep but a man and a maid, ever 
 
 ready to slander and steal ; 
 I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, 
 
 like a stoic, or like 
 A wiser epicurean, and let the world 
 
 have its way : 
 For nature is one with rapine, a harm 
 
 no preacher can heal ; 
 The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, 
 
 the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, 
 And the whole little wood where I 
 
 sit is a world of plunder and prey. 
 
 We are puppets, Man in his pride,, 
 
 and Beauty fair, in her flower ; 
 Do we move ourselves, or are moved 
 
 by an unseen hand at a game 
 That pushes us ofF from the board, 
 
 and others ever succeed ? 
 Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each 
 
 other here for an hour ; 
 
 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, 
 and grin at a brother's shame ; 
 
 However we brave it out, we men 
 are a little breed. 
 
 A monstrous eft was of old the Lord 
 
 and Master of Earth, 
 For him did his high sun flame, and 
 
 his river billowing ran, 
 And he felt himself in his force to 
 
 be Nature's crowning race. 
 As nine months go to the shaping 
 
 an infant ripe for his birth, 
 So many a million of ages have gone 
 
 to the making of man : 
 He now is first, but is he the last? 
 
 is he not too base ? 
 
 The man of science himself is fonder 
 
 of glory, and vain, 
 An eye well-practised in nature, a 
 
 spirit bounded and poor ; 
 The passionate heart of the poet is 
 
 whirl'd into folly and vice. 
 
I would not marvel at either, but 
 
 keep a temperate brain ; 
 For not to desire or admire, if a man 
 
 could learn it, were more 
 Than to walk all day like the sultan 
 
 of old in a garden of spice. 
 
 For the drift of the Maker is dark, 
 
 an Isis hid by the veil. 
 Who knows the ways of the world, 
 
 how God will bring them about? 
 Our planet is one, the suns are many, 
 
 the world is wide. 
 Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I 
 
 shriek if a Hungary fail ? 
 Or an infant civilisation be ruled 
 
 with rod or with knout ? 
 I have not made the world, and He 
 
 that made it will guide. 
 
 Be mine a philosopher's life in the 
 • quiet woodland ways, 
 Where if I cannot be gay let a pas- 
 sionless peace be my lot, 
 
Far-off from the clamour of liars 
 
 belied in the hubbub of lies ; 
 From the long-neck'd geese of the 
 
 world that are ever hissing dispraise 
 Because their natures are little, and, 
 
 whether he heed it or not, 
 Where each man walks with his head 
 
 in a cloud of poisonous flies. 
 
 And most of all would I flee from 
 
 the cruel madness of love, 
 The honey of poison-flowers and all 
 
 the measureless ill. 
 Ah Maud, you milk-white fawn, you 
 
 are all unmeet for a wife. 
 Your mother is mute in her grave as 
 
 her image in marble above ; 
 Your father is ever in London, you 
 
 wander about at your will; 
 You have but fed on the roses, and 
 
 lain in the lilies of life. 
 
fs 
 
 A voice by the cedar tree, 
 
 In the meadow under the Hall ! 
 
 She is singing an air that is known 
 
 to me, 
 A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
 A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
 Singing alone in the morning of life, 
 In the happy morning of life and of 
 
 May, 
 Singing of men that in battle array, 
 Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
 March with banner and bugle and fife 
 To the death, for their native land. 
 
 Maud with her exquisite face, 
 And wild voice pealing up to the 
 sunny sky, 
 
 1 9 
 
And feet like sunny gems on an 
 
 English green, 
 Maud in the light of her youth and 
 
 her grace, 
 Singing of Death, and of Honour 
 
 that cannot die, 
 Till I well could weep for a time so 
 
 sordid and mean, 
 And myself so languid and base. 
 
 Silence, beautiful voice ! 
 
 Be still, for you only trouble the 
 
 mind 
 With a joy in which I cannot rejoice, 
 A glory I shall not find. 
 Still ! I will hear you no more, 
 For your sweetness hardly leaves me 
 
 a choice 
 But to move to the meadow and fall 
 
 before 
 Her feet on the meadow grass, and 
 
 adore. 
 

 
 
 Not her, who is neither courtly nor 
 
 kind, 
 Not her, not her, but a voice. 
 
Morning arises stormy and pale, 
 No sun, but a wannish glare 
 In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 
 And the budded peaks of the wood 
 
 are bow'd 
 Caught and cuff'd by the gale ; 
 I had fancied it would be fair. 
 
 Whom but Maud should I meet 
 Last night, when the sunset burn'd 
 On the blossom'd gable-ends 
 At the head of the village street, 
 Whom but Maud should I meet ? 
 And she touch'd my hand with a 
 smile so sweet 
 
QybJ- £&£. /i£,<z<) of fine- ir'//ci^e ^/reet- 
 
She made me divine amends 
 For a courtesy not return'd. 
 
 And thus a delicate spark 
 Of glowing and growing light 
 Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 
 Kept itself warm in the heart of my 
 
 dreams, 
 Ready to burst in a colour'd flame ; 
 Till at last when the morning came 
 In a cloud, it faded, and seems 
 But an ashen-gray delight. 
 
 What if with her sunny hair, 
 
 And smile as sunny as cold, 
 
 She meant to weave me a snare 
 
 Of some coquettish deceit, 
 
 Cleopatra-like as of old 
 
 To entangle me when we met, 
 
 To have her lion roll in a silken net 
 
 And fawn at a victor's feet. 
 
 Ah, what shall I be at fifty 
 Should Nature keep me alive, 
 
It" I find the world so bitter 
 When I am but twenty-five? 
 Yet, if she were not a cheat, 
 If Maud were all that she seem'd, 
 And her smile were all that I 
 
 dream 'd, 
 Then the world were not so bitter 
 But a smile could make it sweet. 
 
 What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
 Of a kind intent to me, 
 What if that dandy-despot, he, 
 That jewell'd mass of millinery, 
 That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
 Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
 Her brother, from whom I keep 
 
 aloof, 
 Who wants the finer politic sense 
 To mask, tho' but in his own be- 
 hoof, 
 With a glassy smile his brutal 
 scorn — 
 
jftk 
 
 
 What if he had told her yestermorn 
 How prettily for his own sweet sake 
 A face of tenderness might be feign'd, 
 And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
 That so, when the rotten hustings 
 
 shake 
 In another month to his brazen lies, 
 A wretched vote may be gain'd. 
 
 For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 
 Keep watch and ward, keep watch 
 
 and ward, 
 Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
 Yea too, myself from myself I guard, 
 For often a man's own angry pride 
 Is cap and bells for a fool. 
 
 Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
 Came out of her pitying woman- 
 hood, 
 For am I not, am I not, here alone 
 So many a summer since she died, 
 
 
My mother, who was so gentle and 
 
 good ? 
 Living alone in an empty house, 
 Here half-hid in the gleaming wood, 
 Where I hear the dead at midday 
 
 moan, 
 And the shrieking rush of the wain- 
 scot mouse, 
 And my own sad name in corners 
 
 cried, 
 When the shiver of dancing leaves is 
 
 thrown 
 About its echoing chambers wide, 
 Till a morbid hate and horror have 
 
 grown 
 Of a world in which I have hardly 
 
 mixt, 
 And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
 On a heart half-turn'd to stone. 
 
 O heart of stone, are you flesh, and 
 caught 
 
te in t*n em. 
 
 47ZCd-C 
 
By that you swore to withstand ? 
 For what was it else within me 
 
 wrought 
 But, I fear, the new strong wine of 
 
 love, 
 That made my tongue so stammer 
 
 and trip 
 When I saw the treasured splendour, 
 
 her hand, 
 Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
 And the sunlight broke from her 
 
 lip? 
 
 I have play'd with her when a child ; 
 She remembers it now we meet. 
 Ah well, well, well, I may be be- 
 guiled 
 By some coquettish deceit. 
 Yet, if she were not a cheat, 
 If Maud were all that she seem'd, 
 And her smile had all that I dream'd, 
 Then the world were not so bitter 
 
 But a smile could make it sweet. 
 
 27 
 
Did I hear it half in a doze 
 
 Long since, I know not where ? 
 
 Did I dream it an hour ago, 
 When asleep in this arm-chair ? 
 
 Men were drinking together, 
 Drinking and talking of me ; 
 
 " Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
 Will have plenty ; so let it be." 
 
 Is it an echo of something 
 Read with a boy's delight, 
 
 Viziers nodding together 
 In some Arabian night? 
 
 
 
 28 
 
Strange, that I hear two men, 
 Somewhere, talking of me ; 
 
 " Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
 Will have plenty : so let it be." 
 
 29 
 
She came to the village church, 
 And sat by a pillar alone ; 
 An angel watching an urn 
 Wept over her, carved in stone ; 
 And once, but once, she lifted her 
 
 eyes, 
 And suddenly, sweetly, strangely 
 
 blush'd 
 To find they were met by my own ; 
 And suddenly, sweetly, my heart 
 
 beat stronger 
 And thicker, until I heard no longer 
 The snowy-banded, dilettante, 
 
%, 
 
 Delicate-handed priest intone ; 
 
 And thought, is it pride, and mused 
 
 and sigh'd, 
 "No surely, now it cannot be pride." 
 
I was walking a mile, 
 More than a mile from the shore, 
 The sun look'd out with a smile 
 Betwixt the cloud and the moor, 
 And riding at set of day 
 Over the dark moorland, 
 Rapidly riding far away, 
 She waved to me with her hand. 
 There were two at her side, 
 Something flash'd in the sun, 
 Down by the hill I saw them ride, 
 In a moment they were gone : 
 Like a sudden spark 
 

 Struck vainly in the night, 
 And back returns the dark 
 With no more hope of light. 
 
 
 

 Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread? 
 Was not one of the two at her side 
 This new-made lord, whose splend- 
 our plucks 
 The slavish hat from the villager's 
 
 head ? 
 Whose old grandfather has lately 
 
 died, 
 Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
 Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
 And laying his trams in a poison'd 
 
 gloom 
 Wrought, till he crept from a gutted 
 
 mine 
 Master of half a servile shire, 
 And left his coal all turn'd into gold 
 To a grandson, first of his noble line, 
 Rich in the grace all women desire, 
 
 
Strong in the power that all men 
 
 adore, 
 And simper and set their voices 
 
 lower, 
 
 And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
 Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, 
 Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
 New as his title, built last year, 
 There amid perky larches and pine, 
 And over the sullen-purple moor 
 (Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 
 
 B0 
 
 What, has he found my jewel out? 
 For one of the two that rode at her 
 
 side 
 Bound for the Hall, I was sure was 
 
 he: 
 Bound for the Hall, and I think for 
 
 a bride. 
 Blithe would her brother's acceptance 
 
 be. 
 Maud could be gracious too, no 
 
 doubt, 
 
 35 
 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
 A bought commission, a waxen face, 
 A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
 Bought ? what is it he cannot buy ? 
 And therefore splenetic, personal, 
 " base, 
 A wounded thing with a rancourous 
 
 cry, 
 At war with myself and a wretched 
 
 race, 
 Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 
 
 Last week came one to the country 
 
 town, 
 To preach our poor little army down, 
 And play the game of the despot 
 
 kings, 
 Tho' the state has done it and thrice 
 
 as well : 
 This broad-brim'd hawker of holy 
 
 things, 
 Whose ear is stuff' d with his cotton, 
 
 and rings 
 
Even in dreams to the chink of his 
 
 pence, 
 This huckster put down war ! can he 
 
 tell 
 Whether war be a cause or a conse- 
 quence? 
 Put down the passions that make 
 
 earth Hell ! 
 Down with ambition, avarice, pride, 
 Jealousy, down! cut off from the mind 
 The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
 Down too, down at your own fireside, 
 With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
 For each is at war with mankind. 
 
 I wish I could hear again 
 
 The chivalrous battle-song 
 
 That she warbled alone in her joy ! 
 
 I might persuade myself then 
 
 She would not do herself this great 
 
 wrong 
 To take a wanton dissolute boy 
 For a man and a leader of men. 
 
 
Ah God, for a man with heart, head, 
 
 hand, 
 Like some of the simple great ones 
 
 gone 
 For ever and ever by, 
 One still strong man in a blatant land, 
 Whatever they call him, what care I, 
 Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
 Who can rule and dare not lie. 
 
 And ah for a man to arise in me, 
 That the man I am may cease to be ! 
 
 38 
 

 
 let the solid ground 
 Not fail beneath my feet 
 
 Before my life has found 
 
 What some have found so sweet ; 
 Then let come what come may, 
 What matter if I go mad, 
 
 1 shall have had my day. 
 
 Let the sweet heavens endure, 
 Not close and darken above me 
 
 Before I am quite quite sure 
 That there is one to love me ; 
 
 Then let come what come may 
 
 To a life that has been so sad, 
 
 I shall have had my day. 
 
 
 39 
 
 
 
Birds in the high Hall-garden 
 When twilight was falling, 
 
 Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
 They were crying and calling. 
 
 Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 
 
 And I, who else, was with her, 
 Gathering woodland lilies, 
 
 Myriads blow together. 
 
 Birds in our wood sang 
 Ringing thro' the vallies, 
 
 Maud is here, here, here 
 In among the lilies. 
 
^cz.£/iL£srisTi47 unpzrcCcsezTi<c£ L1&&6- 
 
I kiss'd her slender hand, 
 She took the kiss sedately ; 
 
 Maud is not seventeen, 
 But she is tall and stately. 
 
 I to cry out on pride 
 
 Who have won her favour ! 
 
 Maud were sure of Heaven 
 If lowliness could save her. 
 
 1 know the way she went 
 
 Home with her maiden posy, 
 For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
 And left the daisies rosy. 
 
 Birds in the high Hall-garden 
 Were crying and calling to her, 
 
 Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 
 One is come to woo her. 
 
 Look, a horse at the door, 
 
 And little King Charles is snarling, 
 Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
 
 You are not her darling. 
 
Scorn'd, to be scorn'd by one that I 
 
 scorn, 
 Is that a matter to make me fret? 
 That a calamity hard to be borne ? 
 Well, he may live to hate me yet. 
 Fool that I am to be vext with his 
 
 pride ! 
 I past him, I was crossing his lands ; 
 He stood on the path a little aside; 
 His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 
 Has a broad-blown comeliness, red 
 
 and white, 
 And six feet two, as I think, he stands ; 
 But his essences turn'd the live air sick, 
 And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
 Sunn'd itself on his breast and his 
 
 hands. 
 

 Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
 I long'd so heartily then and there 
 To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 
 But while I past he was humming an 
 
 air, 
 Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
 Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
 And curving a contumelious lip, 
 Gorgonised me from head to foot 
 With a stony British stare. 
 
 Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
 That old man never comes to his place: 
 Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen? 
 For only once, in the village street, 
 Last year, I caught a glimpse of his 
 
 face, 
 A gray old wolf and a lean. 
 Scarcely, now, would I call him a 
 
 cheat ; 
 For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit, 
 She might by a true descent be untrue ; 
 
(<S**Z- 
 
 Maud has a garden of roses 
 And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
 There she walks in her state 
 And tends upon bed and bower, 
 And thither I climb'd at dawn 
 And stood by her garden-gate ; 
 A lion ramps at the top, 
 He is claspt by a passion-flower. 
 
 Maud's own little oak-room 
 (Which Maud, like a precious stone 
 Set in the heart of the carven gloom, 
 Lights with herself, when alone 
 
 45 
 
 
 
 
She sits by her music and books, 
 And her brother lingers late 
 With a roystering company) looks 
 Upon Maud's own garden-gate : 
 And I thought as I stood, if a hand, 
 
 as white 
 As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
 On the hasp of the window, and my 
 
 Delight 
 Had a sudden desire, like a glorious 
 
 ghost, to glide, 
 Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, 
 
 down to my side, 
 There were but a step to be made. 
 
 The fancy flatter'd my mind, 
 And again seem'd overbold ; 
 Now I thought that she cared for me, 
 Now I thought she was kind 
 Only because she was cold. 
 
 I heard no sound where I stood 
 But the rivulet on from the lawn 
 
 46 
 
Running down to my own dark wood ; 
 Or the voice of the long sea-wave as 
 
 it swell'd 
 Now and then in the dim-gray dawn ; 
 But I look'd, and round, all round 
 
 the house I beheld 
 The death-white curtain drawn ; 
 Felt a horror over me creep, 
 Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
 Knew that the death-white curtain 
 
 meant but sleep, 
 Yet I shudder'd and thought like a 
 
 fool of the sleep of death. 
 
 
 
 
So dark a mind within me dwells, 
 And I take myself such evil cheer, 
 
 That if I be dear to some one else, 
 Then some one else may have 
 much to fear ; 
 
 But if I be dear to some one else, 
 Then I should be to myself more 
 dear. 
 
 Shall I not take care of all that I think, 
 
 Yea ev 'n of wretched meat and drink, 
 
 If I be dear, 
 
 If I be dear to some one else ? 
 
 48 
 

 This lump of earth has left his estate 
 The lighter by the loss of his weight ; 
 And so that he find what he went to 
 
 seek, 
 And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and 
 
 drown 
 His heart in the gross mud-honey of 
 
 town, 
 He may stay for a year who has 
 
 gone for a week : 
 But this is the day when I must speak, 
 And I see my Oread coming down, 
 O this is the day ! 
 O beautiful creature, what am I 
 That I dare to look her way ; 
 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 
 Lord of the pulse that is lord of her 
 
 breast, 
 And dream of her beauty with tender 
 
 dread, 
 From the delicate Arab arch of her 
 
 feet 
 To the grace that, bright and light 
 
 as the crest 
 Of a peacock, sits on her shining 
 
 head, 
 And she knows it not : O, if she 
 
 knew it, 
 To know her beauty might half 
 
 undo it. 
 I know it the one bright thing to save 
 My yet young life in the wilds of 
 
 Time, 
 Perhaps from madness, perhaps from 
 
 crime, 
 Perhaps from a selfish grave. 
 
 s° 
 
What, if she be fasten'd to this fool 
 
 lord, 
 Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 
 Should I love her so well if she 
 Had given her word to a thing so 
 --' low ? 
 
 Shall I love her as well if she 
 Can break her word were it even 
 
 for me ? 
 I trust that it is not so. 
 
 Catch not my breath, O clamorous 
 
 heart, 
 Let not my tongue be a thrall to my 
 
 eye, 
 For I must tell her before we part, 
 I must tell her, or die. 
 
 
 A 
 
 
 51 
 
Go not, happy day, 
 
 From the shining fields, 
 Go not, happy day, 
 
 Till the maiden yields. 
 Rosy is the West, 
 
 Rosy is the South, 
 Roses are her cheeks, 
 
 And a rose her mouth. 
 When the happy Yes 
 
 Falters from her lips, 
 Pass and blush the news 
 
 O'er the blowing ships, 
 

 Over blowing seas, 
 
 Over seas at rest, 
 Pass the happy news, 
 
 Blush it thro' the West; 
 Till the red man dance 
 
 By his red cedar tree, 
 And the red man's babe 
 
 Leap, beyond the sea. 
 Blush from West to East, 
 
 Blush from East to West, 
 Till the West is East, 
 
 Blush it thro' the West. 
 Rosy is the West, 
 
 Rosy is the South, 
 Roses are her cheeks, 
 
 And a rose her mouth. 
 
 <'■'- 
 
I have led her home, my love, my 
 
 only friend. 
 There is none like her, none. 
 And never yet so warmly ran my 
 
 blood 
 
 And sweetly, on and on 
 
 Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for 
 end, 
 
 Full to the banks, close on the 
 promised good. 
 
 None like her, none. 
 Just now the dry-tongued laurels' 
 pattering talk 
 
 54 
 

 
 
 
 ) 
 
 
 <jAet&r~c/ /i&r cCttte i^zc dour" 
 
Seem'd her light foot along the 
 
 garden walk, 
 And shook my heart to think she 
 
 comes once more ; 
 But even then I heard her close the 
 
 door, 
 The gates of Heaven are closed, and 
 
 she is gone. *• 
 
 There is none like her, none. 
 
 Nor will be when our summers have 
 
 deceased. 
 O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
 In the long breeze that streams to 
 
 thy delicious East, 
 Sighing for Lebanon, 
 Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here 
 
 increased, 
 Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 
 And looking to the South, and fed 
 With honey'd rain and delicate air, 
 And haunted by the starry head 
 

 Of her whose gentle will has changed 
 my fate, 
 
 And made my life a perfumed altar- 
 flame ; 
 
 And over whom thy darkness must 
 have spread 
 
 With such delight as theirs of old, 
 thy great 
 
 Forefathers of the thornless garden, 
 there 
 
 Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from 
 whom she came. 
 
 Here will I lie, while these long 
 
 branches sway, 
 And you fair stars that crown a happy 
 
 day 
 Go in and out as if at merry play, 
 Who am no more so all forlorn, 
 As when it seem'd far better to be 
 
 born 
 To labour and the mattock-harden'd 
 
 hand, 
 
 56 
 

 Than nursed at ease and brought to 
 
 understand 
 A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
 That makes you tyrants in your iron 
 
 skies, 
 Innumerable, pitiless, passionless 
 
 eyes, 
 Cold fires, yet with power to burn 
 
 and brand 
 His nothingness into man. 
 
 But now shine on, and what care I, 
 
 Who in this stormy gulf have found 
 a pearl 
 
 The countercharm of space and hol- 
 low sky, 
 
 And do accept my madness, and 
 would die 
 
 To save from some slight shame one 
 simple girl. 
 
 Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death 
 may give 
 
 57 
 
More life to Love than is or ever 
 
 was 
 In our low world, where yet 'tis 
 
 sweet to live. 
 Let no one ask me how it came to 
 
 pass ; 
 It seems that I am happy, that to me 
 A livelier emerald twinkles in the 
 
 grass, 
 A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 
 
 Not die ; but live a life of truest 
 
 breath, 
 And teach true life to fight with 
 
 mortal wrongs. 
 O, why should Love, like men in 
 
 drinking-songs, 
 Spice his fair banquet with the dust 
 
 of death ? 
 Make answer, Maud mv bliss, 
 Maud made my Maud by that long 
 
 lover's kiss, 
 
 58 
 
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 
 this? 
 
 "The dusky strand of Death in- 
 woven here 
 
 With dear Love's tie, makes Love 
 himself more dear." 
 
 Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
 Of the long waves that roll in yonder 
 
 bay ? 
 And hark the clock within, the silver 
 
 knell 
 Of twelve sweet hours that past in 
 
 bridal white, 
 And died to live, long as my pulses 
 
 play; 
 But now by this my, love has closed 
 
 her sight 
 And given false death her hand, and 
 
 stol'n away 
 To dreamful wastes where footless 
 
 fancies dwell 
 
 59 
 
 
 
Among the fragments of the golden 
 
 day. 
 May nothing there her maiden grace 
 
 affright ! 
 Dear heart, I feel with thee the 
 
 drowsy spell. 
 My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
 My own heart's heart and pwnest 
 
 own farewell ; 
 It is but for a little space I go, 
 And ye meanwhile far over moor 
 
 and fell 
 Beat to the noiseless music of the 
 
 night ! 
 Has our whole earth gone nearer to 
 
 the glow 
 Of your soft splendours that you 
 
 look so bright ? 
 / have climbed nearer out of lonely 
 
 Hell. 
 Beat, happy stars, timing with things 
 
 below, 
 
Beat with my heart more blest than 
 
 heart can tell, 
 Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 
 
 woe 
 That seems to draw — but it shall not 
 
 be so : 
 Let all be well, be well. 
 

 Rp^ 
 
 
 
 x| 
 
 
 Her brother is coming back to-night, 
 Breaking up my dream of delight. 
 
 My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
 I have walk'd awake with Truth. 
 
 when did a morning shine 
 So rich in atonement as this 
 For my dark-dawning youth, 
 Darken'd watching a mother decline 
 And that dead man at her heart and 
 
 mine : 
 For who was left to watch her but I ? 
 Yet so did I let my freshness die. 
 
 1 trust that I did not talk 
 To gentle Maud in our walk 
 
 
(For often in lonely wanderings 
 
 I have cursed him even to lifeless 
 
 things), 
 But I trust that I did not talk, 
 Not touch on her father's sin : 
 I am sure I did but speak 
 Of my mother's faded cheek 
 When it slowly grew so thin, 
 That I felt she was slowly dying 
 Vext with lawyers and harass'd with 
 
 debt: 
 For how often I caught her with eyes 
 
 all wet, 
 Shaking her head at her son and 
 
 sighing 
 A world of trouble within ! 
 
 And Maud too, Maud was moved 
 To speak of the mother she loved 
 As one scarce less forlorn, 
 Dying abroad and it seems apart 
 From him who had ceased to share 
 
 her heart, 
 
 63 
 
 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
 The household Fury sprinkled with 
 
 blood 
 By which our houses are torn : 
 How strange was what she said, 
 When only Maud and the brother 
 Hung over her dying bed — 
 That Maud's dark father and mine 
 Had bound us one to the other, 
 Betrothed us over their wine, 
 On the day when Maud was born ; 
 Seal'd her mine from her first sweet 
 
 breath. 
 Mine, mine by a right, from birth 
 
 till death, 
 Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 
 
 But the true blood spilt had in it a 
 
 heat 
 To dissolve the precious seal on a 
 
 bond, 
 That, if left uncancell'd, had been so 
 
 sweet : 
 
 6* 
 

 And none of us thought of a some- 
 thing beyond, 
 
 A desire that awoke in the heart of 
 the child, 
 
 As it were a duty done to the tomb, 
 
 To be friends for her sake, to be 
 reconciled ; 
 
 And I was cursing them and my 
 doom, 
 
 And letting a dangerous thought run 
 wild, 
 
 While often abroad in the fragrant 
 gloom 
 
 Of foreign churches — I see her there, 
 
 Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 
 
 To be friends, to be reconciled ! 
 
 But then what a flint is he ! 
 Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
 I find whenever she touch'd on me 
 This brother had laugh'd her down, 
 And at last, when each came home, 
 
 6S 
 
He had darken'd into a frown, 
 Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
 To me, her friend of the years before; 
 And this was what had redden'd her 
 
 cheek 
 When I bow'd to her on the moor. 
 
 Yet Maud, altho' not blind 
 To the faults of his heart and mind, 
 I see she cannot but love him, 
 And says he is rough but kind, 
 And wishes me to approve him, 
 And tells me, when she lay 
 Sick once, with a fear of worse, 
 That he left his wine and horses and 
 
 play, 
 Sat with her, read to her, night and 
 
 day, 
 And tended her like a nurse. 
 
 Kind ? but the deathbed desire 
 Spurn'd by this heir of the liar — 
 Rough but kind ? yet I know 
 

 He has plotted against me in this, 
 That he plots against me still. 
 Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. 
 Well, rough but kind ; why, let it 
 
 be so : 
 For shall not Maud have her will ? 
 
 For, Maud, so tender and true, 
 As long as my life endures 
 I feel I shall owe you a debt 
 That I never can hope to pay ; 
 And if ever I should forget 
 That I owe this debt to you 
 And for your sweet sake to yours, 
 
 then, what then shall I say ? — 
 If ever I should forget, 
 
 May God make me more wretched 
 Than ever I have been yet ! 
 
 So now I have sworn to bury 
 All this dead body of hate, 
 
 1 feel so free and so clear 
 
 By the loss of that dead weight, 
 
 6 7 
 
That I should grow light-headed, I 
 fear, 
 
 Fantastically merry ; 
 
 But that her brother comes, like a 
 
 blight 
 On my fresh hope, to the Hall 
 
 to-night. 
 
 68 
 

 
 
 xx t 
 
 Strange, that I felt so gay, 
 
 Strange, that I tried to-day 
 
 To beguile her melancholy ; 
 
 The Sultan, as we name him, — 
 
 She did not wish to blame him — 
 
 But he vext her and perplext her 
 
 With his worldly talk and folly : 
 
 Was it gentle to reprove her 
 
 For stealing out of view 
 
 From a little lazy lover 
 
 Who but claims her as his due ? 
 
 Or for chilling his caresses 
 
 By the coldness of her manners, 
 
 Nay, the plainness of her dresses ? 
 
 Now I know her but in two, 
 
 Nor can pronounce upon it 
 
 If one should ask me whether 
 
 6q 
 

 The habit, hat, and feather, 
 Or the frock and gypsy bonnet 
 Be the neater and completer ; 
 For nothing can be sweeter 
 Than maiden Maud in either. 
 
 But to-morrow, if we live, 
 Our ponderous squire will give 
 A grand political dinner 
 To half the squirelings near ; 
 And Maud will wear her jewels, 
 And the bird of prey will hover, 
 And the titmouse hope to win her 
 With his chirrup at her ear. 
 
 A grand political dinner 
 
 To the men of many acres, 
 
 A gathering of the Tory, 
 
 A dinner and then a dance 
 
 For the maids and marriage-makers, 
 
 And every eye but mine will glance 
 
 At Maud in all her glory. 
 

 For I am not invited, 
 
 But, with the Sultan's pardon, 
 
 I am all as well delighted, 
 
 For I know her own rose-garden, 
 
 And mean to linger in it 
 
 Till the dancing will be over ; 
 
 And then, oh then, come out to me 
 
 For a minute, but for a minute, 
 
 Come out to your own true lover, 
 
 That your true lover may see 
 
 Your glory also, and render 
 
 All homage to his own darling, 
 
 Queen Maud in all her splendour. 
 
 
Rivulet crossing my ground, 
 
 And bringing me down from the Hall 
 
 This garden-rose that I found, 
 
 Forgetful of Maud and me, 
 
 And lost in trouble and moving round 
 
 Here at the head of a tinkling fall, 
 
 And trying to pass to the sea ; 
 
 O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 
 
 My Maud has sent it by thee 
 
 (If I read her sweet will right) 
 
 On a blushing mission to me, 
 
 Saying in odour and colour, "Ah, be 
 
 Among the roses to-night." 
 
G cmx, in£c 6n£. atarcCe n , <y%> avtcC 
 

 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 
 For the black bat, night, has flown, 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 I am here at the gate alone ; 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted 
 abroad, 
 And the musk of the roses blown. 
 
 For a breeze of morning moves, 
 And the planet of Love is on high, 
 
 Beginning to faint in the light that 
 she loves 
 On a bed of daffodil sky, 
 
To faint in the light of the sun she 
 loves, 
 To faint in his light, and to die. 
 
 All night have the roses heard 
 The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
 
 All night has the casement jessamine 
 stirr'd 
 To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
 
 Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
 And a hush with the setting moon. 
 
 I said to the lily, " There is but one 
 
 With whom she has heart to be gay. 
 When will the dancers leave her alone ? 
 
 She is weary of dance and play." 
 Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
 
 And half to the rising day; 
 Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
 
 The last wheel echoes away. 
 
 I said to the rose, " The brief night 
 goes 
 
^y 
 
 
 In babble and revel and wine. 
 O young lord-lover, what sighs are 
 those, 
 For one that will never be thine ? 
 But mine, but mine," so I sware to 
 the rose, 
 " For ever and ever, mine." 
 
 And the soul of the rose went into 
 my blood, 
 As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
 And long by the garden lake I stood, 
 
 For I heard your rivulet fall 
 From the lake to the meadow and 
 on to the wood, 
 Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 
 
 From the meadow your walks have 
 left so sweet 
 
 That whenever a March-wind sighs 
 He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
 
 In violets blue as your eyes, 
 
 75 
 
To the woody hollows in which we 
 meet 
 And the valleys of Paradise. 
 
 The slender acacia would not shake 
 
 One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
 The white lake-blossom fell into the 
 lake, 
 
 As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
 But the rose was awake all night for 
 your sake, 
 
 Knowing your promise to me ; 
 The lilies and roses were all awake, 
 
 They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 
 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
 girls, 
 Come hither, the dances are done, 
 In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
 
 Queen lily and rose in one ; 
 Shine out, little head, sunning over 
 with curls, 
 To the flowers, and be their sun. 
 
 76 
 
There has fallen a splendid tear 
 
 From the passion-flower at the gate. 
 She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 
 
 She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
 The red rose cries, " She is near, she 
 is near; " 
 
 And the white rose weeps, " She 
 is late ; " 
 The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear;" 
 
 And the lily whispers, " I wait." 
 
 She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tread, 
 My heart would hear her and beat, 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
 My dust would hear her and beat, 
 
 Had I lain for a century dead; 
 Would start and tremble under her 
 feet, 
 
 And blossom in purple and red. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
" The fault was mine, the fault was 
 
 mine " — 
 Why am I sitting here so stunn'd 
 
 and still, 
 Plucking the harmless wild-flower on 
 
 the hill ?— 
 It is this guilty hand ! — 
 And there rises ever a passionate cry 
 From underneath in the darkening 
 
 land — 
 What is it, that has been done ? 
 O dawn of Eden bright over earth 
 
 and sky, 
 
The fires of Hell brake out of thy 
 
 rising sun, 
 The fires of Hell and of Hate ; 
 For she, sweet soul, had hardly 
 
 spoken a word, 
 When her brother ran in his rage to 
 
 the gate, 
 He came with the babe-faced lord ; 
 Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, 
 And while she wept, and I strove to 
 
 be cool, 
 He fiercely gave me the lie, 
 Till I with as fierce as anger spoke, 
 And he struck me, madman, over 
 
 the face, 
 Struck me before the languid fool, 
 Who was gaping and grinning by : 
 Struck for himself an evil stroke ; 
 Wrought for his house an irredeem- 
 able woe ; 
 For front to front in an hour we 
 
 stood, 
 
 70 
 
 
And a million horrible bellowing 
 
 echoes broke 
 From the red-ribb'd hollow behind 
 
 the wood, 
 And thunder'd up into Heaven the 
 
 Christless code, 
 That must have life for a blow. 
 Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to 
 
 grow. 
 Was it he lay there with a fading eye ? 
 " The fault was mine," he whisper'd, 
 
 "fly!" 
 Then glided out of the joyous wood 
 The ghastly Wraith of one that I 
 
 know ; 
 And there rang on a sudden a pas- 
 sionate cry, 
 A cry for a brother's blood : 
 It will ring in my heart and my ears, 
 
 till I die, till I die. 
 

 Is it gone ? my pulses beat — 
 What was it? a lying trick of the 
 
 brain ? 
 Yet I thought I saw her stand, 
 A shadow there at my feet, 
 High over the shadowy land. 
 It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a 
 
 gentle rain, 
 When they should burst and drown 
 
 with deluging storms 
 The feeble vassals of wine and anger 
 
 and lust, 
 The little hearts that know not how 
 
 to forgive : 
 Arise, my God, and strike, for we 
 
 hold Thee just, 
 Strike dead the whole weak race of 
 
 venomous worms, ' 
 That sting each other here in the dust ; 
 We are not worthy to live. 
 
See what a lovely shell, 
 Small and pure as a pearl, 
 Lying close to my foot, 
 Frail, but a work divine, 
 Made so fairly well 
 With delicate spire and whorl, 
 How exquisitely minute, 
 A miracle of design ! 
 
 What is it ? a learned man 
 Could give it a clumsy name. 
 Let him name it who can, 
 The beauty would be the same. 
 
 The tiny cell is forlorn, 
 Void of the little living will 
 That made it stir on the shore. 
 
(O'ri th*e Ajr&tim st/ra^n*)- 
 
A 
 
 A 
 
 Did he stand at the diamond door 
 Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
 Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
 A golden foot or a fairy horn 
 Thro' his dim water-world ? 
 
 Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
 Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
 Small, but a work divine, 
 Frail, but of force to withstand, 
 Year upon year, the shock 
 Of cataract seas that snap 
 The three-decker's oaken spine 
 Athwart the ledges of rock, 
 Here on the Breton strand ! 
 
 Breton, not Briton ; here 
 Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 
 Of ancient fable and fear — 
 Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 
 A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 
 That never came from on high 
 
Nor ever arose from below, 
 
 But only moves with the moving eye, 
 
 Flying along the land and the main — 
 
 Why should it look like Maud ? 
 
 Am I to be overawed 
 
 By what I cannot but know 
 
 Is a juggle born of the brain ? 
 
 Back from the Breton coast, 
 
 Sick of a nameless fear, 
 
 Back to the dark sea-line 
 
 Looking, thinking of all I have lost; 
 
 An old song vexes my ear ; 
 
 But that of Lamech is mine. 
 
 For years, a measureless ill, 
 For years, for ever, to part — 
 But she, she would love me still ; 
 And as long, O God, as she 
 Have a grain of love for me, 
 So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
 Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
 

 However weary, a spark of will 
 Not to be trampled out. 
 
 Strange, that the mind, when fraught 
 With a passion so intense 
 One would think that it well 
 Might drown all life in the eye, — 
 That it should, by being so over- 
 wrought, 
 Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 
 For a shell, or a flower, little things 
 Which else would have been past by ! 
 And now I remember, I, 
 When he lay dying there, 
 I noticed one of his many rings 
 (For he had many, poor worm) and 
 
 thought 
 It is his mother's hair. 
 
 Who knows if he be dead ? 
 Whether I need have fled ? 
 Am I guilty of blood ? 
 
However this may be, 
 
 Comfort her, comfort her, all things 
 
 good, 
 While I am over the sea ! 
 Let me and my passionate love go by, 
 But speak to her all things holy and 
 
 high, 
 • Whatever happen to me ! 
 Me and my harmful love go by ; 
 But come to her waking, find her 
 
 asleep, 
 Powers of the height, Powers of the 
 
 deep, 
 And comfort her tho' I die. 
 
Courage, poor heart of stone ! 
 
 I will not ask thee why 
 
 Thou canst not understand 
 
 That thou art left for ever alone : 
 
 Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 
 
 Or if I ask thee why, 
 
 Care not thou to reply : 
 
 She is but dead, and the time is at hand 
 
 When thou shalt more than die. 
 
 37 
 
O that 'twere possible 
 
 After long grief and pain 
 
 To find the arms of my true love 
 
 Round me once again ! 
 
 When I was wont to meet her 
 In the silent woody places 
 By the home that gave me birtn, 
 We stood tranced in long embraces 
 Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter 
 Than any thing on earth. 
 
 A shadow flits before me, 
 Not thou, but like to thee ; 
 Ah Christ, that it were possible 
 For one short hour to see 
 

 
 The souls we loved, that they might 
 
 tell us 
 What and where they be. 
 
 It leads me forth at evening, 
 
 It lightly winds and steals 
 
 In a cold white robe before me, 
 
 When all my spirit reels 
 
 At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 
 
 And the roaring of the wheels. 
 
 Half the night I waste in sighs, 
 Half in dreams I sorrow after 
 The delight of early skies ; 
 In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
 For the hand, the lips, the eyes, 
 For the meeting of the morrow, 
 The delight of happy laughter, 
 The delight of low replies. 
 
 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
 And a dewy splendour falls 
 On the little flower that clings 
 
 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, 
 And the light and shadow fleet ; 
 She is walking in the meadow, 
 And the woodland echo rings ; 
 In a moment we shall meet; 
 She is singing in the meadow, 
 And the rivulet at her feet 
 Ripples on in light and shadow 
 To the ballad that she sings. 
 
 Do I hear her sing as of old, 
 My bird with the shining head, 
 My own dove with the tender eye ? 
 But there rings on a sudden a pas- 
 sionate cry, 
 There is some one dying or dead, 
 And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
 For a tumult shakes the city, 
 And I wake, my dream is fled ; 
 In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
 Without knowledge, without pity, 
 
-/ Ac n'/irvn ftrm c c^trl 
 
/V 
 
 By the curtains of my bed 
 That abiding phantom cold. 
 
 Get thee hence, nor come again, 
 Mix not memory with doubt ; 
 Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
 Pass and cease to move about, 
 'Tis the blot upon the brain 
 That will show itself without. 
 
 Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, 
 And the yellow vapours choke 
 The great city sounding wide ; 
 The day comes, a dull red ball 
 Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
 On the misty river-tide. 
 
 Thro' the hubbub of the market 
 I steal, a wasted frame, 
 It crosses here, it crosses there, 
 Thro' all that crowd confused and 
 
 loud, 
 The shadow still the same; 
 
And on my heavy eyelids 
 My anguish hangs like shame. 
 
 Alas for her that met me, 
 
 That heard me softly call, 
 
 Came glimmering thro' the laurels 
 
 At the quiet evenfall, 
 
 In the garden by the turrets 
 
 Of the old manorial hall. 
 
 Would the happy spirit descend, 
 From the realms of light and song, 
 In the chamber or the street, 
 As she looks among the blest, 
 Should I fear to greet my friend 
 Or to say " forgive the wrong," 
 Or to ask her, " take me, sweet, 
 To the regions of thy rest " ? 
 
 But the broad light glares and beats, 
 And the shadow flits and fleets 
 And will not let me be ; 
 And I loathe the squares and streets, 
 

 
 
 And the faces that one meets, 
 Hearts with no love for me : 
 Always I long to creep 
 Into some still cavern deep, 
 There to weep, and weep, and weep 
 My whole soul out to thee. 
 
 
 
 
 
Dead, long dead, 
 
 Long dead ! 
 
 And my heart is a handful of dust, 
 
 And the wheels go over my heed, 
 
 And my bones are shaken with pain, 
 
 For into a shallow grave they are 
 
 thrust, 
 Only a yard beneath the street, 
 And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 
 The hoofs of the horses beat, 
 Beat into my scalp and my brain, 
 With never an end to the stream of 
 
 passing feet, 
 Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, 
 Clamour and rumble, and ringing and 
 
 clatter, 
 And here beneath it is all as bad, 
 
For I thought the dead had peace, 
 
 but it is not so ; 
 To have no peace in the grave, is 
 
 that not sad? 
 But up and down and to and fro, 
 Ever about me the dead men go ; 
 And then to hear a dead man chatter 
 Is enough to drive one mad. 
 
 Wretchedest age, since Time began, 
 They cannot even bury a man ; 
 And tho' we paid our tithes in the 
 
 days that are gone, 
 Not a bell was rung, not a prayer 
 
 was read ; 
 It is that which makes us loud in the 
 
 world of the dead ; 
 There is none that does his work, 
 
 not one ; 
 A touch of their office might have 
 
 sufficed, 
 But the churchmen fain would kill 
 
 their church, 
 
 95 
 

 As the churches have kill'd their 
 Christ. 
 
 See, there is one of us sobbing, 
 
 No limit to his distress : 
 
 And another, a lord of all things, 
 praying 
 
 To his own great self, as I guess ; 
 
 And another, a statesman there, be- 
 traying 
 
 His party-secret, fool, to the press; 
 
 And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 
 
 The case of his patient — all for what ? 
 
 To tickle the maggot born in an 
 empty head, 
 
 And wheedle a world that loves him 
 not, 
 
 For it is but a world of the dead. 
 
 Nothing but idiot gabble ! 
 For the prophecy given of old 
 And then not understood, 
 He has come to pass as foretold ; 
 
 96 
 
Not let any man think for the public 
 
 good, 
 But babble, merely for babble. 
 For I never whisper'd a private affair 
 
 i Within the hearing of cat or mouse, 
 
 No, not to myself in the closet alone, 
 But I heard it shouted at once from 
 
 the top of the house ; 
 Everything came to be known 
 Who told him we were there ? 
 
 
 Not that gray old wolf, for he came 
 
 not back 
 From the wilderness, full of wolves, 
 
 where he used to lie; 
 He has gather'd the bones of his 
 
 o'ergrown whelp to crack ; 
 Crack them now for yourself, and 
 
 howl, and die. 
 
 Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, 
 And curse me the British vermin, 
 the rat ; 
 
 97 
 
 
I know not whether he came in the 
 
 Hanover ship, 
 But I know that he lies and listens 
 
 mute 
 In an ancient mansion's crannies and 
 
 holes : 
 Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 
 Except that now we poison our babes, 
 
 poor souls ! 
 It is all used up for that. 
 
 Tell him now : she is standing here 
 
 at my head ; 
 Not beautiful now, not even kind ; 
 He may take her now; for she never 
 
 speaks her mind, 
 But is ever the one thing silent 
 
 here. 
 She is not of us, as I divine ; 
 She comes from another stiller world 
 
 of the dead, 
 Stiller, not fairer than mine. 
 
 9 s 
 

 But I know where a garden grows, 
 Fairer than aught in the world beside, 
 All made up of the lily and rose 
 That blow by night, when the season 
 
 is good, 
 To the sound of dancing music and 
 
 flutes : 
 It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 
 And I almost fear they are not roses, 
 
 but blood ; 
 For the keeper was one, so full of 
 
 pride, 
 He linkt a dead man there to a 
 
 spectral bride ; 
 For he, if he had not been a Sultan 
 
 of brutes, 
 Would he have that hole in his side ? 
 
 But what will the old man say ? 
 
 He laid a cruel snare in a pit 
 
 To catch a friend of mine one stormy 
 
 day; 
 
 J 
 
 99 
 
 
 
Yet now I could even weep to think 
 
 of it; 
 For what will the old man say 
 When he comes to the second corpse 
 
 in the pit ? 
 
 Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
 Then to strike him and lay him low, 
 That were a public merit, far, 
 Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin ; 
 But the red life spilt for a private 
 
 blow — 
 I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
 Are scarcely even akin. 
 
 O me, why have they not buried me 
 
 deep enough ? 
 Is it kind to have made me a grave 
 
 so rough, 
 Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 
 Maybe still I am but half-dead; 
 Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 
 

 
 *>? 
 
 I will cry to the steps above my head, 
 And somebody, surely, some kind 
 
 heart will come 
 To bury me, bury me 
 Deeper, ever so little deeper. 
 
 
XXWVHI 
 
 My life has crept so long on a broken 
 
 wing 
 Thro' cells of madness, haunts of 
 
 horror and fear, 
 That I come to be grateful at last for 
 
 a little thing ; 
 My mood is changed, for it fell at a 
 
 time of year 
 When the face of nights is fair on the 
 
 dewy downs, 
 And the shining daffodil dies, and 
 
 the Charioteer 
 And starry Gemini hang like glorious 
 
 crowns 
 Over Orion's grave low down in the 
 
 west, 
 

 That like a silent lightning under the 
 
 stars 
 She seem'd to divide in a dream from 
 
 a band of the blest, 
 And spoke of a hope for the world 
 
 in the coming wars — 
 "And in that hope, dear soul, let 
 
 trouble have rest, 
 Knowing I tarry for thee," and 
 
 pointed to Mars 
 As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on 
 
 the Lion's breast. 
 
 And it was but a dream, yet it yielded 
 
 a dear delight 
 To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, 
 
 upon eyes so fair, 
 That had been in a weary world my 
 
 one thing bright ;. 
 And it was but a dream, yet it 
 
 lighten'd my despair 
 When I thought that a war would 
 
 arise in defence of the right, 
 
That an iron tyranny now should 
 
 bend or cease, 
 The glory of manhood stand on his 
 
 ancient height, 
 Nor Britain's one sole God be the 
 
 millionaire : 
 No more shall commerce be all in 
 
 all, and Peace 
 Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid 
 
 note, 
 And watch her harvest ripen, her herd 
 
 increase, 
 Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a 
 
 slothful shore, 
 And the cobweb woven across the 
 
 cannon's throat 
 Shall shake its threaded tears in the 
 
 wind no more. 
 
 And as months ran on and rumour 
 
 of battle grew, 
 " It is time, it is time, O passionate 
 
 heart," said I 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 (For I cleaved to a cause that I felt 
 
 to be pure and true), 
 " It is time, O passionate heart and 
 
 morbid eye, 
 That old hysterical mock -disease 
 
 should die." 
 And I stood on a giant deck and 
 
 mix'd my breath 
 With a loyal people shouting a battle 
 
 cry, 
 Till I saw the dreary phantom arise 
 
 and fly 
 Far into the North, and battle, and 
 
 seas of death. 
 
 Let it go or stay, so I wake to the 
 
 higher aims 
 Of a land that has lost for a little her 
 
 lust of gold, 
 And love of a peace that was full of 
 
 wrongs and shames, 
 Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to 
 
 be told ; 
 
 ios 
 
And hail once more to the banner of 
 
 battle unroll'd ! 
 Tho' many a light shall darken, and 
 
 many shall weep 
 For those that are crush'd in the 
 
 clash of jarring claims, 
 Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd 
 
 on a giant liar ; 
 And many a darkness into the light 
 
 shall leap, 
 And shine in the sudden making of 
 
 splendid names, 
 And noble thought be freer under 
 
 the sun, 
 And the heart of a people beat with 
 
 one desire ; 
 For the peace, that I deem'd no 
 
 peace, is over and done, 
 And now by the side of the Black 
 
 and Baltic deep, 
 And deathful-grinning mouths of the 
 
 fortress, flames 
 
 106 
 
rv rs 
 
 The blood-red blossom of war with 
 a heart of fire. 
 
 Let it flame or fade, and the war roll 
 
 down like a wind, 
 We have proved we have hearts in a 
 
 cause, we are noble still, 
 And myself have awaked, as it seems, 
 
 to the better mind ; 
 It is better to fight for the good, 
 
 than to rail at the ill ; 
 I have felt with my native land, I 
 
 am one with my kind, 
 I embrace the purpose of God, and 
 
 the doom assign'd. 
 
OCT 23 1905 
 

 
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