Cfte iliftrarp of tt)e 2Jnitiet0itp of Ji3ottb Carolina From the Library of Sb'u-leu Cav't.ev- &2A B8&5S jinJ^ITYOF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 00014389958 This book is due at the LOUIS R. WILSON LIBRARY on the last date stamped under “Date Due.” If not on hold it may be renewed by bringing it to the library. DATE DrT DUE RET - DATE RET 1, DUE KL1 * 83 MAY ’i 4 19&i form No. 513 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2019 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill https://archive.org/details/selectionsfrompo00brow_0 ROBERT BROWNING. SELECTIONS FROM € OF ROBERT BROWNING * 0 * 7 * //I kjB NEW YORK: HURST & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. DEDICATED Tj ALFRED TENNYSON, IN POETRY—ILLUSTRIOUS AND CONSUMMATE; IN FRIENDSHIP—NOBLE AND SINCERE. *|~N the present selection from my poetry, there is an ttempl to e cai e from the embarrassment of appearing to pronouncing upon what myself may consider the best of it. I adopt another principle ; and by simply stringing together certain pieces on the thread of an imaginary personality, I present them in succession, rather as the natural development of a particular experience than because I account them the most noteworthy portion of my work. Such an attempt was made in the volume of selec¬ tions from tin poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning; to which—in out¬ ward uniform ity at least—my own would venture to become a companion. A few years ago, had such an opportunity presented itself, I might have been tempted to say a word in reply to the objections my poetry was used to encounter. Time has kindly co-operated with my disinclination to write the poetry and the criticism besides. The readers I am at last privileged to expect, meet me fully half-way ; and if, from the fitting standpoint, they must still “censure me in their wisdom,'’ they have previously “awakened their senses that they may the better judge.” Nor do I apprehend any more charges of being willfully obscure, uncon- scientiously careless, or perversely harsh. Having hitherto done my utmost in the art to which my life is a devotion, I cannot engage to increase the effort; but I conceive that there may be helpful light, as well as re-assuring warmth, in the attention and sympathy I gratefully acknowledge. R. B. London, May ) ,V 1872- 603551 CONTENTS PAGE ' PAGB My Stab,. • 7 The Laboratory, . . • • 57 |A Face, . 7 Gold Hair, .... • 58 s My Last Duchess, . • 7 The Statue and the Bust, • • 60 Song from “ Pippa Passes,” 8 Love among the Kuins, • 65 Christina, .... • 9 Time’s Revenges, • # 66 Count Gismond, .... 10 Waring, .... • 67 Eurydice to Orpheus, • 12 "Home Thoughts, from Abroad, • 70 The Glove. 12 The Italian in England, . • 70 Song,. • 15 The Englishman in Italy, • 72 A Serenade at the Villa, 15 ,Up at a Villa—Down in the City, 75 Youth and Art, • 16 Pictor Ignotus, • • 77 The Flight of the Duchess, 17 “Fra Lippo Lippi, . • 78 Song from “ Tippa Passes,” . • 31' 7Andrea del Sarto . • • 85 .“How they brought the Good 'The Bishop orders his Tomb AT News from Ghent to Aix,” . 31 Saint Traxed’s Church, • 90 Song from “Paracelsus,” 33 A Toccata of Galuppi’s, • • 92 Through the Metidja to Abd-el- How it strikes a Contemporary, 94 Kadr, ..... 33 Protus, .... • • 96 Incident of the French Camp, • 33 Master Hughes of Saxe-Gotha, 97 v The Lost Leader, 34 Abt Vogler, • • 100 In a Gondola, • 35 Two in the Campagna, • 102 A Lovers’ Quarrel, 38 “ De Gustibus—” • • 103 Earth’s Immortalities # 40 The Guardian-Angel, • 104 The Last Bide Together, . 40 Evelyn Hope, . • • 105 Mesmerism, .... 42 Memorabilia, • 106 By the Fireside, 43 Apparent Failure, • • 106 Any Wife to any Husband, . 48 Prospice, .... • 107 In a Year,. 51 “ Childe Boland to the Dark ! Song from “James Lee,” • 52 Tower came,” • • 108 «A Woman’s Last Word, 52 A Grammarian’s Funeral, • 112 Meeting at Night, • 52 Cleon, .... • • 114 Parting at Morning, . 53 Instans Tyrannus, . • 120 Women and Boses, • 53 An Epistle, • • 121 Misconceptions, .... 64/ Caliban upon Setebos, • 126 A Pretty Woman, • 54 v Saul, .... • • 132 A Light Woman, 55 Babbi Ben Ezra, • 139 Love in a Life, • 56 Epilogue, . . . • • 142 Life in a Love, .... 56 ’ A Vi ALL, . • . • • 144 vi CONTENTS. PAGE PAGE Apparitions, • • • 145 Dis Aliter Visum, . • • • 194 Natural Magic, • • 145 Confessions, • • 196 Magical Nature, • • • 145 The Householder, . • • • 197 Garden Fancies, I., • • 145 Tray, • • 198 Garden Fancies, II., • • • 146 Cavalier Tunes, I., • • • 199 In Three Days, • • 148 Cavalier Tunes, II., • • 199 The Lost Mistress, • • « 148 Cavalier Tunes, III., • • • 199 One Way of Love, • , 149 Before, . • • 200 Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli, 149 After, • • • 201 Numpholeptos, • • 150 VHerve IIiel, • • 201 Appearances, • • • 152 In a Balcony, . • • • 203 The Worst of It, • • 153 Old Pictures in Florence, 222 Too Late, • • • 155 Bishop Blougram’s Apology, • 228 Bifurcation, • • 158 Mr. Sludge, “The Medium,” 248 A Likeness, • • • 158 The Boy and the Angel, • 279 May and Death, . • • 159 A Death in the Desert, 280 A Forgiveness, • • • 160 Fears and Scruples, • • # 292 Cenciaja, • • 167 Artemis Prologizes, • • 293 •^'Porphyria's Lover, • • • 171 Pheidippides, • • • 296 Filippo Baldinucci on THE PltlVI- The Patriot, • • 298 lege of Burial, • • 173 Popularity, • • • 299 -f Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 179 Pisgah-Sights, 1, . • • 300 The Heretic’s Tragedy, • • 180 Pisgah-Siohts, 2, • • • 300 Holy-Cross Day, • • 182 Pisgah-Sights, 3, . • • 301 Amphibian, • • 185 At the “Mermaid,” • • • 301 St. Martin’s Summer, • • • 186 House, • • 303 James Lee’s Wife, • • 187 Shop, .... • • r 304 Hespectability, • • • 194 A Tale, . „ , e 30S SELECTIONS EROM ROBERT BROWNING. MY STAR. All that I knew Of a certain star Is, that it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue ; Till my friends have said They would fain see, too, My star that dartles the red and the blue ! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled : They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world ? Mine has opened its soul to, me ; therefore I love it. A FACE. If one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pale gold, Such as the Tuscan’s early art prefers ! No shade encroaching on the match¬ less mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile ; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all : but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff’s Burthen of honey-colored buds, to kiss And capture ’twixt the lips apart for this. Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround. How it should waver, on the pale gold ground, Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts ! I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: But these are only massed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That’s the pale ground you’d see this sweet face by), All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. MY LAST DUCHESS. FERRARA. That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, iiow t : Fra Pan- dolf’s hands Worked busily a day, and there sh© stands. Will’t please you sit and look at her ? I said “ Fra Pandolf ” by design : for never read Strangers like you that pictured coun¬ tenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance. 8 SONG from “ PIPPA Passes. h But to myself they turned (since none; puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I), And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance catne there ; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not Her husband’s presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek : per¬ haps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “ Her mantle laps Over my lady’s wrists too much,” or “ Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat; ” such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart — how shall I say ? — too soon made glad, Too easily impressed : she liked what- e’er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, ’twas all one ! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace, — all and each Would draw from her alike the ap¬ proving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ! but thanked Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked My gift of a nine-liundred-years-okl name With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame This sort of trifling ? Even had yoii skill In speech — (which I have hot) — to make your will Q uie Hear to such an one, and say, “ Just this Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark” — and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, — E’en then would be some stooping ; and I choose Never to stoop. O sir ! she smiled, no doubt, Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will’t please you rise ? We’ll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master’s known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pre¬ tence Of mine for dowry will be disal¬ lowed ; Though bis fair daughter’s self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! SONG FROM “ PIPPA PASSES.” i. Give her but a least excuse to love me ! When — where — How — can this arm establish her above me, CniSTiNA. a Is she wronged ?—To the rescue of her honor. My heart! Is she poor ?—What costs it to bee a donor ? Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her ! (“Nay, list!” bade Kate the queen; And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, “ ’Tis only a page that carols un¬ seen, Fitting your hawks their jesses ! ”) CRISTINA. i. Sue should never have looked at me if she meant I should not love her ! There are plenty . . . men, you call such, I suppose . . . she may discover All her soul to, if she pleases, and yet leave much as she found them : But I’m not so ; and she knew it when she fixed me, glancing round them. ii. What ? To fix me thus meant noth¬ ing ? But I can’t tell (there's my weakness) What her look said !—no vile cant, sure, about “ need to strew the bleakness Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, that the sea feels ”—no “strange yearning That such souls have, most to lavish where there’s chance of least returning.” hi. Oh ! we’re sunk enough here, God knows ! but not quite so sunk that moments, Sure though seldom, are denied us, when the spirit’s true endow¬ ments Stand out plainly from its false ones, and apprise it if pursuing Or the right way or the wrong way, to its triumph or undoing. IV. There are flashes struck from mid¬ nights, there are fire-flames noondays kindle, Whereby piled-up honors perish, whereby swollen ambitions dwindle ; While just this or that poor impulse, which for once had play unsti¬ fled. Seems the sole work of a lifetime that away the rest have trifled. v. Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she felt clearly, Ages past the soul existed, here an age ’tis resting merely, And hence fleets again for ages; while the true end, sole and single, It stops here for is, this love way, with some other soul to mingle ? VI. Else it loses what it lived for, and eternally must lose it; Better ends may be in prospect, deep¬ er blisses (if you choose it), But this life’s end and this love-bliss have been lost here. Doubt you whether This she felt as, looking at me, mine and her souls rushed together ? VII. Oh, observe! Of course, next moment, the world’s honors, in derision, Trampled out the light forever. Never fear but there’s provision Of the Devil’s to quench knowledge, lest we walk the earth in rap¬ ture ! —Making those who catch God’s se¬ cret, just so much more prize their capture 1 10 CO OAT GiSMOXi). VIII. Such am I; the secret’s mine now ! She has lost me, 1 have gained her; Her soul’s mine; and thus, grown per¬ fect, I shall pass my life’s re¬ mainder. Life will just hold out the proving both our powers, alone and blended ; And then, come next life quickly ! This world’s use will have been ended. COUNT GISMOND. AIX IN PROVENCE. I. Christ God who savest man, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose liis post, ^ Chose time and place and company To suit it: when he struck at length My honor, ’twas with all his strength. n. And doubtlessly, ere lie could draw All points to one, he must have schemed ! That miserable morning saw Few half so happy as I seemed, While being dressed in queen’s array To give our tourney prize away. hi. I thought they loved me, did me grace To please themselves: ’twas all their deed. God makes, or fair or foul, our face: If showing mine so caused to bleed My cousins’ hearts, they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped. IV. They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen By virtue of her brow and breast; Not needing to be crowned, I mean, As I do. E’en when I was dressed, Had either of them spoke, instead Of glancing sideways with still head! v. But no: they let me laugh, and sing My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs, And so descend the castle-stairs— VI. And come out on the morning troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, And called me queen, and made me stoop Under the canopy—(a streak That pierced it, of the outside sun, Powdered with gold its gloom’s scft dun]— VII. And they could let me take my state And foolish throne amid applause Of all come there to celebrate My queen’s-day—Oh, I think the cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud! VIII. However that be, all eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down; ’twas time I should present The victor’s crown, but . . . there, twill last No long time . . . the old mist again Blinds me as then it did. How vain! IX. See! Gismond’s at the gate, in talk With his two boys: 1 can proceed. Well, at that moment, who should stidk Forth boldly—to my face, indeed— But Gauthier? and he thundered “ Stay!” And all staid. “Bring no crowns, I sayl” COUNT GlsMONJj. it X. “ Bring torches! Wind the penance- sheet About her! Let her shun the chaste, Or lay herself before their feet! Shall she, whose body I embraced A night long, queen it in the day ? For honor’s sake, no crowns, 1 say! ” XI. I? What I answered? As I live, I never fancied such a thing As answer possible to give. What says the body when they spring Some monstrous torture engine’swhole Strength on it? No more says the soul. XII. Till out strode Gismond : then I knew That I was saved. I never met His face beforebut, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan : who could spend A minute’s mistrust on the end ? XIII. He strode to Gauthier, in his throat Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth With one back-lianded blow that wrote In blood men’s verdict then. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up in¬ stead. XIV. This glads me most, that I enjoyed, The heart o’ the joy, with my con¬ tent In watching Gismond unalloyed By any doubt of the event; God took that on him—I was bid Watch Gismond for my part: I did. xv. Did I not watch him while he let His armorer just brace his greaves, Rivet his hauberk, on the fret The while ! His foot. . . mv mem¬ ory leaves jNo least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled liis ringing gauntlets on. XVI. And e’en before the trumpet’s sound Was finished, prone lay the false knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground : Gismond flew at him, used no sleight O’ the sword, but open-breasted drove, Cleaving till out the truth he clove. XVII. Which done, he dragged him to my feet, And said, “Here die, but end thy breath In full confession, lest thou fleet From my first to God’s second death! Say hast thou lied?” And, “I have lied To God and her,” he said, and died. XVIII. Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked —What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked My powers forever, to a third, Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast. XIX. Over my head his arm he flung Against the world : and scarce I felt His sword (that dripped by me and swung) A little shifted in its belt, For he began to say the while How South our home lay many a mile. xx. So ’mid the shouting multitude We two walked forth to nevermore Return. My cousins have pursued Their life untroubled as before . I vexed them. Gauthier’s dwelling- place God lighten ! May his soul find grace 1 TIW QLOVti. 1 2 XXI. Our elder boy lias got the clear Great brow ; though when his broth¬ er’s black Full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here ? “ Sire,” I replied, “ joys prove cloud¬ lets : Men are the merest Ixions”— Here the King whistled aloud, “ Let’s . . . Heigho ... go look at our lions ! ” I a. And have you brought my tercel Such are the sorrowful chances back ? If you talk tine to King Francis. I was just telling Adela How many birds it struck since May. EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS. A PICTURE BY FREDERICK LEIGHTON, ll.A. But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow ! Let them once more absorb me ! One look now Will lap me round forever, not to pass Out of its light, though darkness lie beyond: Hold me but safe again within the bond Of one immortal look ! All woe that was, Forgotten, and all terror that may be, Defied, —no past is mine, no future: look at me 1 THE GLOVE. (peter ronsard loquitur.) “Heigiio,” yawned one day King Francis, “ Distance all value enhances ! When a man’s busy, why, leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure : ’Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy. Here we’ve got peace; and aghast I’m Caught thinking w r ar the true pastime. Is there a reason in metre? Give us your speech, master Peter ! ” I who, if mortal can say so, e’er am at a loss with my Naso, And so to the court-yard proceeding, Our company, Francis was leading, Increased by new followers tenfold Before he arrived at the penl'old ; Lords, ladies, like clouds which be¬ dizen At sunset the western horizon. And Sir de Lorge pressed ’mid the foremost With the dame he professed to adore most— Oh, what a face ! One by fits eyed Her, and the horrible pitside ; For the penfold surrounded a hollow Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, And shelved to the chamber secluded Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. The king hailed his keeper, an Arab As glossy and black as a scarab, And bade him make sport, and at once stir Up and out of his den the old monster. They opened a hole in the wire-work, Across it, and dropped there a fire¬ work, And lied: one’s heart’s beating re¬ doubled ; A pause, while the pit’s mouth wa* troubled, The blackness and silence so utter, By the firework’s slow sparkling and sputter ; Then earth in a sudden contortion Gave out to our gaze her abortion. Such a brute ! Were I friend Clement Marot (Whose experience of nature’s but narrow, And whose faculties move in no small mist When he versifies David the Psalmist) THE GLOVE. 13 I should study that brute to describe you Ilium, Juda Leonem de Tribu. One’s whole blood grew curdling and creepy To see the black mane, vast and heapy, The tail in the air stiff and straining, The wide eyes, nor w T axing nor wan- in o* As over the barrier which bounded His platform, and us who surrounded The barrier, they reached and they rested On space that might stand him in best stead ; For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, The eruption of clatter and blaze meant. And if, in this minute of w T onder, No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder. Lay broad, and, liis shackles all shiv¬ ered, The lion at last w r as delivered? Ay, that was the open sky o’erhead ! And you saw by the flash on his fore¬ head, By the hope in those eyes wide and steady. He was leagues in the desert already, Driving the flocks up the mountain, Or catlike couched hard by the foun¬ tain To waylay the date-gathering negress: So guarded he entrance or egress. “ How he stands ! ” quoth the king: “ we may well swear (No novice, we’ve won our spurs else¬ where, And so can afford the confession), We exercise wholesome discretion In keeping aloof from his threshold; Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, Their first would too pleasantly pur¬ loin The visitor’s brisket or sirloin: But who’s he would prove so fool¬ hardy? Not the best man of Marignan, par- die I ” I 1 The sentence no sooner was uttered, Than over the rails a glove fluttered, Fell close to the lion, and rested: The dame ’twas, who flung it and jested With life so, De Lorge had been woo¬ ing For months past; he sat there pursuing His suit, weighing out with noncha¬ lance Fine speeches like gold from a balance. Sound the trumpet, no true knight’s a tarrier ! De Lorge made one leap at the barrier. Walked straight to the glove,—while the lion Ne’er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on The palm-tree-edged desert-spring’s sapphire. And the musky oiled skin of the Kaf¬ fir,— Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, Leaped back where the lady was seated, And full in the face of its owner Flung the glove. “ Your heart’s queen, you dethrone her? So should I ! ”—cried the King— “ ’twas mere vanity, Not love, set that task to humanity ! ” Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing From such a proved wolf in sheep’s clothing. Not so, I; for I caught an expression In her brow’s undisturbed self-posses¬ sion Amid the Court’s scoffing and mcrri ment,— As if from no pleasing experiment She rose, yet of pain not much heed¬ ful So long as the process was needful,— As if she had tried, in a crucible, To what “speeches like gold” were reducible, And, finding the finest prove copper, Felt smoke in her face was but proper; 14 THE GLOVE. To know what she had not to trust to, Was worth all the ashes and dust too. ! She went out ’mid hooting and laugh¬ ter; Clement Marot staid; I followed after, And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? If she wished not the rash deed’s re¬ claimant? “Fori”—so 1 spoke—“am a poet: Human nature,—behooves that 1 know it 1” She told me, “ Too long had 1 heard Of the deed proved alone by the word: For my love—what He Lorge would not dare ! With my scorn—What De Lorge could compare ! And the endless descriptions of death lie would brave when my lip formed a breath, I must reckon as braved, or, of course, Doubt his word-and moreover, per¬ force, For such gifts as no lad} r could spurn, Must offer my love in return. When 1 looked on your lion, it brought All the dangers at once to my thought, Encountered by all sorts of men, Before he was lodged in his den,— From the poor slave whose club or bare hands Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, With no King and no Court to ap¬ plaud, By no shame, should he shrink, over¬ awed, Yet to capture the creature made shift, That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, —To the page who last leaped o’er the fence Of the pit, on no greater pretence Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. So, wiser I judged it to make One trial what ‘ death for my sake’ Keally meant, while the power was yet mine, Than to wait until time should define ! Such a phrase not so simply as I, Who took it to mean just ‘to die.’ The blow a glove gives is but weak: Does the mark }^et discolor my cheek? But, when the heart suffers a blow, Will the pain pass so soon, do you know? ” I looked, as away she was sweeping, And saw a youth eagerly keeping As close as he dared to the doorway. No doubt that a noble should more weigh His life than befits a plebeian ; And yet, had our brute been Ke¬ rn can— (I judge by a certain calm fervor The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) —He’d have scarce thought } r ou did him the worst turn If you whispered, “Friend, what you’d get, first earn ! ” And when, shortly after, she carried Her shame from the Court, and they married, To that marriage some happiness, maugre The voice of the Court, I dared augur. For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, Those in wonder and praise, these in envy : And, in short, stood so plain a head taller That he wooed and won . . . how do you call her? The beauty, that rose in the sequel To the King’s love, who loved her a week well. And. ’twas noticed he never would honor De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) With the easy commission of stretching His legs in the service, and fetching His wife, from her chamber, those straying Sad gloves she was always mislaying, While the King took the closet to chat ih — A SERENADE AT THE VILLA. 15 But of course this adventure came pat in. And never the King told the story, How bringing a glove brought such glory. But the wife smiled—“ His nerves are grown firmer: Mine lie brings now and utters no murmur.” Venienti occurrite movbo ! With which moral I drop my theorbo. SONG. i. Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught—speak truth— above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all. So fair, see, ere I let it fall? ii. Because, you spend your lives in prais- in o' • A o y To praise, you search the wide world over; Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught—speak truth —above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much ! A SERENADE AT THE VILLA. That was I, you heard last night, When there rose no moon at all, Nor, to pierce the strained and tight Tent of heaven, a planet small ; Life was dead, and so w r as light. ii. Not a twinkle from the fly, Not a glimmer from the worm. When the crickets stopped their cry, When the owls forebode a term, You heard music : that was I. iii. Earth turned in her sleep with pain. Sultrily suspired for proof : In at heaven, and out again, Lightning !—where it broke the roof, Bloodlike, some few drops of rain. IV. What they could my words expressed, O my love, my all, my one ! Singing helped the verses best; And, when singing’s best was done, To my lute I left the rest. v. So wore night; the east was gray, White the broad-faced hemlock flowers ; There would be another day ; Ere its first of heavy hours Found me, I had passed away. VI. What became of all the hopes, Words and song and lute as well ? Say, this struck you—“When life gropes Feebly for the path where fell Light last on the evening slopes, VIII. “One friend in that path shall be, To secure my step from wrong ; One to count night day for me, Patient through the watches long, Serving most with none to see.” VIII. Never say—as something bodes— “ So, the worst has yet a worse ! When life halts ’neath double loads, Better the task master’s curse Than such music on the roads ! IX. “When no moon succeeds the sun, Nor can pierce the midnight’s tent, Any star, the smallest one, While some drops, where lightning rent, Show the final storm begun— 16 T0UT1I AND ART. x. “ When the firefly hides its spot, When the garden-voices fail In the darkness thick and hot,— Shall another voice avail. That shape be where these are not ? XI. “ Has some plague a longer lease. Proffering its help uncouth ? Can’t one even die in peace ? As one shuts one’s eyes on youth, Is that face the last one sees ? ” XII. Oh, how dark your villa was, Windows fast and obdurate ! How 7 the garden grudged me grass Where 1 stood—the iron gate Ground its teeth to let me pass ! YOUTH AND ART. i. It once might have been, once only : We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather. ii. Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, Then laughed, “ They will see some day, Smith made, and Gibson demol¬ ished.” in. My business was song, song, song : I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, “ Kate Brown’s on the boards ere long, And Grisi’s existence embittered !” rv. I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster : You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master. Y. We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun, watched each other’s win¬ dows. YI. You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse—nay, a bit of beard too; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth With lingers the clay adhered to. YII. And I—soon managed to find Weak points in the flow 7 er-fenc& facing, Was forced to put up a blind And be safe in my corset-lacing. VIII. No harm ! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye’s tail up As I shook upon E in alt., Or ran the chromatic scale up ; IX. For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses. And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and watercresses. x. Why did you not pinch a flow r er In a pellet of clay and fling it ? Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it ? XI. I did look, sharp as a lynx (And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx Tripped upstairs, she and her ankles. XII. But I think I gave you as good ! “ That foreign fellow 7 ,—who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano ? ” 17 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. x XIII. Could you say so, and never say, “Suppose we join bands and for¬ tunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes ? ” XIV. No, no ; you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over : You’ve to settle yet Gibson’s hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover. xv. But you meet the Prince at the Board, I’m queen myself at bals-pare, I’ve married a rich old lord, And you’re dubbed knight and an R. A. XVI. Each life’s unfulfilled, you see ; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy : VYe have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy. XVII. And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever : This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever. THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. i. You’re my friend : I was the man the Duke spoke to : I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too: So, here’s the tale from beginning to end, My friend ! ii. Ours is a great wild country: if you climb to our castle’s top, I don’t see where your eye can stop ; For when you’ve passed the corn-field country, Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, And cattle-tract to open-chase, And open-chase to the very base O’ the mountain where, at a funeral pace, Round about, solemn and slow, One by one, row after row, Up and up the pine-trees go, So, like black priests up, and so Down the other side again To another greater, wilder country, That’s one vast red drear burnt-up plain, Branched through and through with many a vein Whence iron’s dug, and copper’s dealt; Look right, look left, look straight before,— Beneath they mine, above they smelt. Copper-ore and iron-ore, And forge and furnace mould and melt, And so on, more and ever more, Till at the last, for a bounding belt, Comes the salt sand hoar of the great seashore, —And the whole is our Duke’s country. hi. I was born the day this present Duke was— (And O, says the song, ere I was old!) In the castle where the other Duke was—■ (Where I was happy and young, not old !) [ in the kennel, he in the bower : We are of like age to an hour. My father was huntsman in that day : Who has not heard my father say. That, when a boar was brought to bay, Three times, four times out of five, With his huntspear he’d contrive To get the killing-place transfixed. And pin him true, both eyes betwixt ? And that’s why the old Duke would rather He lost a salt-pit than my father, And loved to have him ever in call ? 18 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. That’s why my father stood in the hall When the old Duke brought his in¬ fant out To show the people, and while they passed The wondrous bantling round about, Was first to start at the outside blast As the Kaiser’s courier blew his horn, Just a month after the babe was born. ‘‘ And,” quoth the Kaiser’s courier, “since The Duke has got an heir, our Prince Needs the Duke’s self at his side The Duke looked down and seemed to wince, But he thought of wars o’er the world wide, Castles a-fire, men on their march, The toppling tower, the crashing arch; And up he looked, and awhile he eyed The row of crests and shields and [ banners Of ail achievements after all manners, And “Ay,” said the Duke with a surly pride. The more was his comfort when lie- died At next year’s end, in a velvet suit, With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot In a silken shoe for a leather boot, Petticoated like a herald In a chamber next to an ante-room, Where he breathed the breath of page and groom, W liat he called stink, and they, per¬ fume : —They should have set him on red Berold Mad with pride, like fire to manage ! They should have got his cheek fresh tannage Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine ! Had they stuck on liis fist a rough- foot merlin ! fHark, the wind’s on the heath at its game ! Oh for a noble falcon-lanner To flap each broad wing like a banner, And turn in the wind, and dance like flame I) Had they broached a cask of white beer from Berlin ! —Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine, Put to his lips when they saw him pine, A cup of our own Moldavia fine, Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrel And ropy with sweet,— we shall not quarrel. iv. So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess Yv r as left with the infant in her clutches, She being the daughter of God knows who : And now was the time to revisit her tribe. Abroad and afar they went, the two, ; And let our people rail and gibe At the empty hall and extinguished fire, As loud as we liked, but ever in vain. Till after long years we had our de' sire, And back came the Duke and his mother again. Y. And he came back the pertest little ape That every affronted human shape ; Full of his travel, struck at himself. You’d say, he despised our bluff old ways ? —Not he ! For in Paris they told the elf That our rough North land was the Land of Lays, The one good thing left in evil days ; Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time, And only in wild nooks like ours Could you taste of it yet as in its prime, And see true castles with proper towers, Young-hearted women, old-minded men, And manners now as manners were then. So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 10 1 his Duke woi Id fain know lie was, without oeing it ; Twas not for the joy’s self, but the joy of his showing it, ISor for the pride’s self, but the pride of our seeing it, He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out: And chief in the chase his neck he perilled, On a lathy horse, all legs and length, \\ ith blood for bone, all speed, no strength ; lliey should have set him on red Berold ith the red eye slow consuming in fire, And the thin still ear like an abbey spire ! TT. Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard ; And out of a convent, at the word, Came the lady, in time of spring. —Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling ! That day, I know, with a dozen oaths myself in thick hunting-clothes Fit for the chase of urox or buffle In winter-time when you need to muffle. But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure, And so we saw the lady arrive : My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger ! She was the smallest lady alive, Hade in a piece of nature’s madness, Too small, almost, for the life and gladness That over-filled her, as some hive Out of the bears’ reach on the high trees Is crowded with its safe merry bees ; In truth, she was not hard to please ! Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead. Straight at the castle, that’s best indeed To look at from outside the walls: As for us, styled the “serfs and thralls,” She as much thanked me as if she had said it, (VY ith her eyes, do you understand ?) Because I patted her horse while I led it ; And Max, who rode on her other hand, Said, no bird few past but she in¬ quired YY hat its true name was, nor ever seemed tired— It that was an eagle she saw hover, And the green and gray bird on the field was the plover, When suddenly appeared the Duke: And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed On to my hand,—as with a rebuke, And as if his backbone were not jointed, The Duke stepped rather aside than forward, And welcomed her with his grandest smile ; And, mind you, his mother all the while Chilled in the rear, like a wind to nor’ward ; And up, like a weary yawn, with its pulleys Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis; And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, The lady’s face stopped its play, As if her first liair had grown gray; For such things must begin some one day. vi r. In a day or two slit' was well again; As who should say, “ You labor in vain ! “This is all a jest against God, who meant I should ever be, as I am, content And glad in his sight : therefore, glad ' I will be.” So, smiling as at first went she. VIII. She was active, stirring, all tiro— Could not rest, could not tire— 20 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. To a stone she might have given life ! (I myself loved once, in my day) —For a shepherd’s, miner’s, hunts¬ man’s wife, (I had a wife, I know what I say) Never in all the world such an one ! And here was plenty to be done, And she that could do it, great or small, She was to do nothing at all. There was already this man in his post, 1 his in his station, and that in his office, And the Duke’s plan admitted a wife, at most, To meet his eye, with the other tro¬ phies, Now outside the hall, now in it, To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen, At the proper place in the proper minute, And die away the life between. And it was amusing enough, each in¬ fraction Of rule — (but for after-sadness that came) To hear the consummate self-satisfac¬ tion With which the 3 T oung Duke and the old dame Yv r ould let her advise, and criticise. And, being a fool, instruct the wise, And, childlike, parcel out praise or blame: They bore it all in complacent guise. As though an artificer, after contriving A wheel-work image as if it were liv- inp* Should find with delight it could mo¬ tion to strike him ! So found the Duke, and his mother like him : The lady hardly got a rebuff— That had not been contemptuous enough, With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, And kept off the old mother-cat’s claws. ix. So, the little lady grew silent and thin, Paling and ever paling, As the way is with » hid chagrin And the Duke perceived that she was ailing, And said in his heart, “ ’Tis done to spite me, “But I shall find in 1113' power to right me ! ” Don’t swear, friend ! The old one, many a year, Is in hell ; and the Duke’s self . • . 3 t ou shall hear. x. Well, early in autumn, at first winter warning, When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, A drinking-liole out of the fresh ten¬ der ice, That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice, Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, And another and another, and faster and faster, Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled, Then it so chanced that the Duke our master Asked himself what w T ere the pleas¬ ures in season, And found, since the calendar bade him to be hearty, lie should do the Middle Ace no trea¬ son I11 resolving on a hunting-party. Alw r a3 T s provided, old books showed the way of it! What meant old poets by their stric¬ tures? And when old poets had said their say of it, IIow taught old painters in their pic¬ tures? We must revert to the proper channels. Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, And gather up woodcraft’s authentic traditions : Here w y as food for our various ambi¬ tions, As on each case, exactly stated— To encourage your dog, now, the prop erest chirrup, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 21 Or best prayer to St. Hubert on mounting your stirrup— We of the household took thought and debated. Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin His sire was wont to do forest-work in; Blesseder he who nobly sunk “ olis” And “alls” while he tugged on his grandsire’s trunk-hose ; What signified hats if they had no rims on; Each slouching before and behind like the scallop, And able to serve at sea for a shallop, Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson ? So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on’t, What with our Yenerers, Prickers, and Verderers, Might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, and oh the Duke’s tailor, he had a hot time on’t! XI. Now you must know that when the first dizziness Of flap-hats and bulf-coats and jack- boots subsided, The Duke put this question, “ The Duke’s part provided. Had not the Duchess some share in the business? ’" Fcr out of the mouth of two or three witnesses Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses ; And, after much laying of heads to¬ gether, Somebody’s cap got a notable feather By the announcement with proper unction That he had discovered the lady’s function ; Since ancient authors gave this tenet, “When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege, Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet, And with water to wash the hands of her liege In a clean ewer with a fair toweling, Let her preside at the disemboweling.” Kow, my friend, if you had so' little religion As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner, And thrust her broad wings like a banner Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon ; And if day by day and week by week You cut her claws, and sealed her e) es, And clipped her wings, and tieel her beak, Would it cause you any great surprise If, when you decided to give her an airing, You found she neeeled a little pre¬ paring ? —I say, should you be such a cur¬ mudgeon, If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon? Yet when the Duke to his lady signified, Just a day before, as he judged most dignified, In what a pleasure she was to partici¬ pate,— And, instead of leaping wide in flashes, Her eyes just lifted their long lashes, As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate, And duly acknowledged the Duke’s forethought, But spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught, Of the weight by day and the watch by night, And much wrong now that used to be right, So, thanking him, declined the hunt- i II nr - Was conduct ever more affronting? With all the ceremony settled— With the towel ready, and the sewer Polishing up his oldest ewer, And the jennet pitched upon, a pie- bald, . Black-barred, cream-coated, and pmK eye-balled,— No wonder if the Duke was nettled! And when she persisted nevertheless,— Well, 1 suppose here’s the time to (X'tv fess 22 THE FLIGHT OF T1IF DUCHESS . That there ran half round our lady’s chamber A balcony none of the hardest to clamber; And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ! ready in waiting, Staid in call outside, what need of relating ? And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a fervent Adorer of Jacynth of course w r as your servant; And if she had the habit to peep through the casement, How 7 could 1 keep at any vast distance? And so, as I say, on the lady’s per¬ sistence, The Duke, dumb stricken with amaze¬ ment, Stood fora while in a sultry smother, ! And then, with a smile that partook of the awful, Turned her over to his yellow 7 mother To learn what was decorous and law r - ful; And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct, As her cheek quick whitened through all its quince-tinct. Oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once! What meant she?—Who was she?— Her duty and station, The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once, Its decent regard and its fitting rela¬ tion— In brief, my friends, set all the devils in hell free And turn them out to carouse in a belfry And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon, And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on! Well, somehow or other it ended at last, And, licking her whiskers, out she passed, And after her,—making (he hoped) a face Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, * Stalked the Duke’s self with the au¬ stere grace Of ancient hero or modern paladin, From door to staircase—oh such a solemn Unbending of the vertebral column! XII. However, at sunrise our company mustered; And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, A nd there ’neat h his bonnet the pricker blustered, With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel; For the court-yard walls were filled with fog You might cut as an axe chops a log— Like so much wool for color and bulk¬ iness: And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness; Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, And a sinking at the lower abdomen Begins the day with indifferent omen. And lo! as he looked around uneasily, The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder, This way and that, from the valley under; And, looking through the court-yard arch, Down in the valley, what should meet him But a troop of gypsies on their march? No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him. XIII. Now, in your land, gypsies reach you, only After reaching all lands beside : North they go, South they go, troop¬ ing or lonely, And still, as they travel far and wide, Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there, That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there. THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. But with us, I believe they rise out of tlie ground, And nowhere else, I take it, are found With the earth-tint yet so freshly em¬ browned ; Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on The very fruit they are meant to feed on. For the earth—not a use to which they don’t turn it, The ore that grows in the mountain’s womb, Or the sand in the pits like a honey¬ comb, They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it— Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle With side-bars never a brute can baffle; Or a lock that’s a puzzle of wards within wards; Or, if your colt’s fore-foot inclines to curve inwards, Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel And won’t allow the hoof to shrivel. Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle That keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle; But the sand—they pinch and pound it like otters; Commend me to gypsy glass-makers and potters! Glasses they’ll blow you, crystal-ciear, A here just a faint cloud of rose shall appear, As if in pure water you dropped and let die, A bruised black-blooded mulberry; And that other sort, their crowning pride, With long white threads distinct in¬ side, Like the lake-flower’s fibrous roots which dangle Loose such a length and never tangle, Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters, And the cup-lily couches with all the j white daughters: 23 Such are the works they put their hand to, The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sally Toward his castle from out of the valley, Men and women, like new-hatched t spiders, Come out with the morning to greet our riders. And up they wound till they reached the ditch, Whereat all stopped save one, a witch That I knew, as she hobbled from the group, By her gait directly and her stoop, I, whom Jacyntli was used to impor¬ tune To let that same witch tell us our for¬ tune. The oldest gypsy then above ground; And, sure as the autumn season came round, She paid us a visit for profit or pas¬ time, And every time, as she swore, for the last time. And presently she was seen to sidle Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle, So that the horse of a sudden reared up As under its nose the old witch peered up With her worn-out eys, or rather eye¬ holes, Of no use now but to gather brine, And began a kind of lev* 1 whine Such as they used to sing to their viols When their ditties they go grinding Up and down with nobodx minding; And then, as of old, at the end of the humming Her usual presents were forthcoming — A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles (Just a seashore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles), Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end,— 24 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. And so she awaited her annual sti¬ pend. But this time the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe A word in reply; and in vain she felt With twitching lingers at her belt For the purse of sleek pine-martin pelt, Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe,— Till, either to quicken his apprehen¬ sion, Or possibly with an after-intention, She was come, she said, to pay her duty To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. No sooner had she named his lady/ Than a shine lit up the face so shady, And its smirk returned with a novel meaning— For it struck him, the babe just want¬ ed weaning ; If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow ; And who so tit a teacher of trouble As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double ? So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture (If such it was, for they grow so hir¬ sute That their own fleece serves for nat¬ ural fur-suit) He was contrasting, ’twas plain from his gesture, The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned From out of the throng ; and while I drew near He told the crone — as I since have reckoned By the way he bent and spoke into her ear With circumspection and mystery — The main of the lady’s history, Her frowardness and ingratitude ; And for all the crone’s submissive attitude I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening, And her brow with assenting intelli- gence brightening, As though she engaged with hearty good will Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil. And promised the lady a thorough frightening. And so, just giving her a glimpse Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, He bade me take the gypsy mother And set her telling some story or other Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, To while away a weary hour For the lady left alone in her bower, Whose mind and body craved exer¬ tion And yet shrank from all better diver¬ sion. xiv. Then clapping heel to his horse, tho mere curveter, Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, And back I turned and bade the crone follow. And what makes me confident what’s to be told you Had all along been of this crone’3 devising, Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you, There was a novelty quick as surpris- inp* • For first, she had shot up a full head in stature, And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered, As if age had foregone its usurpature. And the ignoble mien was wdiolly altered, And the face looked quite of another nature. 25 THE FLIGHT OF T1IE HUCIIES8. And the change reached too, whatever the change meant, Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak’s arrange¬ ment : For where its tatters hung loose like sedges, Gold coins were glittering on the edges, Like the band-roll strung with tomans Which proves the veil a Persian woman’s: And under her brow, like a snail’s horns newly Come out as after the rain he paces, Two unmistakable eye-points duly Live and aware looked out of their places. So, we went and found Jacyntli at the entry Of the lady’s chamber standing sentry; I told the command and produced my companion, And Jacyntli rejoiced to admit any one, For since last night, by the same token, Not a single word had the lady spoken: They went in both to the presence together, While I in the baJcon } 7 watched the weather. xv. And now, what took place at the very first of all, I cannot tell, as I never could learn it; Jacyntli constantly wished a curse to fall On that little head of hers and burn it If she knew how she came to drop so soundly Asleep of a sudden, and there continue The whole time, sleeping as profoundly As one of the boars my father would pin you ’Twixt the eyes where life holds gar¬ rison, •—Jacyntli forgive me the comparison ! But where I begin my own narration Is a little after I took my station To breathe the fresh air from the balcony, And, having in those days a falcon eye, To follow the hunt through the open country, From where the bushes thinlier crested The hillocks, to a plain where’s not one tree. When, in a moment, my ear was arrested By — was it singing, or was it saying, Or a strange musical instrument play¬ ing In the chamber? — and to be certain I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, And there lay Jacyntli asleep, Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, In a rosy sleep along the floor With her head against the door ; While in the midst, on the seat of state, Was a queen—the gypsy woman late. With head and face downbent On the lady’s head and face intent: For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, The lady sat between her knees, And o’er them the lady’s clasped hands met. And on those hands her chin was set, And her upturned face met the face of the crone Wherein the eyes had grown and grown As if she could double and quadruple At pleasure the play of either pupil — Very like, by her hands’ slow fan¬ ning, As up and down like a gor-crow’s flappers They moved to measure, or bell- clappers. I said, “Is it blessing, is it banning, Do they applaud you or burlesque you— Those hands and fingers with no flesh on ? ” But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue. At once I was stopped by the lady’s expression : For it was life her eyes were drinking From the crone’s wide pair above un¬ winking, —Life’s pure fire, received without shrinking. L>G THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. Into the heart and breast whose heav¬ ing Told you no single drop they were leaving, —Life, that filling her, passed re¬ dundant Into her very hair, back swerving Over each shoulder, loose and abun¬ dant, As her head thrown back showed the white throat curving ; And the very tresses shared in the pleasure, Moving to the mystic measure, Bounding as the bosom bounded. I stopped short, more and more con¬ founded, As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, As she listened and she listened : When all at once a hand detained me, The selfsame contagion gained me, And I kept time to the wondrous chime, Making out words and prose and rhyme, Till it seemed that the music furled Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped From under the words it first had propped, And left them midway in the world, Word took word as hand takes hand, I could hear at last, and understand, And when I held the unbroken thread. The gypsy said,— “ And so at last we find my tribe. And so I set thee in the midst, And to one and all of them describe What thou saidst and what thou didst, Our long and terrible journey through’ And all tliou art ready to say and do ’ In the trials that remain : 1 trace them the vein and the other vein That meet on thy brow and part again, Making our rapid mystic mark ; And I bid my people prove and probe Lack eye’s profound and glorious globe, Till they detect the kindred spark In those depths so dear and dark. Like the spots that snap and burst and fiee, Circling over the midnight sea. And on that round young cheek of thine I make them recognize the tinge, As when of the costly scarlet wine They drip so much as will impinge And spread in a thinnest scale afloat One thick gold drop from the olive’s coat Over a silver plate whose sheen Still through the mixture shall be seen, For so I prove thee, to one and all, Fit, when my people ope their breast, To see the sign, and hear the call, And take the vow, and stand the test Which adds one more child to the rest— When the breast is bare and the arms are wide, And the world is left outside. For there is probation to decree, And many and long must the trials be Thou shalt victoriously endure, If that brow is true and those eyes are sure ; Like a jewel-finder’s fierce assay Of the prize he dug from the'moun¬ tain tomb,— Let once the vindicating ray Leap out amid the anxious gloom, And steel and fire have done their part, And the prize falls on its finder’s heart: So, trial after trial past, Wilt thou fall at the very last Breathless, half in trance W it h the thrill of the great deliverance, Into our arms for evermore ; And thou shalt know, those arms ones curled About thee,what we knew before, 1 low T love is the only good in the world, Henceforth be loved as heart can love, Or brain devise, or hand approve ! Stand up, look below, It is our life at thy feet we throw To step with into light and joy ; Not a power of life but we employ To satisfy thy nature’s want: Art thou the tree that props the plant. THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 27 Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree— Canst thou help us, must we help thee ? If any two creatures grew into one, They would do more than the world has done ; Though each apart were never so weak, Ye vainly through the world should seek For the knowledge and the might Which in such union grew their right: So to approach at least that end, And blend,—as much as may be, blend Thee with us or us with thee,— As climbing plant or propping tree, Shall some one deck thee over and down, Up and about, with blossoms and leaves ? Fix his heart’s fruit for tty garland crown, Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves. Die on thy boughs and disappear While not a leaf of thine is sere ? Or is the other fate in store, And art thy fitted to adore, To give thy wondrous self away, And take a stronger nature’s sway ? I foresee and could foretell Thy future portion, sure and well : But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, Let them say what thou shall do ! Only be sure thy daily life, In its peace or in its strife, Never shall be unobserved ; We pursue thy whole career, And hope for it, or doubt, or fear,— Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved, We are beside thee in all thy ways, With our blame, with our praise, Our shame to feel, our pride to show, Glad, angry—but indifferent, no ! Whether it be thy lot to go, For the good of us all, where the haters meet In the crowded city’s horrible street ; Or thou step alone through the morass Vhere never sound yet was Save the dry quick clap of the stork’s bill, For the air is still, and the water still, When the blue breast of the dipping coot Dives under, and all is mute. So at the last shall come old age, Decrepit as befits that stage ; How else wouldst thou retire apart With the hoarded memories of thy heart, And gather all to the very least Of the fragments of life’s earlier feast. Let fall through eagerness to find The crowning dainties yet behind ? Ponder on the entire past Laid together thus at last, When the twilight helps to fuse The first fresh with the faded hues. And the outline of the whole, As round eve’s shades their frame¬ work roll, Grandly fronts for once thy soul. And then as, ’mid the dark, a gleam Of yet another morning breaks, And like the hand which ends a dream, Death, with the might of his sunbeam. Touches the fiesli and the soul awakes, Then—” Ay, then indeed something would happen ! But what ? For here , her voice changed like a bird’s ; There grew more of the music and less of the words ; Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen To paper and put you down every svllable With those clever clerkly fingers, All I have forgotten as well as what lingers In this old brain of mine that’s but ill able To give you ewen Ibis poor version Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering ! __More fault of those who had the hammering Of prosody into me and syntax, And did it, not with hobnails but tin tacks l THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCIIESS. 28 But to return from this excursion,— Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, The peace most deep and the charm completest, Then came, shall I say, a snap— And the charm vanished ! And my sense returned, so strangely banished, And, starting as from a nap, I knew the crone was bewitching my lady, With Jacynth asleep ; and but one spring made I Down from the casement, round to the portal, Another minute and I had entered,— When the door opened, and more than mortal Stood, with a face where to my mind centered All beauties I ever saw or shall see, The Duchess : I stopped as if struck by palsy. She was so different, happy and beau¬ tiful, I felt at once that all was best, And that I had nothing to do, for the rest, But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. Not that in fact there was any com¬ manding ; I saw the glory of her eye, And the brow’s height and the breast’s expanding, And I was hers to live or die. As for finding what she wanted, You know God Almighty granted Such little signs should serve wild creatures To tell one another all their desires, So that each knows what his friend requires, And does its bidding without teachers. T preceded her ; the crone Followed silent and alone ; I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered In the old style ; both her eyes had slunk Back to their pits ; her stature shrunk ; In short, the soul in its body sunk Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. We descended, I preceding ; Crossed the court with nobody lieed- ing ; All the world was at the chase, The court-yard like a desert-place, The stable emptied of its small fry ; I saddled myself the very palfrey I remember patting while it carried her, The day she arrived and the Duke married her. And do you know, though it’s easy deceiving One’s self in such matters, I can’t help believing The lady had not forgotten it cither, And knew the poor devil so much beneath her Would have been only to glad, for her service, To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise, But, unable to pay proper duty where owing it, Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it. For though, the moment I began set¬ ting His saddle on my own nag of Berold’s begetting (Not that I meant to be obtrusive), She stopped me, while his rug was shifting, By a single rapid finger’s lifting, And, with a gesture kind but conclu¬ sive, And a little shake of the head, refused me,— I say, although she never used me, Yet when she was mounted, the gypsy behind her, And I ventured to remind her, I suppose with a voice of less steadi¬ ness Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, —Something to the effect that I was in readiness Whenever God should please she needed me,— Then, do you know, her face looked down on me THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 20 With a look that placed a crown on me, And she felt in her bosom—mark, her bosom—- And as the flower-tree drops its blos¬ som, Dropped me . . . ah! had it been a purse Of silver, my friend, or gold that’s worse, Why, you see, as soon as I found my¬ self So understood,—that a true heart so my gain Such a reward,—I should have gone home again, Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself ! It was a little plait of hair Such as friends in a convent make To w r ear, each for the other’s sake,— This, see, which at my breast I wear, Ever did (rather to Jacynth’s grudg- ment. And then,—and then,—to cut short,— this is idle, These are feelings it is not good to foster,— I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, And the palfrey bounded,—and so we lost her. XVT. When the liquor’s out why clink the cannikin? I did think to describe you the panic in The redoubtable breast of our master the manikin, And what was the pitch of his moth¬ er’s yellowness, How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl¬ diving Carib, When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness — But it seems such child’s play, What they said and did with the lady away! And to dance on, when we’ve lost the music, Always made me—and no doubt makes you—sick. Nay, to my mind, the world’s face looked so stern As that sweet form disappeared through the postern, She that kept it in constant good- liumor, It ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do more. But the world thought otherwise and went on, And my head’s one that its spite was spent on: Thirty years are fled since that morn, ing. And with them all my head’s adorning. Nor did the old Duchess die outright, As you expect, of suppressed spite, The natural end of every adder Not suffered to empty its poison- bladder : But she and her son agreed, I take it, That no one should touch on the story to wake it, For the wound in the Duke’s pride rankled fiery; So, they made no search and small inquiry; And when fresh gypsies have paid us a visit, I’ve Noticed the couple were never inquis¬ itive, But told them they’re folks the Duke don’t want here, And bade them make haste and cross the frontier. Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it, And the old one was in the young one’s stead, And took, in her place, the household’s head, And a blessed time the household had of it! And were I not, as a man may say, cautious How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, I could favor you with sundry touches I Of the paint-smutclies with which the Duchess Heightened the mellowness of her cheek’s yellowness 30 THE FLIGHT OF TIIF DUCHESS. (To get on faster) until at last her Cheek grew to be one master-plaster Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse : In short, she grew from scalp to udder J ust the object to make you shudder. xvir. You're my friend— What a thing friendship is, world without end! IIow it gives the heart and soul a stir- up As if somebody broached you a glori¬ ous runlet, And poured out, all lovelily, spark- lingly, sunlit, Our green Moldavia, the streaky sirup, Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids— Friendship may match with that mom arch of fluids ; Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs. Gives your life’s hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubts Whether to run or to stop short, and guarantees Age is not all made of stark cloth and arrant ease. I have seen my little lady once more, Jacynth, the gypsy, Berold, and the rest of it, For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before ; I always wanted to make a clean breast of it: And now it is made—why, my heart’s blood, that went trickle, Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, Is pumped up brisk now, tlirongli the main ventricle, And genially floats me about the gib¬ lets. I’ll tell you what I intend to do : I must see this fellow his sad life through— He is our Duke, after all, And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall. My father was born here, and I in¬ herit His fame, a chain he bound his son w ith ; Could I pay in a, lump I should prefer it, But there’s no mine to blow r up and get done with : So, I must stay till the end of the chapter. For, as to our middle-age-manners- adapter, Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on. Some day or other, his head in a mo rion And breast in a hauberk, his heels he’ll kick up, Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, And its leathern sheath lie o’ergrown with a blue crust, Then I shall scrape together my earn¬ ings ; For, you see, in the churchyard Ja¬ cynth reposes, And our children all went the way of the roses : It’s a long lane that knows no turn¬ ings. o One needs but little tackle to travel in; So, just one stout cloak shall I indue : And for a staff, what beats the jave¬ lin With which his boars my father pinned you? And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly I Sorrow is vain and despondency sin¬ ful. What’s a man’s age ? He must hurry more, that’s all ; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold: When we mind labor, then only, we’re too old— What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul ? And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees SONG FROM “ PIP PA PASSES .” 31 (Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil), I hope to get safely out of the turmoil And arrive one day at the land of the gypsies, And tind my lady, or hear the last news of her From some old thief and son of Luci¬ fer, llis forehead chapleted green with wreatliy hop, Sunburned all over like an iEthiop. And when my Cotnar begins to operate And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, I shall drop in with—as if by acci¬ dent— “You never knew, then, how it all ended, What fortune good or bad attended The little lady your Queen be¬ friended ? ” —And when that’s told me, what’s re¬ maining ? This world’s too hard for my explain¬ ing. The same wise judge of matters equine Who still preferred some slim four- vear-old To the big-boned stock of mighty Be- ro] d, And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine, He also must be such a lady’s scorner ! Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau: Now up, now down, the world’s one seesaw. — So, 1 shall find out some snug corner Under a hedge, like Orson, the wood- knight, Turn myself round and bid the world good-night. And sleep a sound sleep till the trum¬ pet’s blowing Wakes me (unless priests cheat us lay¬ men) To a world where will be no further throwing Pearls before swine that can’t value them. Amen 1 SONG FROM “PIPPA PASSES.” The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew-pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his heaven— All’s right with the world. “HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.” [ 16 -.] i. I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we gal¬ loped all three ; “Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; “ Speed ! ” echoed the wall to us gal¬ loping through ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. ir. Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. hi. ’Twas moonset at starting ; but, while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clew; 32 “ HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Dliffield, ’twas morning as plain as could be ; And from Meclieln cliurch-steeple we heard the half-chime, So, Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time ! ” IV. At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us gal¬ loping past; And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river head¬ land its spray : Y. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; And one eye’s black intelligence— ever that glance O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! jvnd the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His flei ■ce lips shook upwards in gal¬ loping on. VI. By Hasselt, Direk groaned ; and cried Joris, “ Stay spur ! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her, We’ll remember at Aix”—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shud¬ dered and sank. VII. So, we w r ereleft galloping, Joris and I. Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; The broad sun above laughed a piti¬ less laugh, ’Neath our feet broke the bright little stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalliem a dome-spire sprang white, And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in sight 1 VIII. “How they’ll greet us!”—and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Roland to bear the who'e weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye sockets’ rim. IX. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stoo 1 up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, anv noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland gal¬ loped and stood. x. And ail I remember is, friends flock¬ ing round As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground ; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our hist asure of wine, GHENT TO AIXF—INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 33 Which (the burgesses voted by com¬ mon consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. SONG FROM “PARACELSUS.” i. Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared w T itli dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair : such balsam falls Down seaside mountain pedestals, From tree-tops wdiere tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island gain. ii. And strew faint swmetness from some old Egyptian’s fine wmrm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once un¬ rolled ; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, With mothed and dropping arras hung Mouldering her lute and books among, Fs when a queen, long dead, was young. 51IROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR. [1842.] i. As I ride, as I ride, With a full heart for my guide, So its tide rocks my side, As I ride, as I ride, That, as I w r ere double-eyed, He in whom our Tribes confide, Is descried, ways untried As I ride, as I ride. 11. As I ride, as I ride To our Chief and his Allied. Who dares chide my heart’s pride As I ride, as I ride ? Or are witnesses denied— Through the desert waste and wide Do I glide unespied As I ride, as I ride ? hi. As I ride, as I ride, When an inner voice has cried, The sands slide, nor abide (As I ride, as I ride) O’er each visioned homicide That came vaunting (has he lied ?) To reside—wdiere he died. As I ride, as I ride. IV. As I ride, as I ride, Ne’er has spur my swift horse plied. Yet his hide, streaked and pied, As I ride, as I ride, Shows where sweat has sprung and dried, —Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed— How has vied stride with stride As I ride, as I ride ! Y. As I ride, as I ride, Could I loose what Fate has tied. Ere I pride, she should hide (As I ride, as I ride) All that’s meant me—satisfied When the Prophet and the Bride Stop veins I’d have subside As I ride, as I ride 1 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. i. You know w'e French stormed Rati*- bon: A mile or so aw T av^ On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day ; With neck out-tlirust, you fancy how. Legs w ide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone bro\V pr-.^rposive with its mind. 34 THE LOST LEADER. ii. Just as perhaps lie mused, “ My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,”— Out ’ twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. hi. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse’s mane, a boy : You hardly could suspect— (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in tivo. IV. “Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by God’s grace, We’ve got you Ratisbon ! The Marshal’s in the market-place, And you’ll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart’s desire, Perched him ! ” The chief’s eye flashed: his plans Soared up again like fire, v. The chief’s eye flashed ; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle’s eye When her bruised eaglet breathes: “You’re wounded 1”—“Nay,” the soldier’s pride Touched to the quick, he said, u I’m killed, Sire ! ” And his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead. .Ws’jC the lost leader. I. Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others, she lets us devote ; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service ! Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud ! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his- great language, caught Its clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die ! Sliakspeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! n, We shall march prospering,—not through his presence ; Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre ; Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire ; Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil’s-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! Life’s night begins : let him never come back to us ! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part—the glim¬ mer of twilight. IN A GONDOLA. 35 Never glad confident morning again ! Best fight on well, for we taught him —strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own ; Then let him receive the new knowl¬ edge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! IN A GONDOLA. ID sings. I send my heart up thee, all my heart In this my singing. For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clinging Closer to Venice’ streets to leave one space Above me, wdience thy face May light my jojmus heart to thee its dwelling-place. She speaks. Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, In your own voice, in your own way : “ This woman’s heart and soul and brain Are mine as much as this gold chain She bids me wear ; which ” (say again) “ I choose to make by cherishing A precious thing, or choose to fling Over the boat-side, ring by ring.” And yet once more say ... no word more ! Since words are only words. Give o’er ! Unless you call me, all the same, Familiarly by my pet name, Which if the Three should hear you And me repl}” to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all. Ask of me, too, command me, blame Do, breakdown the partition-wall ’Twixt us, the daylight world beholds Curtained in dusk and splendid folds ! What’s left but—all of me to take ? I am the Three’s : prevent them, slake Your thirst ! ’Tis said, the Arab sage, In practicing with gems, can loose Their subtle spirit in his cruce And leave but ashes : so, sweet mage. Leave them my ashes when thy use Sucks out my soul, thy heritage ! lie sings. i. Past we glide, and past, and past! What’s that poor Agnese doing Where they make the shutters fast ? Gay Zanobi’s just a-wooing.. To his couch the purchased bride : Past we glide ! ii. Past we glide, and past, and past! Why’s the Pucci Palace flaring Like a beacon to the blast V Guests by hundreds, not one caring If the dear host’s neck were wried : Past we glide ! She sings. i. The moth’s kiss, first ! Kiss me as if you made believe Yon were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up ; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst ii. The bee’s kiss now ! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow. lie sings. i. What are we two ? I am a Jew. 36 IN A GONDOLA. And carry thee, further than friends can pursue, To a feast of our tribe ; Where they need thee to bribe The Devil that blasts them unless he imbibe Thy . . . Scatter the vLmn forever ! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! ii. Say again what we arc ? The sprite of a star, I lure thee above where the destinies bar My plumes their full play Till a ruddier ray Than my pale one announce there is withering away Some . . . Scatter the vision forever ! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! He muses. Oh ! which were best, to roam or rest ? The land’s lap or the water’s breast ? To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, Or swim in lucid shallows, just Eluding water lily leaves, An inch from Death’s black fingers, thrust To lock you, whom release he must; Which life were best on summer eves ? He speaks, musing. Lie back ; could thought of mine im¬ prove you ? From this shoulder let there spring A wing, from this, another wing ; Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you ! Snow-white must they spring, to blend With your fiesli, but I intend They shall deepen to the end, Broader, into burning gold, Till both wings crescent-wise infold Your perfect self, from ’neath your feet To o’er your head, where, lo, they meet As if a million sword-blades hurled Defiance from you to the world 1 Rescue me thou, the only real ! And scare away this mad ideal That came, nor motions to depart! Thanks ! Now, stay ever as tliou art j Still he muses. i. What if the Three should catch at last Thy serenader ? While there’s cast Paul’s cloak about my head, and fast Gian pinions me, Himself has past His s-tylet through my back ; 1 reel ; xlnd ... is it thou I feel ? ii. They trail me, these three godless knaves Past every church that saints and saves, Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves By Lido’s wet accursed graves, They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, And ... on tliy breast I sink ! She replies, musing. Dip your arm o’er the boat-side, elbow- deep, As I do : thus: were death so unlike sleep, Caught this way ? Death’s to fear from flame or steel, Or poison doubtless ; but from water —feel ! Go find the bottom ! Would you stay me ? There ! Now pluck a great blade of that rib¬ bon-grass To plait in where the foolish jewel was, I flung away ; since you have praised my hair, ’Tis proper to be choice in what I wear. lie speaks. Row home? must we row home ? Too surely Know I where its front’s demurely Over the Guidecca piled ; Window just with window mating, Door on door exactly waiting, All’s the set face of a child -. But behind it, where’s a trace Of the staidness and reserve, And formal lines without a curve. IN A GONDOLA. 37 In tlie same child's playing-face ? No two windows look one way O’er tlie small sea-water thread Below them. Ah, the autumn day I, passing, saw you overhead ! First, out a cloud of curtain blew, Then a sweet cry, and last came you— To catch your lory that must needs Escape just then, of all times then, To peck a tall plant’s fleecy seeds And make me happiest of men. I scarce could breathe to see you reach So far back o’er the balcony, To catch him ere he climbed too high Above you in the Smyrna peach, That quick the round smooth cord of gold, This coiled hair on your head,unrolled, Fell down you like a gorgeous snake The Roman girls were wont, of old, When Rome there w r as, for coolness’ sake To let lie curling o’er their bosoms. Dear lory, may his beak retain Ever its delicate rose stain, As if the wounded lotus-blossoms Had marked their thief to know again ! Stay longer yet, for others’ sake Than mine f What should your cham¬ ber do ? .—With all its rarities that ache In silence while day lasts, but wake At night-time and their life renew, Suspended just to pleasure you Who brought against their will to getlier These objects, and, while day lasts, weave Around them such a magic tether That dumb they look : your harp, be¬ lieve, With all the sensitive tight strings Which dare not speak, now to itself Breathes slumberously, as if some elf Went in and out the chords, his wings Make murmur, whereso’er they graze, As an angel may, between the maze Of midnight palace-pillars, on And on, to sow God’s plagues, have gone Through guilty, glorious Babylon. And while such murmurs flow, the nymph Bends o’er the liarp-top from her shell As the dry limpet for the lymph Come with a tune he knows so well. And how your statues’ hearts must swell ! And how your pictures must descend To see each other, friend with friend! Oh, could you take them by surprise, You’d find Schidone’s eager Duke Doing the quaintest courtesies To that prim saint by Haste-tliee-Luke! And, deeper into her rock den, Bold Castelfranco’s Magdalen You’d find retreated from the ken Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser— As if the Tizian thinks of her, And is not, rather, gravely bent On seeing for himself what toys Are these, his progeny invent, What litter now the board employs Whereon he signed a document That got him murdered ! Each en joys Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up : so, indeed must make More stay with me, for others’ sake She speaks i. To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Is used to tie the jasmine back That overfloods my room with sweets, Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets My Zanze ! If the ribbon’s black, The Three are watching : keep away ! ii. Your gondola—let Zorzi wreathe A mesh of water-weeds about Its prow, as if he unaware Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair ! That I may throw a paper out As you and he go underneath. There’s Zanze’s vigilant taper ; safe are we. Only one minute more to-night with me ? Resume your past self of a month ago!, 33 A LOVER’S QUARREL. Be you the bashful gallant, I will be The lady with the colder breast tliau snow. Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand JNlore than I touch yours when I step to land, And say, “All thanks, Siora!”— Heart to heart And lips to lips ! Yet once more, ere we part, Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art! He is surprised, and stabbed. It was ordained to be so, sweet !—and best Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast. Still kiss me! Care not for the cow¬ ards, Care Only to put aside thy beauteous hair My blood will hurt ! The Three, I do not scorn, To death, because they never lived : but I Have lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die ! A LOVER’S QUARREL. i. Oh, what a dawn of day ! How the March sun feels like May ! All is blue again After last night’s rain, And the South dries the hawthorn spray. Only, my love’s away ! I’d as lief that the blue were gray, ii. Runnels, which rillets swell, Must be dancing down the dell, With a foaming head On the beryl bed Raven smooth as a hermit’s cell* Each with a tale to tell, Could my love but attend as well hi. Dearest, three months ago, When we lived blocked up with snow,— When the wind would edge In and in his wedge, In, as far as the point could go—- Not to our ingle, though, Where we loved each the other so 1 IV. Laughs with so little cause ! We devised games out of straws. We would try and trace One another’s face In the ash, as an artist draws ; Free on each other’s flaws, How we chattered like two churcl daws ! y. What’s in the “ Times ”?—a scold At the Emperor deep and cold ; He has taken a bride To his grewsome side, That’s as fair as himself is bold : There they sit ermine-stoled, And she powders her hair with gold. YI. Fancy the Pampas’ sheen ! Miles and miles of gold and green Where the sunflowers blow In a solid glow, And to break now and then the screen— Black neck and eyeballs keen, Up a wild horse leaps between ! VII. Try, will our table turn ? Lay your hands there light, and yearn Till the yearning slips Through the finger-tips In a fire which a few discern, And a very few feel burn, And the rest, they may live and learn ! VIII. Then we would up and pace, For a change, about the place p A LOVER’S QUARREL. 39 Each with arm o’er neck : ’Tis our quarter-deck, We are seamen in woeful case. Help in the ocean-space ! Or, if no help, we’ll embrace. IX. See, how she looks now, dressed In a sledging-cap and vest ! ’T is a huge fur cloak— Like a reindeer’s roke Falls the lappet along the breast: Sleeves for her arts to rest, Or to hang, as my Love likes best. x. Teach me to flirt a fan As the Spanish ladies can, Or I tint your lip With a burnt stick’s tip And you turn into such a man ! Just the tw r o spots that span Half the bill of the young male swan. XI. Dearest, three months ago When the mesmerizer Snow With his hand’s first sweep Put the earth to sleep T’was a time when the heart could show All— how was earth to know, 'Neath the mute hand’s to-and-fro ? XII. Dearest, three months ago When we loved each other so, Lived and loved the same Till an evening came When a shaft from the Devil’s bow Pierced to our ingle-glow, And the friends were friend and foe ! XIII. Not from the heart beneath— ’Twas a bubble born of breath, Neither sneer nor vaunt. Nor reproach or taunt. See a word, how it severetli ! Oh, power of life and death In the tongue, as the Preacher saitli! XIV. Woman, and will you cast For a word, quite off at last Me, your own, your You,— Since, as truth is true, I was You all the happy past— Me do you leave aghast With the memories We amassed 1 xv. Love, if you knew" the light That your soul casts in my sight, How I look to you For the pure and true, And the beauteous and the right,— Bear with a moment’s spite When a mere mote threats the while! XVI. What of a hasty word ? Is the fleshly heart not stirred By a worm’s pin-prick Where its roots are quick ? See the eye, by a fly’s-foot blurred- Far, when a straw is heard Scratch the brain’s coat of curd ! XVII. Foul be the world or fair Nore or less, how can I care ? ’Tis the world the same For my praise or blame, And endurance is easy there. Wrong in the one thing rare— Oh, it is"hard to bear ! XVIII. Here’s the spring back or close, When the almond-blossom blows ; We shall have the word In a minor third There is none but the cuckoo know-s ; Heaps of the guelder-rose ! I must bear with it, I suppose. XIX. Could but Novembei come, Were the noisy birds struck dumb At the warning slash Of his driver’s-lash— I would laugh like the valiant Thumb 40 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. Facing the castle glum And the giant’s fee-faw-fum ! xx. Then, were the world well stripped Of the gear wherein equipped We can stand apart, Heart dispense with heart In the sun, with the flowers unnipped,— Oh, the world’s hangings ripped, We were both in a bare-walled crypt! XXI. Each in the crypt would cry, “ But one freezes here ! and why ! When a heart, as chill, At my own would thrill Back to life, and its fires out-fly? Heart, shall we live or die ? The rest . . . settle by and by ! ” XXII- So, she’d efface the score, And forgive me as before. It is twelve o’clock : I shall hear her knock In the worst of a storm’s uproar ; I shall pull her through the door, t shall have her for evermore ! EARTH’S IMMORTALITIES. FAME. Bee, as the prettiest graves will do in time, Our poet’s wants the freshness of its prime ; Spite of the sexton’s browsing horse, the sods Have struggled through its binding osier rods ; Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean awry, Wanting the brick-work promised by and by ; How the minute gray lichens, plated o’er plate, Have softened dawn the crisp-cut name and date ! LOVE. So, the year’s done with! (Love me forever/) All March begun with, April’s endeavor ; May-wreaths that bound me June needs must sever; Now snows fall round me, Quenching June’s fever— (Love me forever !) THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. i. I said —Then dearest, since ’tis so, Since now at length my fate I know. Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,—I claim Only a memory of the same, —And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me. ii. My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-wliile or two With life or death in the balance * right ! The blood rep^nislied me again ; My last thought was at least not vain . I and my mistress, side by side, Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night ? in. Hush ! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. By many benedictions—sun’s And moon’s and evening-star’s at once— And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-sliine too, Down on you, near and yet more near. Till tlesli must fade for heaven was here !— Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear Thus lay she a moment on my breast. IV. Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell ! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. Y. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought,—All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hope¬ ful past! I hoped she would love me: here we ride. YI. What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared ? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshy screen ? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There’s many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each \ The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier’s doing ! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey- stones. My riding is better, by their leave. VII. What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only ; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace tiiem in rhyme so, side by side. ’Tis something,nay ’tis much: but then, Have you yourself what’s best for men? Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who have never turned a rhyme? Sing, riding’s a joy ! Forme, I ride. VIII. And you, great sculptor—so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that’s your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn ! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, “ Greatly his opera’s strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!” I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. IX. Who knows what’s fit for us ? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being - had I signed the bond— Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-de¬ scried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such ? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest 42 MESMERISM. Eartli being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. x. And yet—she has not spoke so long! Wliat if heaven be that, fair and strong At life’s best, with our eyes unturned Whither life’s flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,— And heaven just prove that I and she Hide, ride together, forever ride? MESMERISM. i. All I believed is true ! I am able yet All I want, to get By a method as strange as new. Dare I trust the same to you? ii. If at night, when doors are shut, And the wood-worm picks, And the death-watch ticks, And the bar has a flag of smut, And a cat’s in the water-butt— hi. And the socket floats and flares. And the house-beams groan, And a foot unknown Is surmised on the garret-stairs And the locks slip unawares—- iv. And the spider, to serve his ends, By a sudden thread, Arms and legs outspread, On the table’s midst descends, Comes to find, God knows what friends !—- Y. If since eve drew in, I say I have sat and brought (So to speak) my thought To bear on the woman away, Till I felt my hair turn gray— YI. Till I seemed to have and hold, In the vacancy ’Twixt the wall and me From the hair-plait’s chestnut-gold To the foot in its muslin fold— VII. Have and hold then and there, Her from head to foot, Breathing and mute, Passive and yet aware. In the grasp of my steady stare—* VIII. Hold and have there and then, All her body and soul That completes my whole, All that women add to men, In the clutch of my steady ken— IX. Having and holding, till I imprint her fast On the void at last As the sun does whom he will By the calotypist’s skill— x. Then,—if my heart’s strength serve. And through all and each Of the veils I reach To her soul and never swerve. Knitting an iron nerve— XI. Command her soul to advance And inform the shape Which has made escape And before my countenance Answers me glance for glance— XII. I, still with a gesture fit Of my hands that best Do my soul’s behest. Pointing the power from it, While myself do steadfast sit— XIII. Steadfast and still the same On my object bent. by the fireside. While the hands give vent To my ardor and my aim And break into very flame— XIV. Then I reach, I must believe, Not her soul in vain, For to me again It reaches, and past retrieve Is wound in the toils I weave ; xv. And must follow as I require, As befits a thrall. Bringing flesh and all, Essence and earth-attire, To the source of the tractile fire : XVI. Till the house called hers, not mine, With a glowing weight Seems to suffocate If she break not its leaden line And escape from its close confine. XVII. Out of the doors into the night! On to the maze Of the wild wood-ways, Not turning to left nor right From the pathway, blind with sight— XVIII. Making through rain and wind O’er the broken shrubs, ’Twixt the stems and stubs, With a still, composed, strong mind, Not a care for the world behind— XIX. Swifter and still more swift, As the crowding peace Doth to joy increase In the wide blind eyes uplift Through the darkness and the dri/ U XX. While I—to the shape, I, too, Feel my soul dilate : Nor a whit abate, And relax not a gesture due, As I see my belief come true. XXI. For, there ! have I drawn or no Life to that lip V 43 Do my fingers dip In a flame which again they throw On the cheek that breaks aglow ? XXII. Ha ! was the hair so first ? What, unfilleted, Made alive, and spread Through the void with a rich outburst Chestnut gold-interspersed? XXIII. Like the doors of a casket-shrine, See, on either side, Her two arms divide Till the heart betwixt makes sign, “ Take me, for I am thine! ” XXIV, “ Now—now”—the door is heard ! Hark, the stairs! and near— Nearer—and here— “ Now ! ” and at call the third. She enters without a word. XXV. On doth she march and on To the fancied shape ; It is, past escape, Herself now: the dream is done, And the shadow and she are one. XXVI. First, I will pray. Do Thou That ownest the soul, Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now ! XXVII. I admonish me while I may, Not to squander guilt. Since require Thou wilt At my hands its price one day ! What the price is, who can say? BY THE FIRESIDE. i. How well do I know what I mean to do When the long dark autumn even- ings come ; 44 BY THE FIRESIDE. And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices dumb In life's November too! n. 1 shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book, as beseemetli age; While the shutters flap as the cross- wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose ! hi. Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, “ There he is at it, deep in Greek; Now then, or never, out we slip To cut from the hazels by the creek A mainmast for our ship ! ” IV. I shall be at it, indeed, my friends ! Greek puts already on either side Such a branch-work forth as soon ex¬ tends To a vista opening far and wide, And I pass out where it ends. Y. The outside frame, like your hazel- trees— But the inside-archway widens fast, And a rarer sort succeeds to these, And we slope to Italy at last And youth, by green degrees. VI. I follow wherever I am led, Knowing so well the leader’s hand: O woman-country, wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth’s male- lands, Laid to their hearts instead ! VII. Look at the ruined chapel again Half-way up in the Alpine gorge ! Is that a tower, I point you plain, Or is it a mill, or an iron forge Breaks solitude in vain ? VIII. A turn, and we stand in the heart ot things ; The woods are round us, heaped and dim: From slab to slab how it slips and springs, The thread of water single and slim, Through the ravage some torrent brings ! IX. Does it feed the little lake below ? That speck of white just on its marge Is Pella ; see in the evening glow, How sharp the silver spear-heads charge When Alp meets heaven in snow ! x. On our other side is the straight-up rock ; And a path is kept ’twixt the gorge and it By bowlder-stones, where lichens mock The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit Their teeth to the polished block. XI. Oh the sense of the yellow mountain flowers. And thorny balls, each three in one. The chestnuts throw on our path in showers ! For the drop of the woodland fruit’s begun, These early November hours, XII. That crimson the creeper’s leaf across Like a splash of blood, intense, ab- rupt, O’er a shield else gold from rim to boss. And lay it for show on the fairy- cupped Elf-needled mat of moss, XIII. By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undi¬ vulged Last evening—nay, in to-day’s first dew BY THE FIRESIDE. 45 Yon sudden coral nipple bulged, Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crew Of toad-stools peep indulged. XIY. And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge That takes the turn to a range be¬ yond, Is the chapel reached by the one- arched bridge. Where the w T ater is stopped in a stagnant pond Danced over by the midge. XY. The chapel and bridge are of stone alike, Blackish-gray and mostly wet; Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dike. See here again, how the lichens fret And the roots of the ivy strike ! XVI. Poor little place, where its one priest comes On a festa-day, if he comes at all, To the dozen folk from their scattered homes, Gathered within that precinct small By the dozen ways one roams—- XVII. To drop from the charcoal-burners’ huts, Or climb from the hemp-dresser’s low shed, Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts, Oi the wattled cote where the fowlers spread Their gear on the rock’s bare juts. XVIII. It has some pretension too, this front, With its bit of fresco half-meonwiee Set over the porch, Art’s early wont: ’Tis John in the Desert, I surmise, But has borne the weather’s bri ,r,t — XIX. Not from the fault of the builder, though, For a pent-house properly projects Where three carved beams make a certain show, Dating—good thought of our archi tect’s— ’Five, six, nine, he lets you know, xx. And all day long a bird sings there, And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times ; The place is silent and a’ware : It lias had its scenes, its joys and crimes, But that is its own affair. XXI. My perfect wife, my Leon or, O heart, my own! O eyes, mine too! Whom else could I dare look back¬ ward for, With whom beside should I dare pursue The path gray heads abhor? XXII. For it leads to a crag’s sheer edge with them ; Youth, flowery all the w T ay, there stops— Not they; age threatens and they con¬ temn, Till they reach the gulf' wherein youth drops, One inch from our life’s safe hem ! XXIII. With me, youth led . . . I will speak mrw, No longer w r atch you as you sit Beading by firelight, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Mutely my heart know’s liow T — XXIV. When, if I think but deep enough, Y r ou are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; &nd you, too, find without rebuff 46 BY THE FIRESIDE. Response your soul seeks many a time, Piercing its line flesh-stuff. XXY. My own, confirm me ! If I tread This path hack, is it not in pride To think how little I dreamed it led To an age so blest that, by its side, Youth seems the waste instead? XXVI, My own, see where the years conduct! At first, ’twas something our two souls Should mix as mists do; each is sucked In each now ; on, the new stream rolls, Wh atever rocks obstruct. XXVII. Think, when our one soul under¬ stands The great Word which makes all things new, When earth breaks up and heaven expands, How will the change strike me and you In the house not made with hands ? XXVIII. Oh ! I must feel your brain prompt mine, Your heart anticipate my heart, You must be just before, in fine, See and make me see, for your part, New depths of the divine ! XXIX. But who could have expected this When we two drew together first Just for the obvious human bliss, To satisfy life’s daily thirst With a thing men seldom miss ? XXX. Come back with me to the first of all, Let us lean and love it over again, Let us now forget and now recall, Break the rosary in a pearly rain, And gather what we let fall! XXXI. What did I say ?—that a small bird sings All day long, save when a bro^ n pair Of hawks from the wood float with Avide wings Strained to a bell: ’gainst noonday glare You count the streaks and rings. XXXII. But at afternoon or almost eve ’Tis better; then the silence grows To that degree, you half believe It must get rid of what it knows, Its bosom does so heave. XXXIII. Hither we walked then, side by side, Arm in arm and cheek to cheek, And still I questioned or replied, While my heart, convulsed to really speak, Lay choking in its pride. xxxiv. Silent the crumbling bridge we cross, And pity and praise the chapel sweet, And care about the fresco’s loss, And wish for our souls a like retreat, And wonder at the moss. XXXV. Stoop and kneel on the settle under, Look through the window’s grated square : Nothing to see! For fear of plunder, The cross is down and the altar bare, As if thieves don’t fear thunder. XXXVI. We stoop and look in through the grate, See the little porch and rustic door, Read duly the dead builder’s date ; Then cross the bridge that we crossed before. Take the path again—but waitl XXXVII. Oh moment one and infinite \ BY THE FIRESIDE. 47 The water slips o’er stock and stone; The West is tender, hardly bright: How gray at once is the evening grown— Dne star, its chrysolite ! XXXVIII. We two stood there with never a third, But each by each, as each knew well; The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred. XXXIX. Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away! IIow a sound shall quicken content to bliss, Or a breath suspend the blood’s best play, And life be a proof of this! XL. Had she willed it, still had stood the screen So light, so sure, ’twixt my love and her: I could fix her face with a guard be¬ tween, And find her soul as when friends confer. Friends—lovers that might have been. XLI. For my heart had a touch of the wood¬ land time, Wanting to sleep now over its best. Shake the whole tree in the summer- prime, But bring to the last leaf no such test! “Hold the last fast!” runs the rhyme. XLII. For a chance to make your little much, To gain a lover and lose a friend, Venture the tree and a myriad such, When nothing you mar but the year can mend : But a last leaf—fear to touch! XLm. Yet should it unfasten itself and fall Eddying down till it find your face At some sliglp wind—best chance of all! Be your heart henceforth its dwell¬ ing-place You trembled to forestall! XLIV. Worth how well, those dark gray eyes, That hair so dark and dear, how worth That a man should strive and agonize, And taste a veriest hell on earth For the hope of such a prize ! XLV. You might have turned and tried a man, Set him a space to weary and wear, And prove which suited more your plan, His best of hope or his worst de¬ spair, Yet end as he began. XLVI. But you spared me this, like the heart you are, And filled my empty heart at a word. If two lives join, there is oft a scar, They are one and one, with a shad¬ owy third; One near one is too far. XLVir. A moment after, and hands unseen Were hanging the night around us fast; But we knew that a bar was broken between Life and life: we were mixed at last In spite of the mortal screen. XLAUII. The forests had done M ; there they stood; We caught for a moment the pow¬ ers at play: They had mingled us r once and good, 48 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND . Their work was clone—we might go or stay, They relapsed to their ancient mood. XLIX. How the world is made for each of us! How all we perceive and know in it Tends to some moment’s product thus, When a soul declares itself—to wit. By its fruit, the thing it does! L. Be hate that fruit, or love that fruit, It forwards the general deed of man, And each of the Many helps to recruit The life of the race by a general plan; Each living his own, to boot. LI. I am named and known by that mo¬ ment’s feat; There took my station and degree; Bo grew my own small life complete, As nature obtained her best of me— One born to love you, sweet! LII. And to watch you sink by the fireside now Back again, as you mutely sit Musing by fire-light, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Yonder, my heart knows how! LIII. So, earth has gained by one man the more, And the gain of earth must be heaven’s gain too; And the whole is well worth thinking o’er When autumn comes: which I mean to do One day as I said before. ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. i. My love, this is the bitterest, that thou— Who art all truth, and who dost love me now As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say— Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love me still A whole long life through, had but love its will, Would death, that leads me from thee, brook delay. ir. I have but te be by thee, and thy hand Will never let mine go, nor heart withstand The beating of my heart to reach its place. When shall I look for thee and feel thee gone ‘i When cry for the old comfort and find none ? Never, I know ! Thy soul is thy face. hi. Oh, I should fade—’tis willed so I Might I save, Gladly I would, whatever beauty gave Joy to thy sense, for that was prec¬ ious too. It is not to be granted. But the soul Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole ; Vainly the fiesli fades ; soul makes all things new. iv. It would not be because my eye grew dim Thou couldst not find the love there, thanks to Him Who never is dishonored in the spark He gave us from his fire of fires, and bade Remember whence it sprang, nor be afraid While that burns on, though all the rest grow dark. Y. So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and clean Outside as inside, soul and soul’s de¬ mesne Alike,this body given to show it byJ ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 49 Oh, three-parts through the worst of life’s abyss, What plaudits from the next world after this, Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky! VI. And is it not the bitterer to think That, disengage our hands and thou wilt sink Although thy love was love in very deed ? I know that nature 1 Pass a festive day, Thou dost not throw its relic-flower away, Nor bid its music’s loitering echo speed. VII. Thou let’st the stranger’s glove lie where it fell ; If old things remain old things all is well, For thou art grateful as becomes man best: And hadst thou only heard me play one tune, Or viewed me from a window, not so soon With thee would such things fade as with the rest. VIII. I seem to see ! We meet and part ; ’tis brief; The book I opened keeps a folded leaf, The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank ; That is a portrait of me on the wall— Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call: And for all this, one little hour to thank ! IX. But now r , because the hour through years was fixed, Because our inmost beings met and mixed, Because thou once hast loved me— wilt thou dare Say to thy soul and Who may list be¬ side, “Therefore she is immortally my bride; Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair. x. “ So, what if in the dusk of life that’s left, I, a tired traveler of my sun bereft, Look from my path when, miinick- the same, The fire-tly glimpses past me, come and gone ? —Where was it till the sunset ? where anon It will be at the sunrise ! Wliat’s to blame ? ” XI. Is it so helpful to thee ? Canst thou take The mimic up, nor, for the true thing’s sake, Put gently by such efforts at abeam? Is the remainder of the way so long, Thou nced’st the little solace, thou the strong ? Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream. XII. —Ah, but the fresher faces ! “ Is it true ” Tliou’lt ask, “ some eyes are beautiful and new ? Some hair,—how can one choose but grasp such wealth ? And if a man would press his lips to lips Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there slips The dewdrop out of, must it be by stealth ? xni. “ It cannot change the love still kept for her, More than if such a picture I prefer Passing a day with, to a room s bare side : 50 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. The painted forms takes nothing she possessed, Yet, while the Titan’s Venus lies at rest, A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide ? ” XIV. So must I see, from where I sit and watch, My own self sell myself, my hand at¬ tach Its warrant to the very thefts from me— Thy singleness of soul that made me proud, Thy purity of heart I loved aloud, Thy man’s-truth I was bold to bid God see ! xv. Love so, then, if thou wilt 1 Give all thou canst Away to the new faces -disentranced, (Say it and think it) obdurate no more, Re-issue looks and words from the old mint, Pass them afresh, no matter whose the print, Image, and superscription once they bore ! XVI. Re-coin thyself, and give it them to spend,— It all comes to the same thing at the end, Since mine thou wast, mine art, and mine shalt be, Faithful or faithless: sealing up the sum Or lavish of my treasure, thou must come Back to the heart’s place here I keep for thee ! XVII. Only, why should it be with stain at all ? Why must I, ’twixt the leaves of cor¬ onal, Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow ? Why need the other women know sg much, And talk together, “Such the look and such The smile he used to love with, tlieti as now ! ” XVIII. Might I die last and show thee ! Should I find Such hardships in the few years left behind, If free to take and light my lamp, and go Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit, Seeing thy face on those four sides of it The better that they are so blank, I know ! XIX. Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o’er Within my mind each look, get more and more By heart each word, too much to learn at first; And join thee all the fitter for the pause ’Neath the low door-way’s lintel. That were cause For lingering, though thou calledst, if I durst! XX. And yet thou art the nobler of us two: What dare I dream of, that thou cause not do, Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride? I’ll say then, here’s a trial and a task; Is it to bear?—if easy, I’ll not ask: Though love fail, I can trust on in thy pride. XXI. Pride?—when those eyes forestall the life behind The death I have to go through!— when I find, Now that I want thy help most, all of thee I 1JY A YEAR 51 What did I fear? Thy love shall hold me Lest Until the lime minute's sleep is past And I wake saved.— And yet it will not be! IN A YEAR. i. Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see Ids face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive: Bitterly we re-embrace. Single still. ii. Was it something said, Something done, Vexed him? was it touch of hand, Turn of head? Strange! that very way Love begun: I as little understand Love’s decay. hi. When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sung, —Sweetly too. If I spoke a word, First of all Up liis cheek the color sprung. Then lie heard. iv. Sitting by my side, At my feet, So he breathed but air I breathed. Satisfied! I, too, at love’s brim Touched the sw T ect: I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. v. **Speak, I love thee best!” He exclaimed: “ Let thy love my own foretell 1 ” i I confessed: “ Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine! ” VI. Was it wrong to own, Being truth? Why should all the giving prove His alone? I had wealth and ease, Beauty, youth: Since my lover gave me love, I gave these. VII. That was all I meant, —To be just, And the passion I had raised. To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised Was it strange? VIII. Would he loved me yet, On and on, While I found some way undreamed —Paid my debt! Gave more life and more. Till all gone, He should smile ‘ ‘ She never seemed Mine before. IX. “ What, she felt the while, Must I think? Lore’s so different with us men! ” lie should smile: “ Dying for my sake— White and pink! Can’t we touch these bubbles then But they break?” x. Dear, the pang is brief, Do thy part. Have thy pleasure! How perplexed Grows belief! 89 * MEETING AT NIGHT. Well, this cold clay clod Was man’s heart: Crumble it, and what comes next? Is it God? SONG FROM “JAMES LEE.” i. On, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth: Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twit¬ ters sweet. ii. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life’s trial, as old as earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what w T ere worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you. Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! A WOMAN’S LAST WORD. i. Let’s contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep; All be as before, Love, —Only sleep! ii. What so wild as words are? I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough 1 hi. See the creature stalking While we speak! Hush and hide the talking, Cheek on cheek. IV. What so false as truth is, False to thee? Where the serpent’s tooth is, Shun the tree— Y. Where the apple reddens, Never pry— Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I. VI. Be a god, and hold me With a charm! Be a man and fold me With thine arm! VII. Teach me, only teach, Love! As I ought I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought— VIII. Meet, if thou require it. Both demands, Laying tlesli and spirit In thy hands. IX. That shall be to-morrow. Not to-night: I must bury sorrow Out of sight: x. —Must a little weep, Love, (Foolish me !) And so fall asleep, Love, Loved by thee. MEETING AT NIGHT. i. Tiie gray sea and the long black land ; And the yellow lialf-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, WOMEN AND ROSES. 53 As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i’the slushy sand. ii. Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm ap¬ pears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each I PARTING AT MORNING. Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the moun¬ tain’s rim: And straight was a path of gold for him And the need of a world of men for me. WOMEN AND ROSES. T I diieam of a red-rose tree, And which of the roses three Is the dearest rose to me ? ii. Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go Floating the women faded for ages, Sculptured in stone, on the poet’s pages. Then follow women fresh and gay, Living and loving and loved to-day. Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence, They circle their rose on my rose-tree. iii. Dear rose, thy term is reached, Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached : Bees pass it unimpeached. IV. Stay, then, stoop, since I cannot climb, You, great shapes of the antique time. How shall I fix you, tire you, freeze you? Break my heart at your feet to please you? Oh, to possess and be possessed ! Hearts that beat ’neatli each pallid breast ? Once but of love, the poesy,the passion. Drink but once and die!—In vain, the same fashion, They circle their rose on my rose-tree. v. Dear rose, thy joy’s undimmed ; Thy cup is ruby-rimmed, Thy cup’s heart nectar-brimmed. VI. Deep, as drops from a statue’s plinth,, The bee sucked in b} 7 the hyacinth. So will I bury me wdiile burning, Quench like him at a plunge my yearn¬ ing, Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips ! Fold me fast where the cincture slips. Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure, Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure, They circle thei:.' rose on my rose-tree. VII. Dear rose without a thorn, Thy bud’s the babe unborn: First streak of a new morn. VIII. * Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear! What is far conquers what is near. Roses will bloom nor want beholders, Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders. What shall arrive with the cycle’s change? A novel grace and a beauty strange. I will make an Eve, be the Artist that began her, Shaped her to his mind !—Alas! in like manner They circle their rose on my rose-tree. A PRETTY WOMAN. b\t MISCONCEPTIONS. i. This is a spray tlie bird clung to, Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, Fit for her nest and her treasure. Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,— So to be singled out, built in, and sung to 1 ii. That is a heart the queen leant on. Thrilled in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love’s regal dalmatic. Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart’s, ere the wan¬ derer went on,— Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on! A PRETTY WOMAN. i. That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, And the blue eye Dear and dewy, And that infantine fresh air of hers ! ii. To think men cannot take you, Sweet, And infold you, Ay, and hold you, AncLso keep you what they make you, Sweet! HI. Yju like us for a glance, you know— For a world’s sake Or a sword’s sake: Ml's the same, whate’er the chance, you know. IV. And in turn we make you ours, we say— You and youth too, Eyes and mouth too, All the face composed of flowers, we say. Y. All’s our own, to make the most of, Sweet—■ Sing and say for, Watch and pray for, Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet! VI. But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet, Though we prayed you. Paid you, brayed you In a mortar—for you could not, Sw T eet! VII. So we leave the sweet face fondly there; Be its beauty Its sole duty ! Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there i VIII. And while the face lies quiet there. Who shall wonder That I ponder A conclusion? I will try it there. IX. As,—why must one, for the love fore¬ gone, Scout mere liking ? Thunder-striking Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone! x. Why, with beauty, needs there money be, Love with liking ? Crush the fly-king In his gauze, because no honey-bee ? XI. May not liking be so simple-sweet, If love grew there ’Twould undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet ? XII. Is the creature too imperfect, say ? Would you mend it, And so end it ? Since not all addition perfects aye ! A LIGHT WOMAN. 55 XIII. Or is it of its kind, perhaps, Just perfection — Whence, rejection Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps ? XIV. Bhall we burn up, tread that face at once Into tinder And so hinder Sparks from kindling all the place at once ? XY. Or else kiss away one’s soul on her? Your love fancies ! —A sick man sees Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her! XYI. Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,— Plucks a mould-flower For his gold flower, Uses fine things that efface the rose: XVII. Posy rubies make its cup more rose, Precious metals Ape the petals,— Last, some old king locks it up, morose! XVIII. Then how grace a rose ? I know a way! Leave it rather. Must you gather ? Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away i A LIGHT WOMAN. i. So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three?— My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me ? ii. My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improve¬ ment yet, When she crossed his path with her liunting-noose, And over him drew her set. hi. When I saw him tangled in her toils A shame, said I, if she adds just him To her nine and ninety other spoils, The hundredth for a whim ! IV. And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said, An eagle’s the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead! v. So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, Mv hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed. VI. The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face, —You look away and your lip is curled ? Patience, a moment’s space ! VII. For see, my friend goes shaking and white ; He eyes me as the basilisk : I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun’s disk. VIII. And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief : “ Though I love her—that, he com¬ prehends— One should master one’s passions (love in chief). And be loyal to one’s friends ! ” IX. And she,—she lies in my hand just as tame As a pear late basking over a wall; -56 LIFE h. A LOVF. Just a touch to try, and off it came ; ’Tis mine,—can I let it fall ? x. With no mind to eat it, that’s the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist ? *Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies’ thirst When I gave its stalk a twist. XI. And I,—what I seem to my friend, you see ; What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess : What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero, I confess. XII 'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one’s own : Yet think of my friend, and the burn¬ ing coals He played with for bits of stone ! XIII. ^)ne likes to show the truth for the truth ; That the woman was light is very true : But suppose she says,—Never mind that youth ! What wrong have I done to you? xrv. Well, anyhow, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand ; And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand ! LOVE IN A LIFE. i. Room after room, 1 hunt the house through We inhabit together. Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her — Next time, herself !—not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch’s per fume ! As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew ; Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather. ii. Yet the day wears, And door succeeds door; I try the fresh fortune— Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. Spend my whole day in the quest,— who cares ? But ’tis twilight, you see,—with such suites to explore, Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune! LIFE IN A LOVE. Escape me ? Never— Beloved ! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both. Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear: It seems too much like a fate, in¬ deed! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. But what if I fail of my purpose here? Is is but to keep the nerves at strain, To dry one’s eyes and laugh at a fall, And baffled, get up and begin again,— So the chase takes up one’s life, that’s all. While, look but once from your far¬ thest bound At me so deep in the dust and dark, THE labouatout. Hi * > ? • ' - ■ ■ :—;- - -—— ■ — 7^o sooner the old hope goes to ground Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark, I shape me— Ever 1 lemoved ! THE LABORATORY. ANCIEN REGIME. I. Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, May gaze through these faint smokes curling whitely, As thou pliest thy trade in this devil’s- smithy— Which is the poison to poison her, prithee ? ii. He is with her, and they know that I know Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—I am here. hi. Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, Pound at thy powder,—I am not in haste! Better sit thus and observe thy strange things, Than go where men wait me, and dance at the King’s. IV. That in the mortar—you call it a gum? Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! And yonder soft vial, the exquisite blue. Sure to taste sweetly,—is that poison too? v. Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, What a wild crowd of invisible pleas¬ ures! To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree bas¬ ket! VI. Soon, at the King’s, a mere lozenge to give. And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live! But to light a pastile, and Elise with her head And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead! VII. Quick—is it finished? The color’s too grim! Why not soft like the vial’s, enticing and dim? Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir. And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer! VIII. What a drop! She’s not little, no minion like me! That’s why she ensnared him: this never will free The soul from those masculine eyes,— say, “No!” To that pulse’s magnificent come and go. IX. For only last night, as they whispered, I brought My own eyes to bear on her so, that 1 thought Could I keep them one-lialf minute fixed, she would fall Shriveled ; she fell not; yet this doe* it alll x. Not that I bid you spare her the pain, Let death be felt and the proof re- main; Brand, burn up, bite into its grace- lie is sure to remember her dying face! XI. Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose; 58 GOLD HAIR. It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close: The delicate droplet, my whole for¬ tune’s fee! If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me? XII. Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your till, You may kiss me, old man, on the mouth, if you will! But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings Ere I know it—next moment I dance at the King’s! GOLD HAIR: A STORY OF I'ORNIC. I. Oh, the beautiful girl, too white, Who lived at Pornic down by the sea. Just where the sea and the Loire unite! And a boasted name in Brittany She bore, which I will not write. ii. Too white, for the flower of life is red; Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen Of a soul that is meant (her parents said) To just see earth, and hardly be seen, And blossom in heaven instead. hi. Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair! One grace that grew to its full on earth : Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare, And her waist want half a girdle’s girth, But she had her great gold hair. iv. Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, Freshness and fragrance—floods of it too! Gold, did I say? Nay, gold’s mere dross: Here, Life smiled, “ Think what 1 meant to do! ” And Love sighed, “ Fancy my loss! ” Y. So, when she died, it was scarce more strange Than that,when some delicate even- .ing dies, And you follow its spent sun’s pallid range. There’s a shoot of color startles the skies With a sudden, violent change,— YI. That, while the breath was nearly to seek, As they put the little cross to her lips, She changed; a spot came out on her cheek, A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, And she broke forth, “I must speak! YII. “Not my hair!” made the girl her moan— “All the rest is gone or to go; But the last, last grace, my all, my own, Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! Leave my poor gold hair alone! ” VIII. The passions thus vented, dead lay she: Her parents sobbed their worst on that, All friends joined in, nor observed degree: For indeed the hair was to wonder at, As it spread—not flowing free, IX. But curled around her brow, like a crown, And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, And calmed about her neck—ay, down To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap 11’ the gold, it reached her gown. GOLD HAUL 59 x. All kissed that face, like a silver wedge 'Mid the yellow wealth, nor dis¬ turbed its hair: E’en the priest allowed death’s privi¬ lege, As he planted the crucifix with care On her breast, ’twixt edge and edge. XI. And thus was she buried, inviolate Of body and soul, in the very space By the altar; keeping saintly state In Pornic church, for her pride of race, Pure life and piteous fate. XII. And in after-time w r ould your fresh tear fall, Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, As they told you of gold both robe and pall, IIow she prayed them leave it alone a while, So it never was touched at all. XIII. Years flew; this legend grew at last The life of the lady; all she had done, All been, in the memories fading fast Of lover and friend, was summoned in one Sentence survivors passed: XIV. To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth; Had turned an angel before the time: Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth Of frailty, all you could count a crime Was—she knew her gold hair’s worth. xv. At little pleasant Pornic church, It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, Was taken to pieces; left in the lurch, A certain sacred space lay bare. And the boys began research. XVI. ’Twas the space where our sires would lay a saint, A benefactor,—a bishop, suppose, A baron with armor-adornments quaint, Dame with chased ring and jeweled rose, Things sanctity saves from taint; XVII. So we come to find them in after-days When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds Of use to the living, in many ways: For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, And the church deserves the praise. XVIII. They grubbed with a will: and at length —0 cor Humanum, pcctora earn, and the rest!— They found—no gaud they were pry¬ ing for, No ring, no rose, but—who would have guessed?— A double Louis-d’or! XIX. Here was a case for the priest: he heard, Marked, inwardly digested, laid Finger on nose, smiled, “ A little bird Chirps in my ear”: then, “ Bring a spade, Dig deeper!”—he gave the word. xx. And lo, when they came to the coflim lid, Or rotten planks which composed it once, Why, there lay the girl’s skull wedged amid A mint of money, it served for the nonce To hold in its hair-heaps hid! xxi. Hid there ? Why ? Could the girl be wont GO THE STATUE AND THE BUST. (She the stainless soul) to treasure up Money, earth’s trash and heaven’s affront? Had a spider found out the com¬ munion-cup, Was a toad in the christening-font? XXII. Truth is truth: too true it was. Gold! Sh t hoarded and hugged it first, Longed for it, leaned o’er it, loved it —alas— Till the .humor grew to a head and burst, And she cried, at the final pass,— XXIII. “ Talk not of God, my heart is stone! Nor lover nor friend—be gold for both! Gold I lack; and, my all, my own, It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth If they let my hair alone! ” xxiv. Louis-d’ors, some six times five, And duly double, every piece. Now, do you see? With the priest to shrive, With parents preventing her soul’s release By kisses that kept alive, — XXV. With heaven’s gold gates about to ope, With friends’ praise, gold-like, lin¬ gering still, An instinct had bidden the girl’s hand grope For gold, the true sort—“Gold in heaven, if you wall; 7 7 But I keep earth’s too, I hope.” XXVI. Enough! The priest took the grave’s grim yield: The parents, they eyed that price of sin As if thirty 'pieces lay revealed On the place to Miry strangers ill , The hideous Potter’s Field. xxvri. But the priest bethought him: “ ‘ Milk that’s spilt ’ —You know the adage ! Watch and pray ! Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt ! It would build a new altar ; that, w T e may ! ” And the altar therewith was built. XXVIII. Why I deliver this horrible verse? As the text of a sermon, which now 1 preach. Evil or good may be better or worse In the human heart, but the mixture of each Is a marvel and a curse. XXIX. The candid incline to surmise of late That the Christian faith may be false, I find; For our Essays-and-Reviews’ debate Begins to tell on the public mind, And Colenso’s words have weight: I still, to suppose it true, for mv part, See reasons and reasons; this, to begin ; ’Tis the faith that launched point- blank her dart At the head of a lie—taught Origi¬ nal Sin, The Corruption of Man’s Heart. THE STATUE AND THE BUST, Tiieiie’s a palace in Florence, the world knows "well, And a statue watches it from the square, And this story of both do our towms- men tell. Ages ago, a lady there, At the farthest window facing the East Asked, “ Wba by with the royal air U THE STATUE AND TIIE BUST. Cl The bridesmaids’ prattle around lier ceased ; She leaned forth, one on either hand : They saw how the blush of the bride increased— They felt by its beats her heart ex¬ pand— As one at each ear and both in a breath Whispered, “The Great Duke Fer¬ dinand.” That selfsame instant, underneath, The Duke rode past in his idle way, Empty and fine, like a swordless sheath. Gay he rode, with a friend so gay, Till he threw his head back—“ Who is she ? ” —“ A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day.” Hair in heaps lay heavily Over a pale brow spirit-pure— Carved like the heart of the coal- black tree, Crisped liked a war-steed’s encolure— And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes Of the blackest black our eyes endure. And lo, a blade for a knight’s emprise Filled the fine empty sheath of a man,— man,— The Duke grew straightway brave and wise. He looked at her, as a lover can. She looked at him, as one who awakes : The past was a sleep, and her life began. How, love so ordered for both their sakes, A feast was held, that selfsame night, In the pile which the mighty shadow makes. (For Via Larga is three-parts light, But the palace overshadows one. Because of a crime which may God requite 1 To Florence and God the wrong was done, Through the first republic’s murder there By Cosimo and his cursed son.) The Duke (with the statue’s face in the scpiare) Turned, in the midst of his multitude, At the bright approach of the bridal pair. Face to face the lovers stood A single minute and no more, While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued— Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor — For the Duke on the lady a kiss con¬ ferred, As the courtly custom was of yore. In a minute can lovers exchange a word? If a word did pass, which I do not think, Only one out of the thousand heard. That was the bridegroom. At day’s brink He and his bride were alone at last In a bed-chamber by a taper’s blink. Camly he said that her lot was cast, That the door she had passed was shut on her Till the final catafalque repassed. The world meanwhile, its noise and stir, Through a certain window facing the East, She could watch like a convent’s chronicler. Since passing the door might lead to a feast, And a feast might lead to so much beside, He, of many evils, chose the least. “ Freel} r I choose too,” said the bride-— “ Your window and its world suffice,” Replied the tongue, while the heart replied— G 2 THE STATUE AND TIIE BUST. “If I spend the night with that devil twice, May his window serve as my loop of hell Whence a damned soul looks on paradise! “ I fly to the Duke who loves me well, Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow Ere 1 count another ave-bell. u ’Tis only the coat of a page to bor¬ row, And tie my hair in a horse-boy’s trim, And I save my soul—but not to-mor¬ row ”— (She checked herself and her eye grew dim) “ My father tarries to bless my state: I must keep it one day more for him. “ Is one day more so long to wait? Moreover the Duke rides past, I know; We shall see each other, as sure as fate. ” She turned on her side and slept. Just so! So we resolve on a thing and sleep: So did the lady, ages ago. That night the Duke said, “ Dear or cheap As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove To body or soul, I will drain it deep.” And on the morrow, bold with love, He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call, As his duty bade, by the Duke’s alcove) And smiled, “ ’Twas a very funeral, Your lady will think, this feast of ours,— A shame to efface, whate’er befall! “What if we break from the Arno bowers, And try if Petraja, cool and green, Cure last night’s fault with this morn¬ ing’s flowers? ” The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen On his steady brow and quiet mouth, Said, “Too much favor for me s) mean! “ But, alas! my lady leaves the South; Each wind that comes from the Aper - nine Is a menace to her tender youth: “ Nor a way exists, the wise opine, If she quits her palace twice this year. To avert the flower of life’s decline.” Quoth the Duke, “ A sage and a kind¬ ly fear. Moreover Petraja is cold this spring: Be our feast to-night as usual here! ” And then to himself—“Which night shall bring Thy bride to her lover’s embraces, fool— Or I am the fool, and thou art the king! “Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool— For to-night the envoy arrives from France Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool. “ I need thee still and might miss per¬ chance. To-day is not wliolty lost, beside, With its hopes of my lady’s counte¬ nance: “For I ride—what should I do but ride? And, passing her palace, if I list, May glance at its window—well bo tide!” So said, so done : nor the lady missed One ray that broke from the ardent brow, Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed. Be sure that each renewed the vow, No morrow’s sun should arise and set And leave them then as it left them now. THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 63 But next day passed, and next day yet, With still fresli cause to wait one day more Ere each leaped over the parapet. And still, as love’s brief morning wore, With a gentle start,half smile,half sigh They found love not as it seemed be¬ fore They thought it would work infallibly, But not in despite of heaven and earth: The rose would blow when the storm passed by. Meantime they could profit, in win¬ ter’s dearth, By store of fruits that supplant the rose: The world and its ways have a certain worth : And to press a point while these op¬ pose Were simple policy ; better wait: We lose no friends and we gain no foes. Meantime, worse fates than a lover’s fate, Who daily may ride and pass and look Where his lady watches behind the gate ! And she—she watched the square like a book Holding one picture and only one, Which daily to find she undertook : When the picture was reached the book was done, And she turned from the picture at night to scheme Of tearing it out for herself next sun. So weeks grew months, years ; gleam by gleam The glory dropped from their youth and love, And both perceived they had dreamed a dream ; Which hovered as dreams do, still above: But who can take a dream for a truth ? Oh, hide our eyes from the next re¬ move 1 One day as the lady saw her youth Depart, and the silver thread that streaked Her hair, and, worn by the serpent’s tooth, The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,— And wondered who the woman was. Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked Fronting her silent in the glass— “ Summon here,” she suddenly said, ‘ ‘ Before the rest of my old self pass, “ Him, the Carver, a hand to aid. Who fashions the clay no love win change, And fixes a beauty never to fade. “ Let Robbia’s craft so apt and strange Arrest the remains of young and fair, And rivet them while the seasons range. ‘ ‘ Make me a face on the window there, Waiting as ever, mute the while, My love to pass below in the square ! “ And let me think that it may beguile Dreary days which the dead must spend Down in their darkness under the aisle, “To say, ‘What matters it at the end? I did no more while my heart was warm Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.’ “ Where is the use of the lip’s red charm, The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, And the blood that blues the inside arm— “ Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, The earthly gift to an end divine ? A lady of clay is as good, I trow.” 64 THE STATUE AND THE BUST. But long ere Robbia’s cornice, line With bowers and fruits which leaves inlace, Was set where now is the empty shrine— (And leaning out of a bright blue space, As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky, The passionate pale lady’s face— Eying ever, with earnest eye And quick-turned neck at its breath¬ less stretch. Some one who ever is passing by—) The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch In Florence, “Youth—my dream es¬ capes ! Will its record stay!” And he bade them fetch Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes— “ Can the soul, the will, die out of a man Ere his body finds the grave that gapes? “ John of Douay shall effect my plan, Set me on horseback here aloft, Alive, as the crafty sculptor can, “ In the very square I have crossed so oft: That men may admire, when future suns Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, “ While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze— Admire and say, ‘ When he was alive How lie would take his pleasure once! ’ “ And it shall go hard but I contrive To listen the while and laugh in my tomb At idleness which aspires to strive.” So ! While these wait the trump of doom, How do their spirits pass, I wonder, Rights and days in the narrow room ? Still, I suppose they sit and ponder What a gift life was, ages ago, Six steps out of the chapel yonder. Only they see not God, I know, Nor all that chivalry of his, The soldier-saints who, row on row, Turn upward each to his point cl bliss— Since, the end of life being man! fest, He had burned his way through the world to this. I hear you reproach, “ But delay was best, For their end was a crime.”—Oh / a crime will do As well, I rely, to serve for a test, As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment’!* view ! Must a game be played for the sake of pelf ? Where a button goes, ’twcre an eoi gram To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. The true has no value beyond the sham; As w T ell the counter as coin, I sub mit, When your table’s a hat, and your prize, a dram. Stake your counter as boldly every whit, Venture as warily, use the same skill, Do your best whether winning or los¬ ing it, If you choose to play !—is my prin. ciple. Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life’s set prize, be it what A will 1 LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. G* Tlie counter, our lovers staked, was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin : And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is, the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a view, I' say. You of the virtue (we issue join) How strive you ? De te, fabula ! LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. i. Where the quiet-colored end of even¬ ing smiles, Miles and miles, On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward through the twi¬ light, stray or stop As they crop— Was the site once of a city great and gay (So they say), Of our country’s very capital, its prince, Ages since, Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. ii. Now,—the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, cer¬ tain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to (else they run Into one), Where the domed and daring palace shot in spires Up like tires O’er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Tw r elve abreast. hi. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never w r as! Such a carpet as, this summer-time,, o’er-spreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone— Where a multitude of men breathed joy and w T oe Long ago ; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. IV. Now r , — the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek’s head of blossom wdnks Through the chinks— Marks the basement whence a tower ia ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, th* chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. Y. 7 And I know—while thus the quiet colored eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many tink ling fleece T jx such peace, 66 TIME'S REVENGES. And the slopes and rills in undistin¬ guished gray Melt away— That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret wdience the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. YI. But he looked upon the city,every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with tem¬ ples, all the glades Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, —and then, All the men! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, * Ere w T e rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. VII. In one year they sent a million fight¬ ers forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force— Gold, of course. O heart! O blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth’s returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and tlie rest! Love is best. TIME’S REVENGES. I’ve a Friend, over the sea; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I wrl'*; They find such favor in his sight That he slaughters you with savoy* looks Because you don’t admire my books, lie does himself though—and if so vein Were to snap to-night in this iieavj brain, To-morrow month, if I lived to try, Round should I just turn quietly, Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand Till I found him, come from his for¬ eign land To be my nurse in this poor place, And make my broth and wash my face And light my fire and, all the while, Bear with his old good-humored smile That I told him '‘Better have kept away Than come and kill me, night and day, With, worse than fever throbs and shoots, The creaking of his clumsy boots.” I am as sure that this he would do, As that Saint Paul’s is striking two. And I think I rather . . . woe is me! —Yes, rather should see him than not sec, If lifting a hand would scat him there Before me in the empty chair To-night, when my head aches indeed. And I can neither think nor read. Nor make these purple fingers hold The pen: this garret’s freezing cold! And I’ve a Lady—there he w’akes The laughing fiend and prince of snakes Within me, at her name, to pray Fate send Some creature in the way Of my love for her, to be down-torn, Upthrust and outward-borne, So I might prove myself that sea Of passion which I needs must be! Call my thoughts false and my fancies! quaint. WARING, G7 And my style infirm and its figures faint, All the critics say, and more blame yet, And not one angry word you get. But, please you, wonder I would put My cheek beneath that lady’s foot Bather than trample under mine The laurels of the Florentine, And you shall see how the Devil spends A fire God gave for other ends! 1 tell you, I stride up and down This garret, crowned with love’s best crown, And feasted with love’s perfect feast, To think I kill for her, at least, Body and soul and peace and fame, Alike youth’s end and manhood’s aim, —So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, Filled full, eaten out and in With the face of her, the eyes of her. The lips, the little chin, the stir Of shadow round her mouth; and she —I’ll tell you,—calmly would decree That I should roast at a slow fire, If that would compass her desire And make her one whom they invite To the famous ball to-morrow night. There may be heaven ; there must be hell; Meantime, there is our earth here— well! WARING. I. i. W hat’s become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest or staff and scrip, Rather than pace up and down Any longer London town! ii. Who’d have guessed it from his lip Or his brow’s accustomed bearing. On the night he thus took ship * Or started landward?—little caring For us, it seems, who supped toffekher (Friends of his too, I remember) And walked home through the merry weather The snowiest in all December. I left his arm that night myself For what’s-his-name’s, the new prose- poet Who wrote the book there on the shelf— IIow, forsooth, was I to know it If Waring meant to glide away Like a ghost at break of day? Never looked he half so gay! hi. He was prouder than the Devil; How he must have cursed our revel! Ay, and many other meetings, Indoor visits, outdoor greetings As up and down he paced this London, With no work done, but great works undone, Where scarce twenty knew his name. Why not, then, have earlier spoken, Written, bustled? Who’s to blame If your silence kept unspoken? True but there were sundry jottings, Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings, Certain first steps were achieved Already which ”—(is that your mean- ing?) “ Had well borne out whoe’er believed In more to come! ” But who goes gleaning Hedge-side chance-blades, while full- sheaved Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o’er- weening Pride alone, puts forth such claims O’er the day’s distinguished names. IV. Meantime, how much I loved him, I find out now I’ve lost him. I who cared not if I moved him, _ Who could so carelessly accost him, Henceforth never shall get free Of his ghostly company, His eyes that just a little wink As de£p I go into the merit Of this and that distinguished spirit- 6S WARING. Ilis cheeks’ raised color soon to sink, As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr’-inform’-ingcns-liorrend-ous Demon iaco-seraplii c Penman’s latest piece of graphic. Isay, my very wrist grows warm With his dragging weight of arm. E’en so, swimmingly appears, Through one’s after-supper musings, Some lost lady of old years With her beauteous vain endeavor And goodness unrepaid as ever; The face, accustomed to refusings, We, puppies that we were ... Oh,never Surely nice of conscience, scrupled Being aught like false, forsooth, too? Telling aught but honest truth to? What a sin, had we centupled Its possessor’s grace and sweetness! No! she heard in its completeness Truth, for truth’s a weighty matter, And, truth at issue, we can’t flatter! Well, ’tis done with; she’s exempt From damning us through such a sally; And so she glides as down a valley, Taking up with her contempt, Past our reach; and in, the flowers Shut her unregarded hours. v. Oh, could I have him back once more, This Waring, but one-half day more! Back, with the quiet face of yore, So hungry for acknowledgment Like mine! I’d fool him to his bent. Feed, should not he, to heart’s content? I’d say, “ to only have conceived, Planned your great works, apart from progress, Surpasses little works achieved! ” I’d lie so, I should be believed. I’d make such havoc of the claims Of the day’s distinguished names To feast him with, as feasts an ogress Her feverish sharp-toothed gold- crowned child! Or as one feasts a creature rarely Captured here, unreconciled To capture; and completely gives Its pettish humors license, barely Requiring that it lives. VI. Ichabod, Ichabod, The glory is departed! Travels Waring East away? Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, Reports a man upstarted Somewhere as a god, Hordes grown European-hearted, Millions of the wild made tame On a sudden at his fame? In Vislinu-land what Avatar? Or who in Moscow, towards the Czar. With the demurest of footfalls Over the Kremlin’s pavement bright With serpentine and syenite, Steps, with five other generals That simultaneously take snuff, For each to have pretext enough And kerchiefwise unfold his sash Which, softness’ self, is yet the stuff To hold fast where a steel chain snaps. And leave the grand white neck no gash ? Waring in Moscow, to those rough Cold northern natures borne perhaps, Like the lambwliite maiden dear From the circle of mute kings Unable to repress the tear, Each as his sceptre down he flings, To Dian’s fame at Taurica, Where now a captive priestess, she alway Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech With theirs, tuned to the hailstone- beaten beach; As pours some pigeon, from the myr- rhy lands Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scyth¬ ian strands Where breed the swallows, her melo¬ dious cry Amid their barbarous twitter! In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! Ay, most likely ’tis in Spain That we and Waring meet again Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane Into tho’blackness, out of grave Madrid All fire and shrine, abrupt as when there’s slid Its stiff gold blazing pall WARING. 69 From some black coffin-lid. Or best of all I love to think The leaving us was just a feint; Back here to London did he slink, And now works on without a wink Of sleep, and we are on the brink Of something fresh in fresco-paint: Some garret’s ceiling, walls and floor, Up and down and o’er and o’er He splashes, as none splashed before Since great Caldara Polidore. Or Music meaps this land of ours Some favor yet, to pity won By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,— “ Give me my so-long promised son. Let Waring end what I begun! ” Then down he creeps and out he steals, Only when the night conceals His face; in Kent ’tis clierry-time, Or hops are picking: or at prime Of March he wanders as, too happy, Years ago when he was young, Some mild eve when woods grew sappy, And the early moths had sprung To life from many a trembling sheath Woven the warm boughs beneath; While small birds said to themselves What should soon be actual song, And young gnats, by tens and twelves Made as if they were the throng That crowd around and carry aloft The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure, Out of a myriad noises soft, Into a tone that can endure Amid the noise of a July noon When all God’s creatures crave their boon, All at once, and all in tune, And get it, happy as Waring then, Having first within his ken What a man might do with men : And far too glad, in the even-glow, To mix with the world he meant to take Into his hand, he told you, so— And out of it his world to make, To contract and to expand As he shut or oped his hand v I) Waring! what’s to really be? A clear stage and a crowd to see 1 Some Garrick, say, out shall not he The heart of Hamlet’s mystery pluck? Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, Some Junius—am I right?—shall tuck His sleeve, and forth with flaying- knife! Some Chatterton shall have the luck Of calling Rowley into life! Some one shall somehow run a muck With this old world, for want of strife Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive To rouse us, Waring! Who’s alive? Our men scarce seem in earnest now. Distinguished names!—but ’tis, some¬ how, As if they played at being names Still more distinguished,like the games Of children. Turn our sport to ear¬ nest With a visage of the sternest! Bring the real times back, confessed Still better than our very best! II. i. “ When I last saw Waring ”... (How all turned to him who spoke! You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel or sea-faring?) ir. “ We were sailing by Triest Where a day or two we harbored : A sunset was in the Wcst, When, looking over the vessel’s side, One of our company espied A sudden speck to larboard. And as a sea-duck flies and swims At once, so came the light craft up, With its sole lateen sail that trims And turns (the water round its rims Dancing, as round a sinking cup) And by us like a flsli it curled. And drew itself up close beside, Its great sail on the instant furled, . And o’er its thwarts a shrill voice cried (A neck as bronzed as a Lascar s). ‘ Bny wine of us, you English Brig? Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? A pilot for you to Triest? TO TILE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. Without one, look you ne’er so big, They’ll never let you up the bay! We natives should know best.’ I turned, and ‘ just those fellows’ way,’ Our captain said, ‘ The ’long-shore thieves Are laughing at us in their sleeves.’ hi. “In truth the boy leaned laughing back ; And one half-hidden by his side Under the furled sail, soon I spied. With great grass hat and kerchief black, Who looked up with his kingly throat, Said somewhat, while the other shook His hair back from his eyes to look Their longest at us ; then the boat, I know not how, turned sharply round, Laying her whole side on the sea As a leaping fish does ; from the lee Into the weather, cut somehow Her sparkling path beneath our bow, And so went oif, as with a bound, Into the rosy and golden half O’ the sky, to overtake the sun And reach the shore, like the sea-calf Its singing cave ; yet I caught one Glance ere away the boat quite passed, And neither time nor toil could mar Those features : so I saw the last Of Waring! ”—You? Oh, never star Was lost here but it rose afar! Look East, where whole new thou¬ sands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar? HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. i. On, to be in England now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brush¬ wood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf While the chaffinch sings on the or¬ chard bough In England—now! And after April, when May follows And the wdiite throat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge — That’s the wise thrush : he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, And will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower —Far brighter than this gaudy melon- flower! THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. That second time they hunted me From hill to plain, from shore to sea, And Austria, hounding far and wide Her blood-hounds through the coun¬ tryside Breathed hot and instant on my trace.— I made six days a hiding-place Of that dry green old aqueduct Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked The fire-tlies from the roof above, Bright creeping through the moss they love : —How long it seems since Charles was lost! Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed The country in my very sight; And when that peril ceased at night, The sky broke out in red dismay With signal fires ; well, there I lay Close covered o’er in my recess. Up to the neck in ferns and cress, Thinking on Metternich our friend, And Charles’s miserable end, ¥ THE ITALIAN And much beside, two days ; the third, Hunger o’ercame me when I heard The peasants from the village go To w T ork among the maize ; you know, With us in Lombardy, they bring Provisions packed on mules, a string, With little bells that cheer their task, And casks, and boughs on every cask To keep the sun’s heat from the wine ; These I let pass in jingling line, And, close on them, dear noisy crew, The peasants from the village, too ; For at the very rear would troop Their wives and sisters in a group To help, I knew; when these had passed, I threw my glove to strike the last, Taking the chance : she did not start, Much less cry out, but stooped apart, One instant rapidly glanced round, And saw me beckon from the ground: A wild bush grows and hides my crypt; She picked my glove up while she stripped A branch off, then rejoined the rest With that; my glove lay in her breast: Then I drew breath ; they disap¬ peared : It was for Italy I feared. An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown. Meanwhile came many thoughts : on me llested the hopes of Italy ; I bad devised a certain tale Which, when ’twas told her, could not fail Persuade a peasant of its truth ; I meant to call a freak of youth This hiding, and give hopes of pay, And no temptation to betray ; But when I saw that woman’s face, Its calm simplicity of grace, Our Italy’s own attitude 1 n which she walked thus far, and stood, I lanting each naked foot so firm, To crush the snake and spare the worm— At first sight of her eyes, I said, “ I am that man upon whose head IN EH GLAND. 11 They fix the price, because I hate The Austrians over us : the State Will give you gold—oh, gold so much!— If you betray me to their clutch, And be your death, for aught 1 know, If once they find you saved your foe. Now, you must bring me food and drink, And also paper, pen and ink, And carry safe what I shall write To Padua, which you'] 1 reach at night Before the duomo shuts; go in, And wait till Tenebrse begin; Walk to the third confessional, Between the pillar and the wall, And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace ? Say it a second time, then cease; And if the voice inside returns, From Christ and Freedom; what con¬ cerns The cause of Peace ?—for answer, slip My letter where you placed your lip; Then come back happy: we have done Our mother’s service—I, the son, As you the daughter of our land! ” Three mornings more, she took her stand In the same place, with the same eyes: I was no surer of sunrise Than of her coming: we conferred Of her own prospects, and I heard She had a lover—stout and tall, She said—then let her eyelids fall, “He could do much”—as if some doubt Entered her heart,—then, passing out, “ She could not speak for others, who Had other thoughts; herself she knew:” And so she brought me drink and food. After four days, the scouts pursued Another path; at last arrived The help my Paduan friends contrived To furnish me: she brought the news. For the first time I could not choose But kiss her hand, and lay my own Upon her head—“ This faith waa shown To Italy, our mother; she 72 THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. Uses my hand and blesses tliee.” She followed down to the sea-shore; I left and never saw her more. How very long since I have thought Concerning—much less wished for— aught Beside the good of Italy, For which I live and mean to die! I never was in love; and since Charles proved false, w 7 hat shall now convince My inmost heart I have a friend? However, if I pleased to spend Heal wishes on myself—say, three— I know 7 at least what one should be. I would grasp Metternich until I felt his red wet throat distil In blood through these two hands. And next, —Nor much for that am I perplexed— Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, Should die slow 7 of a broken heart Under his new employers. Last —Ah! there, wdiat should I wish? For fast Do I grow old and out of strength. If I resolved to seek at length My father’s house again, how sacred They all would look, and unprepared! My brothers live in Austria’s pay ■—Disowned me long ago, men say; And all my early mates wdio used To praise me so—perhaps induced More than one early step of mine— Are turning wise: while some opine “ Freedom grows license,” some sus pect “ Haste breeds delay,” and recollect They always said, such premature Beginnings never could endure! So, with a sullen “ All’s for best,” The land seems settling to its rest. I think then, I should wish to stand This evening in that dear, lost land, Over the sea the thousand miles, And know if yet that woman smiles With the calm smile; some little farm She lives in there, no doubt; what / harm If I sat on the door-side bench, And wdble her spindle made a trench Fantastically in the dust, Inquired of all her fortunes—just Her children’s ages and their names, And what may be the husband’s aims For each of them. I’d talk this out, And sit there, for an hour about, Then kiss her hand once more, and lay Mine on her head, and go my way. So much for idle wishing—how It steals the time! To business now. THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. PIANO DI SORRENTO. Fortu, Forth, my beloved one, sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes, Let me keep you amused, till he vanish in black from the skies, With telling my memories over, as you tell your beads; All the Plain saw T me gather, I garland—the flowers or the w r eeds. d ime for rain! for your long hot dry autumn had netwmrkcd with brown The wdiite skin of each grape on the bunches, marked like a quail’s crown, Those creatures you make such account of, wdiose heads,—specked with whit Over brown like a great spider’s back, as I told you last night— Your mother bites oil for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting in halves on the tree. And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, wherever could thrust THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. 73 No seeing our skill Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, some five for one cup. So, I guessed, ere 1 got up this morning, what change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets which woke me before I could open my shutter, made fast with a bough and a stone, And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, sole lattice that’s known. Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, while, busy beneath. Your priest and his brother tugged at them, the rain in their teeth. And out upon all the flat house-roofs, where split tigs lay drying, The girls took the frails under cover: nor use seemed in trying To get out the boats and go fishing, for. under the cliff. Fierce the black water frothed o’er the blind rock. Arrive about noon from Amalfi!—our fisher arrive, And pitch down his basket before us, all trembling alive, With pink and gray jellies, you sea-fruit; you touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner of horns and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at, while round him like imps, Cling screaming the children as naked and brown as his shrimps; Himself too as bare to the middle—you see round his neck The string and its brass coin suspended, that saves him from wreck. But to-day not a boat reached Salerno: so back, to a man, Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards grape-harvest begam In the vat, half-way up in our house-side, like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing till breathless he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the grapes under, Since still, when he seems all but master, in pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going with basket on shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain’s driving: your girls that are older,— For under the hedges of aloe, and where, on its bed Of the orchard’s black mould, the love-apple lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling their laps with the snails Tempted out by this first rainy weather,—your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, when, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow in slippery ropes, And gourds fried in great purple slices, that color of popes. Meantime, see the grape-bunch they’ve brought you : the rain-water slips O’er the heavy blue bloom on each globe which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence. Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth clieese-ball that peels, flake by flake, Like an onion, each smoother and whiter : next, sip this weak wine From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, a leaf of the vine ; And end with the prickly pear’s red flesh that leaves through its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. Scirocco is loose! Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives which, thick in one’s track, Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, though not yet half black l llow the old twisted olive-trunks shudder, the medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees snap off, tigs and all, For here comes the whole of the tempest ! no refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, and listen or sleep. 74 THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. Oil ! how will your country show next week, when all the vine-boughs Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture the mules and the cows? Last eve, I rode over the mountains; your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles that offered, each side, Their fruit-balls, black, glossy, and luscious,—or strip from the sorbs A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, those hairy gold orbs! But my mule picked his sure sober path out, just stopping to neigh When he recognized down in the valley his mates on their way With the fagots and barrels of water. And soon we emerged From the plain where the woods could scarce follow; and still, as we urged Our wav, the woods wondered, and left us. Up, up slid we trudged, Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, and place was e’en grudged ’Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones like the loose broken teeth Of some monster which climbed there to die, from the ocean beneath— Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed that clung to the path, And dark rosemary ever a-dying, that, ’spite the wind’s wrath, So loves the salt rock’s face to seaward; and lentisks as stanch To the stone where they root and bear berries: and . . . what shows a branch Coral-colored, transparent, with circlets of pale seagreen leaves; Over all trod my mule with the caution of gleaners o’er sheaves. Still, foot after foot like a lady, still, round after round, He climbed to the top of Calvano: and God’s own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains, and under, the sea, And within me my heart to bear witness what was and shall be. Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal! no rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived in the blue solitudes. Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! still moving with you; For, ever some new head and breast of them thrusts into view To observe the intruder; you see it, if quickly you turn And, before they escape you, surprise them. They grudge you should learn IIow the'soft plains they look on, lean over and love (they pretend) ■—Cower beneath them, the black sea-pine crouches, the wild fruit-trees bend, E’en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut: all is silent and grave: ’Tis a sensual and timorous beauty,—how fair! but a slave. So, I turned to the sea ; and there slumbered, as greenly as ever Those isles of the siren, your Galli. No ages can sever 1’lie Three, nor enable their sister to join them,—half-way On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses—no farther to-day! Though the small one, just launched in the wave, watches breast-liigli .and steady From under the rock her bold sister, swum half-way already. Forth, shall we sail there together, and see, from the sides, Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts where the siren abides! Shall we sail round and round them, close over the rocks, though unseen, That rutile the gray glassy water to glorious green? Then scramble from splinter to splinter, reach land, and explore, On the largest, the strange square black turret with never a door, Just a loop to admit the quick lizards? Then, stand there and hear The birds’ quiet singing, that tells us what life is, so clear ? —The secret they sang to Ulysses when, ages ago, He heard and he knew this life’s secret, I hear and I know. Up at a villa—down in the city.. 75 Ah, see ! The sun breaks o’er Calvano. He strikes the great gloom And flutters it o’er the mount’s summit in airygold fume. All is over. Look out, see, the gypsy, our tinker and smith, Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, and down-squatted forthwith To his hammering under the wall there! One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting his Jew’s-harp to proof, While the other, through locks of curled wire, is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall. Chew, abbot’s own cheek All is over. Wake up and come out now, and down let us go, And see the fine things got in order at church for the show Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To-morrow’s the Feast Of the Rosary’s Virgin, by no means of Virgins the least: As you’ll hear in the off-hand discourse which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, was getting by heart. Not a pillar nor post but is dizened with red and blue papers; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar ablaze with long tapers. But the great masterpiece is the scaffold rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and lifers and drummers and trumpeters bold Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber: who, when the priest’s hoarse, Will strike us up something that’s brisk for the feast’s second course. And then will the flaxen-wigged Image be carried in pomp Through the plain, while, in gallant procession, the priests mean to stomp. All round the glad church lie old bottles with gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters, religiously popped. And at night from the crest of Calvano great bonfires will hang: On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, and more poppers bang. At all events, come—to the garden, as far as the wall; See me tap with a hoe on the plaster, till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers! —“ Such trifles ! ” you say? Forth, in my England at home, men meet gravely to-day And debate, if abolishing corn-laws be righteous and wise! —If t’were proper, Scirocco should vanish in black from the skies! UP AT A VILLA—DOWN IN THE CITY. (AS DISTINGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY.) I. Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square ; Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there ! n. Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! There, the whole day long, one’s life is a perfect feast; While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. hi. Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain edge as bare as the creature’s skull. TIP AT A VILLA—DOWN IN THE CITY. 76 Save a mere shag of a busli with hardly a leaf to pull ! —I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair’s turned wool. IV. But the city, oh the city—the square with the houses! Why? They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there’s something to take the eye! Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted propei^y^ v v. What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, ’Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well oft the heights: You’ve the brown plowed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. VI. Is it better in May, I ask you? You’ve summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. ’Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three lingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. VII. Is it ever hot in the square? There’s a fountain to spout and splash! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in her conch—fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. VIII. All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger. Except yon cypress that points like death’s lean lifted forefinger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i’ the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous til's on the hill. Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the fever and chill. IX. Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: Ho sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in : You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there’s the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth Or the Pulcinella-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the Archbishop’s most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke’s! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so Mho is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, PIC TO It IGNOTUS. 11 “And moreover” (the sonnet goes rhyming), “the skirts of St. Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached.” Noon strikes,—here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart, With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! Bany-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the hfe; No keeping one’s haunches still: it’s the greatest pleasure in life. x. Put bless you, it’s dear—it’s dear! fowds, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It’s a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still—ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And then penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a Hag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke’s guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! PICTOR IGNOTUS. [FLORENCE, 15 —.] I could have painted pictures like that youth’s Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar Stayed me—ah, thought which sad¬ dens while it soothes! —Never did fate forbid me, star by star, To outburst on your night, with all my gift Of fires from God: nor w r ould my fiesli have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift And wide to heaven, or straight like thunder, sunk To the center, of an instant; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan The license and the limit, space and bound, Allowed to truth made visible in man. And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, Over the canvas could my hand have fiung, Each face obedient to its passion’s law, Each passion clear proclaimed with¬ out a tongue: Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood, A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood Pull down the nesting dove’s heart to its place; Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,— O human faces! hath it spilt, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved? Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) Of going—I, in each new picture, —forth, As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North, Bound for the calmly satisfied great State, *8 FRA LIPPO LIPPI. Or glad aspiring little burgh,it went, Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, Tlii;ougli old streets named afresh from the event, Till it reached home, where learned age should greet My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair,lie learning at my feet!— Oh! thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end, And then not go to heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earth’s every man my friend, The thought grew frightful, ’twas so wildly dear! But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels through a door Of some strange house of idols at its rites ! This world seemed not the world it was, before: Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped . . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me ? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough! These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, Count them for garniture and house¬ hold stuff, _ And where they live needs must our pictures live And see their faces, listen to their prate, Partakers of their daily pettiness, Discussed of,—“ This I love, or this I hate, This likes me more, and this affects me less! ” Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint These endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, With the same cold calm beautiful regard,— At least no merchant traffics in my heart; The sanctuary’s gloom at least shall ward Vain tongues from where my pic¬ tures stand apart: Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine While, blackening in the dailj candle-smoke, The moulder on the damp wall’s travertine, ’Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. So, die my pictures! surely, gently die! O youth ! men praise so,—holds their praise its worth? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth? FRA LIPPO LIPPI. I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks! what’s to blame? you think you see a monk! What, ’tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, And here you catch me at an alley’s end Where sportive ladies leave tlieir d^ors ajar? The Carmine’s my cloister: hunt it up, Do,—harry out, if you must show 3 T our zeal, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company | FRA LIPPO LIPPI. 79 Aha! you know your betters? Then, you’ll take? Your hand away that’s fiddling on my throat, And please to know me likewise. Who am I ? Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend Three streets off—he’s a certain . . . how d’ye call? Master—a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, T the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! Remember and tell me the day you’re hanged, flow you affected such a gullet’s-gripe! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Pick up a manner, nor discredit you: Zooks! are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets And count fair prize what comes into their net? He’s Judas to a tittle, that man is! Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. Lord, I’m not angry! Bid your hang¬ dogs go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbors me (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) And all’s come square again. I’d like his face— His, elbowing on his comrade in the door With the pike and lantern,—for the slave that holds John Baptist’s head a-dangle by the hair With one hand (“ Look you, now,” as who should say) And his weapon in the other, yet un¬ wiped! It’s not your chance to have a bit of chalk, A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! Yes, I’m the painter, since you style me so. What, brother Lippo’s doings, up and down, You know them, and they take you? like enough! I saw the proper twinkle in your eye— Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. Let’s sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. Here’s spring come, and the nights one makes up bands To roam the town and sing out car¬ nival, And I’ve been three weeks shut with¬ in my mew, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again. I could not paint all night— Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. There came a hurry of feet and little feet, A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and wdnfts of song,— Floicer o' the broom, Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! Flower o' the quince, I let lisa go, and what good in life since? Floicer o' the thyme —and so on. Round they went. Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter Like the skipping of rabbits by moon¬ light,—three slim shapes, And a face that looked up . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood That’s all I’m made of ! Into shreds it went, Curtain and counterpane and cover¬ let, All the bed-furniture—a dozen knots, There was a ladder! Down I let my¬ self, JJands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, And after them. I came up with the fun Hard by Saint Lawrence, hail fellow,. W’ell met.— 80 FRA LTPPO LIPPI. Flower o' the rose, If I’ve been merry, what matter who knows ? And so, as I was stealing back again, To get in bed and have a bit of sleep Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head— Mine’s shaved—a monk, you say—the sting’s in that! If Master Cosimo announced himself, Mum’s the word naturally; but a monk! Come, wliat am I a beast for? tell us, now! I was a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street. I starved there, God knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, Befuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, My stomach being empty as your hat, The wind doubled me up and down I went. Old aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand (Its fellow was a stinger, as I knew), And so along the wall, over the bridge, By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, While I stood munching my first bread that month: “So, boy, you’re minded,” quoth the good fat father Wiping his own mouth, ’twas refec¬ tion-time,— “ To quit this very miserable world ?_ Will you renounce ” . . . “ the moutln ful of bread? ” thought I; By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; I did renounce the world, its pride and greed. Palace, farm, villa, shop, and bank¬ ing-house, Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici Have given their hearts to—all at eight years old. Well, sir, I found in time, you maybe sure, ’Twas not for nothing—the good beb lyful, The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, And day-long blessed idleness beside! “ Let’s see what the urchin’s fit for ” —that came next, Hot overmuch their way, I must con¬ fess. Such a to-do! They tried me with their books: Lord, they’d have taught me Latin in pure waste! Flower o’ the clove, All the Latin 1 construe is, “ Amo,” 1 love ! But, mind you, w r hen a boy starves in the streets Eight years together as my fortune was, Watching folk’s faces to know who will fling The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, And who will curse or kick him fof his pains,— Which gentleman processional and fine, Holding a candle to the Sacrament, Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch The droppings of the wax to sell again, Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,— How say 1?—nay, which dog bites, which lets drop His bone from the heap of offal in the street,— Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, lie learns the look of things, and none the less For admonition from the hunger- pinch. FRA LIPPO LIPPI. 81 I had a store of such remarks, be sure, Which, after I found leisure, turned to use: I drew men’s faces on my copy-books, Scrawled them within the antipho- nary’s marge, Joined legs and arms to the long music- notes, Found eyes and nose and chin for A’s and B’s, And made a string of pictures of the world Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. “ Nay,” quoth the Prior, “ turn him out, d’ye say? In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark, What if at last we get our man of parts, We Carmelites, like those Camaldo- lese And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine And put the front on it that ought to be !” And hereupon he bade me daub away, Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, Never was such prompt disemburden- ing. First every sort of monk, the black and white, I drew them, fat and lean: then, folks at church, From good old gossips waiting to con¬ fess Their cribs of barrel-droppings, can¬ dle-ends,— To the breathless fellow at the altar- foot, Fresh from his murder, safe and sit¬ ting there With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard, and half For that white anger of his victim’s son Shaking a list at him with one fierce arm. Signing himself with the other because of Christ (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the passion of a thousand years), Till some poor girl, her apron o’er her head (Which the intense eyes looked through), came at eve On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. I painted all, then cried, “ ’Tis ask and have; Choose, for more’s ready ! ”—laid the ladder flat, And showed my covered bit of clois¬ ter-wall. The monks closed in a circle and praised loud Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, Being simple bodies,—“That’s the very man! Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! That woman’s like the Prior’s niece who comes To care about his asthma: it’s the life ! ” But there my triumph’s straw-fire flared and funked; Their betters took their turn to see and say: The Prior and the learned pulled a face And stopped all that in no time. “How? what’s here? Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true As much as pea and pea! it’s devil’s game! Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay. But lift them over it, ignore it all, Make them forget there’s such a thing as flesh. 82 FRA LJPPO LIPPI. Your business is to paint the souls of meu— Man’s soul, and it’s a fire, smoke . . . no, it’s not . . . It’s vapor done up like a new-born babe— (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth), It’s . . . well, what matters talking, it’s the soul! Give us no more of body than shows soul! Here’s Giotto, with his Saint a-prais- ing God, That sets us praising,—why not stop with him ? Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head With wonder at lines, colors, and what not? Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! Rub all out, try at it a second time! Oh! that white smallish female with the breasts. She’s just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say,— Who went and danced, and got men’s heads cut off! Have it all out!” Now, is this sense, I ask? A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill, the eye can’t stop there, must go farther And can’t fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white When what you put for yellow r ’s simply black, And any sort of meaning looks intense When all beside itself means and looks naught. Why can’t a painter lift each foot in turn, Left foot and right foot, go a double step, Make his flesh liker and his soul more like. Both in their order? Take the pret¬ tiest face, The Prior’s niece . . . patron saint— is it so pretty You can’t discover if it means hope, fear, Sorrow or joy? won’t beauty go with these ? Suppose I’ve made her eyes all right and blue, Can’t 1 take breath and try to add life’s flash, And then add soul and heighten them threefold? Or say there’s beauty with no soul at all— (I never saw it—put the case the same) If you get simple beauty and naught else, You get about the best thing God in¬ vents : That’s somewhat: and you’ll find the soul you have missed, Within yourself, when you return him thanks. “Rub all out!” Well, well, there’s my life, in short. And so the thing has gone on ever since. I’m grown a man no doubt, I’ve broken bounds : You should not take a fellow eight years old And make him swear to never kiss the girls. I’m my own master, paint now as I please— Having a friend, you see, in the Cor¬ ner-house! Lord, it’s fast holding by the rings in front— Those great rings serve more purposes than just To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes Are peeping o’er my shoulder as I work, The head shakes still—“It’s art’s de¬ cline, mvson! You’re not of the true painters, great and old; Brother Angelico’s the man, you'll find; Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer; FRA LIPPO LIPPI. 83 Fag on at flesh, you’ll never make the third! ” Flower o’ the pine, You keep your mistr . . . manners, and I'll stick to mine ! I’m not the third, then : bless us, they must know! Don’t you think they’re the likeliest to know, They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage, Clinch my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint To please them—sometimes do, and sometimes don’t; For, doing most, there’s pretty sure to come A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints— A laugh, a cry, the business of the world— (Flower o' the peach, Death for vs all, and his own life for each !) And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over. The world and life’s too big to pass for a dream, And I do these wild things in sheer despite, And play the fooleries you catch me at In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, Although the miller does not preach to him T>e only good of grass is to make chaff. What would men have? Do they like grass or no— May they or mayn’t they? all I want’s the thing Settled forever one way. As it is, You tell too many lies and hurt your¬ self: You don’t like what you only like too much, You do like what, if given you at your word, You find abundantly detestable. For me, I think I speak as I was taught. I always see the garden, and God there A-rnaking man’s wife: and my lesson learned, The value and significance of flesh, I can’t unlearn ten minutes afterwards. You understand me: I’m a beast, I know. But see, now—why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star’s about to shine, What will hap some day. We’ve a voungster here Comes to our convent, studies what I do, Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: His name is Guidi—he'll not mind the monks— They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk— lie picks my practice up—he’ll paint apace, I hope so—though I never live so long, I know what’s sure to follow. You be judge! You speak no Latin more than I, be¬ like; However, you’re my man, you’ve seen the world —The beauty and the wonder and the power, The shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades, Changes, surprises,—and God made it all! —For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, For this fair town’s face, yonder river’s line,. The mountain round it and the sky above, i Much more the figures of man,woman, child, These are the frame to? What’s it all about? To he passed over, despised? or dwell upon, Wondered at? oh, this last of courscl —you say. 84 FRA LIPPO LIPPI .: But why not do as well as say,— paint these Just as they are, careless what comes of it? God’s works—paint any one, and count it crime To let a truth slip. Don’t object, “ His works Are here already; nature is com¬ plete: Suppose you reproduce her—(which you can’t) There’s no advantage! you must beat her, then.” For, don’t you mark? we’re made so that we love First when w r e see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted—bet¬ ter to us, Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now Your cullion’s hanging face? A bit of chalk, And trust me but you should, though! How much more If I drew higher things with the same truth! That were to take the Prior’s pulpit- place, Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh. It makes me mad to see what men shall do And we in our graves! This world’s no blot for us Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: To find its meaning is my meat and drink. “Ay, but you don’t so instigate to prayer! ” Strikes in the Prior: “when your meaning’s plain It does not say to folks—remember matins, Or, mind } t ou fast next Friday!” Why, for this What need of art at all? A skull and bones, Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, or, what’s best, A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. I painted a Saint Lawrence six months since At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: “ How looks my painting, now the scaifold’s down?” I ask a brother: “Hugely,” he re¬ turns— “ Already not one phiz of your three slaves Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, But’s scratched and prodded to our heart’s content, The pious people have so eased their own With coming to say prayers there in a rage: We get on fast to see the bricks be¬ neath. Expect another job this time next year, For pity and religion grow i’ the crowd— Your painting serves its purpose!” Hang the fools! —That is—you’ll not mistake an idle word Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, Go wot Tasting the air this spicy night which turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! Oh, the church knows! don’t misre- port me, now It’s natural a poor monk out of bounds Should have his apt word to excuse himself: And hearken how I plot to make amends. I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece . . . There’s for you! Give me six months, then go, see ANDREA DEL SARTO. 85 Something in Sant’ Ambrogio’s! Bless the nuns! They want a cast o’ my office. I shall paint God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel- brood, Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet As puff on puff of grated orris-root When ladies crowd to church at mid¬ summer. And then i’ the front, of course a saint or two— Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white The convent’s friends and gives them a long day. And Job, I must have him there past mistake The man of Uz (and Us without the z, Painters who need his patience). Well, all these Secured at their devotion, up shall come Out of a corner when you least expect, As one by a dark stair into a great light, Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!— Mazed, motionless, and moon-struck —I’m the man! Back I shrink — what is this I see and hear? I, caught up'with my monk’s things by mistake, My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, I, in this presence, this pure company! Where’s a hole, where’s a corner for escape? Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing, Forward, puts out a soft palm—“ Not so fast!” —Addresses the celestial presence, “nay— He made you and devised you, after all. Though he’s none of you! Could Saint John there, draw— His camel-hair make up a painting¬ brush? We come to brother Lippo for all that, Lite per fecit opus ! ” So, all smile— I shuflie sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wings Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you’re gay And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The liot-liead husband! Thus I scut¬ tle off To some safe bench behind, not let¬ ting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior’s niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say, And so all’s saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! Your hand, sir, and good-by: no lights, no lights! The street’s hushed, and I know my own way back, Don’t fear me! There’s the gray beginning. Zooks! ANDREA DEL SARTO. (CALLED “ TIIE FAULTLESS PAINTER.") But do not let us quarrel any more. No, my Lucrezia! bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but docs it bring your heart? I’ll work then for your friend’s friend, never fear. Treat his own subject after his cwn wav, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, 8(i ANDREA DEL SALTO. And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? Oh, I’ll content him,—but to-morrow, Love! I often am much wearier than you think, This evening more than usual: and L seems As if—forgive now—should you let me sit Here by the window, with your hand in mine, And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use, Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine, the man’s bared breast she curls inside. Don’t count the time lost, neither; you must serve For each of the live pictures we re¬ quire: It saves a model. 3o! keep looking so— My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! —How could you ever prick those perfect ears, Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet— My face, my moon, my everybody’s moon, Which everybody looks on and calls his, And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, While she looks—no one’s: very dear, no less. You smile? why, there’s my picture ready made, There’s what we painters call our harmony! A common grayness silvers every thing— All in a twilight, you and I alike —You, at the point of your first pride in me (That’s gone, you know)—but I, at every point; My youth, my hope, my art being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There’s the bell clinking from the chapel-top; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside ; The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, And autumn grows, autumn in every thing. Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape, As if I saw alike my work and self ^ And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in --) 1 God’s hand. How strange now, looks the life hi^C a makes us lead; ■ V x So free we seem, so fettered fast We V are! I feel he*laid the fetter: let it lie! This chamber, for example—turn your head— All that’s behind us! You don’t un¬ derstand Nor care to understand about my art, But you can hear at least when people speak: And that cartoon, the second from the door —It is the thing, Love! so such things should be ; Behold Madonna!—I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know. What I see, what at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep— Do easily, too—when I say, perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, Who listened to the Legate’s talk last week; And just as much they used to say in France. At any rate ’tis easy, all of it ! No sketches first, no studies, that’s long past; ANDREA DEL SARTO. 87 I do what many dream of, all their / lives, ■—Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this tow r n, Who strive—you don’t know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,— Yet do much less, so much less, Some¬ one says, (I know his name, no matter)—so much less ! Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, Heart, or whate’er else, then goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman’s hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but thomselves I know, Reach many a time a heaven that’s shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and can not tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men ! at a word— Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to thy¬ self, Know what I do, am unmoved by men’s blame Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Morello’s outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken ; what of that? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered ; what of that? Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a heaven for? All is silver- gi-ay, Placid and perfect with my art: the worse ! I know both what I want and what might gain; And yet how profitless to know, to sigh Ilad I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o’erlooked the world ! ” No doubt. Yonder’s a work now, of that famous youth The Urbinatewlio died five years ago. (’Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) Well, I can fancy how he did it all, Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, Reaching, that heaven might so re¬ plenish him, Above and through his art—for it gives way ; That arm is wrongly put—and there again— A fault to pardon in the drawing’s lines, Its body, so to speak ; it soul is right He meant right—that, a child may understand. Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: But all the play, the insight and the stretch— Out of me, out of me ! And wherefore out? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, We might have risen to Rafael, I and you. Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think— More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you—oh, with the same per* feet brow, And perfect eyes, and more than per* feet mouth. ANDREA DEL SARTO. 88 And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler’s pipe, and follows to the snare— Had you, with these these same, but brought a mind ! Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged “ God and the glory ! never care for gain. The present by the future, what is that? Live for fame, side by side with Ag¬ nolo ! Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three ! ” I might have done it for you. So it seems: Perhaps not. Allis as God overrules. Beside, incentives come from the soul’s self ; The rest avail not. Why do I need you ? What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? In this world, who can do a Ihing, will not; j And who would do it, cannot, I per¬ ceive : Yet the will’s somewhat—somewhat, too, the power— And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God, I conclude, compensates, pun¬ ishes. ’Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, That I am something underrated here, Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside ; But they speak sometimes: I must bear it all. Well may they speak ! That Francis, that first time, And that long festal year at Fontaine¬ bleau ! I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, Put on the glory, Rafael’s daily w r ear, In that humane great monarch’s gold¬ en look,— One finger in his beard or twisted curl Over his mouth’s good mark that made the smile, One arm about my shoulder, around my neck, The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, I painting proudly with his breath on me, All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,— And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, This in the background, waiting on my work, To crown the issue with a last reward! A good time, was it not, my kingly days And had you not grown restless . . . but I know— ’Tis done and past; ’twas right, my in¬ stinct said; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray: And I’m the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. How could it end in any other way? You called me, and I came home to your heart. The triumph was, to have ended there; then, if I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? Let my hands frame your face in your hair’s gold, You beautiful Luc.rezia that are mine! “ Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; The Roman’s is the better when you pray, But still the other Virgin was his wife ”— Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows ANDREA DEL SARTO. 89 My better fortune I resolve to think. For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, Said one day Agnolo, his very self, To Rafael ... I have known it all these years . . . (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, Too lifted up in heart because of it) “Friend, there’s a certain sorry little scrub Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, Who, were he set to plan and execute As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours! ” To Rafael’s!—and indeed the arm is wrong. T hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, Give the chalk here—quick, thus the line should go! Ay, but the soul! he’s Rafael! rub it out! Still, all I care for, if bespoke the truth, (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? Do you forget already words like those?) If really there was such a chance so lost,— Is, whether you’re—not grateful—but more pleased. Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! This hour has been an hour! Another smile? If you would sit thus by me every night I should work better, do you compre¬ hend? I mean that I should earn more, give I you more. See, it is settled dusk now: there’s a star; Morello’s gone, the watch lights show the wall, The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. Come from the window, love,—come in, at last, Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. . King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That cousin here again? he waits out¬ side? Must see you—you, and not with me? Those loans? More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? Well,let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work’s my ware, and what’s it worth? I’ll pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in France, One picture, just one more—the Vir¬ gin’s face, Not your’s this time! I want you at my side To hear them—that is,Michel Agnolo— Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you? To-morrow satisfy your friend. I take the subjects for his corridor, Finish the portrait out of hand—there, there, And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs: the whole should prove enough To pay for this same cousin’s freak. Beside, What’s better and what’s all I care about. Oq the bishop orders his TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S. Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, The cousin! what does he to please you more? I am grown peaceful as old age to¬ night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis!—it is true I took his coin, was tempted and com¬ plied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: And I have labored somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures—let him try! No doubt, there’s something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance— Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel’s reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me To cover—the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So—still they overcome Because there’s still Lucrezia,—as I choose. Again the cousin’s whistle 1 Go, my love. THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED’S CHURCH. [home, 15 —.] Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keep¬ ing back? Nephews—sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well— She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What’s done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since. And as she died so must we die our¬ selves, And thence ye may perceive the world’s a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by de¬ grees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask ‘•'Do I live, am I dead?” Peace, peace seems all Saint Praxed’s ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aGry dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam’s sure to lurk; And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And ’neath my tabernacle take my rest. TIE BISHOP ORB EES HIS TOMB AT SAINT P RAXED'X 91 With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peacli-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. —Old Gandolf with his paltry onion- stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how r I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church —What then? So much w r as saved if aught were missed! ; My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard ■where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I ! , . . Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, all God, of lapis lazuli, Big as a Jew’s head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o’er the Madonna’s breast . . . Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa with its bath. So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father’s globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver’s shuttle fleet our years: Man goetli to the grave, and where is he? Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black— ’Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? The bass-relief in bronze ye promised me, Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus,with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph’s last gar¬ ment off, And Moses with the tables . . . but I know Ye mark me not ! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o’er with beggar’s mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me—all of jasper then! ’Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve My bath must needs be left behind alas! One block, pure green as a pistachio- nut, There’s plenty jasper somewhere in the world— And have I not Saint Praxed’s ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? —That’s if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Telly’s every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf’s second line— Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how I shall lie through cen¬ turies. And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle flame, and taste, 92 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S. Good strong thick stupefying incense- smoke! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow de¬ grees, I fold my arms as if they chisped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mort- cloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor’s work: And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too,popes, cardinals, and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talk¬ ing eyes. And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble’s language, Latin pure, discreet, —Aha, elucescebat quoth our friend? No Tully, said I, Ulp'ian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrim¬ age, All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard’s quick, Tliej glitter like your mother’s foi my so-ul. Or ye would heighten my impover¬ ished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and till my vase With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyr¬ sus down. To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask “Do I live? am I dead?” There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingrati¬ tude To death: ye wish it—God, ye wish it! Stone— Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were ooz¬ ing through— And no more lapis to delight the world! Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers, there, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs —Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers— Old Gandolf at me, from his onion- stone, As still he envied me, so fair she wasl A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI’S. O Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find! I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind: But, although I take your meaning, ’tis with such a heavy mind! IT. Have you come with your old music, and here’s all the good it brings. What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants w r ere the kinga. Where Saint Mark’s is, where the Doges used to w r ed the sea with rings ? A TOCCATA OF GAL UP PI'A 03 ITT. Ay, because the sea’s the street there; and ’tis arched by . . . what you call . . . Shylock’s bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival: I was never out of England—it’s as if I saw it all. IV. Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May? Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day, When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say? v. Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,— On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed, O’er the breast’s superb abundance where a man might base his head? VI. Well, and it was graceful of them : they’d break talk off and afford •—She, to bite her mask’s black velvet, lie, to finger on his sword. While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord ? vir. What ? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, Told them something ? Those suspensions, those solutions—“ Must we die? ! Those commiserating sevenths—“ Life might last! we can but try! ” viir. “Were you happy?”—“Yes.”—“And are you still as happy?”—“Yes. And you? ” •—“ Then, more kisses ! ”—“ Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?* Hark, the dominant’s persistence till it must be answered to! ix. So. an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say! “ Brave Galuppi! that was music ! good alike at grave and gay! I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play! ” x. Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone. Death stepped tacitly, and took them where they never see the sun. XI. But -when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, While I triumph o’er a secret wrung from nature’s close reserve, In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve. XII. Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: “ Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned. 94 HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. —-- XIII. “ Yours for instance : you know physics, something of geology, Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree ; Butterflies may dread extinction,—you’ll not die, it cannot be! XIV. “ As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop* What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop? xv. “ Dust and ashes ! ” So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what’s become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old. HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEM¬ PORARY. I only knew one poet in my life : And this, or something like it, was his way. You saw go up and down Vallado¬ lid, A man of mark, to know next time you saw. His very serviceable suit, of black Was courtly once and conscientious still, And many might have worn it, though none did: The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, Had purpose, and the ruff, signifi¬ cance. lie walked, and tapped the pavement with his cane, Scenting the world, looking it full in face; An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. They turned up, now, the alley by the church, That leads no whither; now they breathed themselves On the main promenade just at the wrong time. You’d come upon his scrutinizing hat, Making a peaked shade blacker than itself Against the single window spared some house Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work,— Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick Trying the mortar’s temper ’tween the chinks Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, The man who slices lemons into drink, The coffee-roaster’s brazier, and the boys That volunteer to help him turn its winch. He glanced o’er books on stalls with half an eye, And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor’s string, And broad-edge bokl-print posters by the wall. He took such cognizance of men and things, If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; If any cursed a woman, he took note; Yet stared at nobody,—you stared at him, And found, less to your pleasure than surprise, He seemed to know you and expect as much. So, next time that a neighbor’s tongue was loosed, HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY . 95 It marked tlie sliamefu] and notorious fact We Lad among us, not so much a spy, v As a recording chief-inquisitor, The town’s true master, if the town but knew! We merely kept a governor for forip, While this man walked about and took account Of all thought, said and acted, then went home, And wrote it fully to our Lord the King Who has an itch to know things, he knows why, And reads them in his bedroom of a night. Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease, As back into your mind the man’s look came. Stricken in years a little, such a brow His eyes had to live under!—clear as flint On either side o’ the formidable nose Curved, cut and colored like an eagle’s claw. Had he to do with A.’s surprising fate? When altogether old B. disappeared, And young C. got his mistress,—was’t our friend, His letter to the King, that did it all? What paid the bloodless man for so much pains? Our Lord the King has favorites mani¬ fold, And shifts his ministry some once a month ; Our city gets new governors at whiles,— But never word or sign, that I could hear, Notified, to this man about the streets, The King’s approval of those letters conned The last thing duly at the dead of night, Did the man love his office? Frowned pur Lord, Exhorting when none heard—“Be seech me not! Too far above my people,-beneath me! I set the watch,—how should the people know T ? Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!” Was some such understanding ’twixt the two? I found no truth in one report at least, That if you tracked him to his home, dowm lanes Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace, You found he ate his supper in a room Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall, And twenty naked girls to change his plate! Poor man, he lived another kind of life In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, Fresh-painted, rather smart than other¬ wise ! The whole street might o’erlook him as he sat, Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog’s back, Playing a decent cribbage with his maid (Jacyntli, you’re sure her name was) o’er the cheese And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears. Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he. My father, like the man of sense he was, Would point him out to me a dozen times; “ gt— St.” he’d whisper, “ the Corre- gidor! ” I had been used to think that personage Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, And feathers like a forest in his hat. Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news. 96 PHOT US. Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, And memorized the miracle in vogue! He had a great observance from us boys; We were in error; that was not the man. I’d like now, yet had haply been afraid, To have just looked, when this man came to die, And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides, And stood about the neat low truckle- bed, With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. Here had been, mark, the general-in- cliief, Through a whole campaign of the world’s life and death, Doing the King’s work all the dim day long, In his old coat and up to knees in mud, Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,— And, now the day was won, relieved at once! No further show or need of that old coat, You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while How sprucely we are dressed out, you and i ! A second, and the angels alter that. Well, I could never write a verse,— could you? Let’s to the Prado and make the most of time. PROTUS. Among these latter busts we count by scores, Half-emperors and quarter-emperors, Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose- thonged vest, Loric and low-browed Gorgon on the breast.— Onr loves a baby face, with violet* there, Violets instead of laurel in the hair. As those were all the little locks couM bear. Now read here. “ Protus ends a period Of empery beginning with a god; Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, Queens by his cradle, proud and min- istrant: And if he quickened breath there, t’would like fire Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. A fame that he was missing, spreaci afar: The world, from its four corners, rose in war. Till he was borne out on a balcony To pacify the world when it should sec. The captains ranged before him, one., his hand Made baby points at, gained the cliies- command. And day by day more beautiful ho grew In shape, all said, in feature and in hue. While young Greek sculptors gazing on the child Became, with old Greek sculpture, reconciled. Already sages labored to condense In easy tomes a life’s experience. And artists took grave counsel to im¬ part In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art, And make his graces prompt as blos¬ soming Of plentifully watered palms in spring; Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, And mortals love the letters of his name.” —Stop: Have you turned two pages? Still the same. MASTER HUGHES OF SAXE-GOTIIA. 97 * — ■ ——- New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say How that same year, on such a month and day “John the Pannonian, groundedly believed A blacksmith’s bastard, whose hard hand reprieved The Empire from its fate the year before,— Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore The same for six years (during which the Huns Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons Put something in his liquor”—and so forth. Then a new reign, Stay—“ Take at its just worth ” ('Subjoins an annotator) “WhatI give As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live knd slip away. ’Tis said, he reached man’s age Vt some blind northern court; made, first a page, Then tutor to the children; last, of use About the hunting stables. 1 deduce He wrote the little tract ‘ On worming dogs,’ Whereof the name in sundry cata¬ logues Is extant yet. A Protus of the race Is rumored to have died a monk in Thrace,— And, if the same,he reached senility.’ Here’s John the smith’s rough-ham¬ mered head. Great eye, Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can To give you the crown-grasper. What a man! MASTER HUGHES OF SAXE- GOTHA. i. HrsT, but a word, fair and soft' Forth and be judged, Master Hugues 1 Answer the question I’ve put you so oft: What do you mean by your moun¬ tainous fugues? Sec, we’re alone in the loft,— ii. I, the poor organist here, Hugues, the composer of note, Dead though, and done with this many a year: Let’s have a colloquy, something to quote. Make the world prick up its car! See, the church empties apace, Fast they extinguish the lights. Hallo there, sacristan! Five minutes’ grace! Here’s a crank pedal wants setting to rights, Balks one of holding the base. IV. See, our huge house of the sounds, Hushing the hundreds at once, Bids the last loiterer back to his bounds! — Oh, you may challenge them! not a response Get the church-saints on their rounds! v. (Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt? —March, with the moon to ad¬ mire, Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about, Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire, Put rats and mice to the rout— VI. Aloys and Jurien and Just — Order things back to their place, Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks rust, Rub the church-plate, darn the sac¬ rament-lace, Clo«- desk-velvet of dust.) 98 MASTER HUGHES OF SAXE-GOTHA. VII. Here’s your book, younger folks shelve! Played I uot off-hand and runningly, Just now, your masterpiece, hard number twelve? Here’s what should strike, could one handle it cunningly: Help the axe, give it a helve? VIII. Page after page as I played, Every bar’s rest, where one wipes Sweat from one’s brow, I looked up and surveyed, O’er my three claviers, yon forest of pipes Whence you still peeped in the shade. IX. Sure you were wishful to speak, You, with brow ruled like a score, Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each cheek, Like two great breves, as they wrote them of yore, Each side that bar, your straight beak! x. Sure you said—“ Good, the mere notes! Still, couldst thou take my intent, Know what procured me our Com¬ pany’s votes— A master were lauded and sciolists slient, Parted the sheep from the goats!” XI. Well then, speak up, never flinch! Quick, ere my candle’s a snuff —Burnt, do you see? to its uttermost inch— Give my conviction a clinch! XII. First you deliver your phrase —Nothing propound, that I see, Fit in itself for much blame or much praise— Answered no less, where no answer needs be: Off start the Two on their ways. XIII. Straight must a Third interpose, Volunteer needlessly help; In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in his nose, So the cry open, the kennel’s a-yelp, Argument’s hot to the close. XIV. One dissertates, he is candid; Two must discept,—has distin guished; Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did; Four protests; Five makes a dart at the thing wished: Back to One, goes the case bandied. xv. One says his say with a difference; More of expounding, explaining! All now is wrangle, abuse, and vocif- erance; Now there’s a truce, all’s subdued, self-restraining: Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence. XIV. One is incisive, corrosive; Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant; Three makes rejoinder, expansive, explosive; Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant: Five . . . O Danaides, O Sieve! XVII. Now, they ply axes and crowbars; Now, they prick pins at a tissue Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar’s Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue? Where is our gain at the Two-bars? XVIII. Estfuga, volmtur rota. On we drift: where looms the dim port? One, Two, Three, Four, Five, con¬ tribute their quota; MASTER JIVGUES OF SAXE-GOTRA. 99 Something is gained, if one caught but the import; Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha! XIX. What with affirming, denying, Holding, risposting, subjoining, All’s alike . . . it’s like . . . for an instance I’m trying . . . There! See our roof, its gilt mould¬ ing and groining Under those spider-webs lying! xx. So your fugue broadens and thickens, Greatens and deepens and lengthens. Till we exclaim—“ Hut where’s music, the dickens? Blot ye the gold, while your spider¬ web strengthens —Blacked to the stoutest of tickens?” XXI. I for man’s effort am zealous: Prove me such censure unfounded! Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous— Hopes ’twas for something, his or¬ gan-pipes sounded, Tiring three boys at the bellows? XXII. Is it your moral of Life? Such a web, simple and subtle, Weave we on earth here in impotent strife, Backward and forward each throw¬ ing his shuttle, Death endinu - all with a knife? »._ XXIII. Over our heads, truth and nature— Still our life’s zigzags and dodges, Ins and outs, weaving a new legisla¬ ture— God’s gold just shining its last where that lodges, Palled beneath man’s usurpature. XXIY. So we o’ersliroud stars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland; Nothing grow something which quiet¬ ly closes Heaven’s earnest eye: not a glimpse of the far land Gets through our comments and glozes. XXV. Ah, but traditions, inventions (Say we and make up a visage). So many men with such various in¬ tentions, Down the past ages, must know more than this age! Leave we the web its dimensions! XXVI. Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf, Proved a mere mountain in labor? Better submit; try again; what’s the clef? ’Faith ’tis no trifle for pipe and for tabor— Four flats, the minor in F. XXVII. Friend, your fugue taxes the finger: Learning it once, who would lose it? Yet all the while a misgiving will linger, Truth’s golden o’er us although we refuse it— Nature, through cobwebs we string her. XXVIII. Hugues! I advise med pomd (Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena! Say the word, stravht I unstop the full-organ. Blare out the mco* Palestrina. XXIX. While in the roof, if I’m right there, . . . Lo you, the wick in the socket! Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light there! 100 ABT VOGLEB . Down it dips, gone like a rocket. What, you want, do you, to come un¬ awares, Sweeping the church lip for first morning-prayers, And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat- riddled stairs? Do 1 carry the moon in my pocket? ABT VOGLEB. (after he has been extemporizing upon tiie musical instrument of Ills INVENTION.) I. Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, Man, brute, reptile, fly,—alien of end and of aim, Adverse, each from the other lieaven-high, hell-deep removed,— Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineftable Name, And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! ii. Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine. Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, Burrow a while and build, broad on the roots of things Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace w T ell, Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. hi. And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was, Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest; For highei still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, When a great illumination surprises a festal night— Outlining round and round Rome’s dome from space to spire) Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight. IV. In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man’s birth, Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I; And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth, As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, Not a point nor peak but found, but fixed its wandering star; Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine, For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. ABT VO GLEB. 101 v. Kay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, Presence plain in the place; or fresh from the Protoplast, Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last: Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone. But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new: What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; And what is,—shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too. VI. All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, All through my sou. that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth. All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole, Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth. Had I written the same, made verse—still, effect proceeds from cause. Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws. Painter and poet are proud, in the artist-list enrolled:— VII. But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, Existent behind all laws: that made them, and, lo, they are! And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man. That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught; It is everywhere in the world—loud, soft, and all is said: Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought, And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head) VIII. Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared: Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared. That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. Never to be again! But many more of the kind As good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me? To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be IX. Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name? Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round. x. All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power 102 TWO IN Till: CAMPAGNA. Whose voice lias gone forth, but each survives for the melodist. When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. XI. And what is our failure here but a triumph’s evidence For the fullness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome; ’tis we musicians know. XII. Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor,—yes, And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, Surveying a while the heights I rolled from into the deep; Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. i. I wonder do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May? ii. For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized me many times (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path), for rhymes To catch at and let go. IV. Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles,—blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope, I traced it. Hold it fast! v. The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere! Sdence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air— Rome’s ghost since her decease. hi. Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brick¬ work’s cleft, Some old tomb’s ruin: yonder weed Took up the floating weft, VI. Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting nature have her way While heaven looks from its towers! u DE GUSTIBUS— ,f 103 VII. How say you ? Let us, O my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above! How is it under our control To love or not to love? VIII. I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the core O’ the wound, since wound must be? IX. I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul’s springs,—your part, my part In life, for good and ill. x. No. I yearn upward, touch you close, Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul’s warmth,—I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak— Then the good minute goes. XI. Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the tliistle-ball, no bar. Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star? XII. Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern— Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn. “DE GUSTIBUS—” i. Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees (If our loves remain). In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with pop¬ pies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppice— A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, Making love, say,— The happier they! Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, And let them pass, as they will too soon, With the beanflower’s boon, And the blackbird’s tune, And May, and June! ii. What I love best in all the world Is a castle, precipice-encurled, In a. gash of the wind-grieved Apen- nine, Or look for me, old fellow of mine (If I get my head from out the mouth O’ the grave, and loose my spirit’s bands, And come again to the land of lands), In a seaside house to the farther South, Where the baked c icala dies of drouth, And one sharp tree—’tis a cypress- stands, By the many hundred years red-rusted, Rough, iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o’er- crusted, My sentinel to guard the sands To the water’s edgo. For, what ex¬ pands Before the house, but the great opaque Blue breadth of sea without a break? While, in the house, forever crumbles Some fragment of the frescoed walls, From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. A girl barefooted brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, And says there’s news to-day,— the king 104 THE GUARDIAN-.ANGEL. Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling: —She hopes they have not caught the felons. Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary’s saying serves for me— (When fortune’s malice Lost her, Calais) Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, “Italy.” Such lovers old are I and she: So it always was, so shall ever be! THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL. A PICTURE AT FANO. I. Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come for departure, thou, suspending Thy flight, may’st see another child for tending, Another still to quiet and retrieve. ii. Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, From where thou standest now, to where I gaze. —And suddenly my head is covered o’er W ith those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb—and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, dis¬ carding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. iii. I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment’s spread? IV. If this was ever granted, I "would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy, and sup¬ pressed. v. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such differ¬ ent eyes. O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: And knowing this is love, and love is duty. What further may be sought for or declared ? VI. Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!)—that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each 105 EVELYN HOPE. Pressed gently,—with liis own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay be¬ fore him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o’er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. VII. We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul’s content —My angel with me too: and since I care For dear Guercino’s fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnifi¬ cent) VIII. And since he did not work thus ear¬ nestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong— I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world’s far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. EVELYN HOPE. i. Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed: Sue plucked that piece of geranium- flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass; Little has yet been changed, I think; The shutters are shut,no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge’s chink. it. Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God’s hand beckoned unawares,— And the sweet white brow is all of her. iii. Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? Wliat, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew—• And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, naught beside ? IV. No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love; I claim you still, for my own love’s sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. v. But the time will come,—at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay 7 Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 106 APPARENT FAIL URE. And your mouth of your own gera¬ nium’s red— And what would you do with me, in tine, In the new life come in the old one’s stead. VI. T. have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul’s full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me: And I want and find you,Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see! VII. I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair’s young gold. So hush,—I will give you this leaf to keep; See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand. MEMORABILIA. i. Ait! did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? IIow strange it seems, and new! IT. But you were living before that, V O And also you are living after; And the memory I started at— My starting moves your laughter! hi. I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world, no doubt, Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone ’Mid the blank miles round about: IV. For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! Well, I forget the rest. APPARENT FAILURE. “ We shall soon lose a celebrated building.” Pam Newspaper. 1 . No, for I’ll save it! Seven years since, I passed through Paris, stopped a day To see the baptism of your Prince; Saw, made my bow, and went my way: Walking the heat and headache off, I took the Seine-side, you surmise, Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff, Cavour’s appeal and Buol’s replies, So sauntered till—what met my eyes? ii. Only the Doric little Morgue! The dead-house where you show your drowned: Petrarch’s Yaucluse makes proud the Sorgue, Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned. One pays one’s debt in such a case; I plucked up heart and entered,— stalked, Keeping a tolerable face Compared with some whose checks were chalked: Let them! No Briton’s to be balked! in. First came the silent gazers; next, A screen of glass,we’re thankful for; Last, the sight’s self, the sermon’s text, PtiOSPlCfi. 107 The three men who did most abhor Their life in Paris yesterday, So killed themselves: and now, enthroned Each on his copper couch, they lay Fronting me, waiting to be owned. I thought, and think, their sin’s atoned. IY. Poor men, God made, and all for that! The reverence struck me; o’er each head Religiously was hung its hat, Each coat dripped by the owner’s bed. Sacred from touch: each had his berth, His bounds, his proper place of rest, Who last night tenanted on earth Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,— Unless the plain asphalte seemed best. v. IIow did it happen, my poor boy? You wanted to be Buonaparte And linve the Tuileries for toy, And could not, so it broke your heart? You, old one by his side, I judge, Were, red as blood, a socialist, A leveler! Does the Empire grudge You’ve gained what no Republic missed ? Be quiet, and unclincli your fist! vr. And this -wdiy he was red in vain, Or black,—poor fellow that is blue! What fancy was it, turned your brain? Oil, women were the prize for you! Money gets women, cards and dice Get money, and ill-luck gets just The copper couch and one clear nice Cool squirt of water o’er your bust, The right thing to extinguish lust! VII. It’s wiser being good than bad; It’s safer being meek than fierce It’s fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; That, after Last, returns the First, Though a wide compass round be fetched; That what began best, can’t cr.d worst, Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst. PROSPICE. Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the sum¬ mit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle’s to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more. The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, And bade me creep past. No 1 let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears Of pain, darkness, and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute’s at end. And the elements’ rage, the fiend- voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest l 108 “ GIIILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME .” “ CIIILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME.” (See Edgar’s song in “ Lear.”) I. My first thought was, ho lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. ii. What else should he be set for, with his stuff ? What save to waylay with his lies, insnare All travelers who might find him posted there, And ask the road ? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch’gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thorough¬ fare, hi. If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous track which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acqui- escingly I did turn as he pointed; neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end de¬ scried, So much as gladness that some end might be. IV. For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out through years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring,— > I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its'scope. * Y. As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears, and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath, Freelier outside (“since all is o’er,” he saith, “And the blow fallen no grieving can amend ”) ; VI. While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. VII. Thus, I had. so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among “ The Band” —to wit. The knights who to the Dark Tower’s search addressed Their steps—that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now—should I be fit ? VIII. So, quiet as despair, I turned from bin , That hateful cripple, out of h h highway Into the path he pointed. All the da I Had been a dreary one at best, ant l diin “CRUDE ROLAND TO THE DALE TOWER CAME.” 109 Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. IX. For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Then, pausing to throw backward a last view O’er the safe road, ’twas gone ; gray plain all round ; Nothing but plain to the horizon’s bound, I might go on: naught else remained to do. x. So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature ; noth¬ ing throve: For flowers—as well expect a cedar grove ! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You’d think ; a burr had been a treasure trove. XI. No ! penury, inertness, and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land’s portion. “See Or shut your eyes,” said Nature peevishly, “ It nothing skills : I cannot help my case ; ’Tis l ,lie Last Judgment’s fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prison¬ ers free.” XII. If there pushed any ragged thistlestalk Above its mates, the head was chopped ; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents in the dock’s harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to balk All hope of greenness ? ’tis a brute must walk Pushing their life out, with a brute’s intents. xrn. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy : thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the Devil’s stud ! XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane ; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe : I never saw a brute I hated so ; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. XV. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, hap¬ pier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards—the sol¬ dier’s art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert’s reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, 110 “ CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER GAMER That way lie* used. Alas, one night’s disgrace! Out went my heart’s new tire and left it cold. xvn. Giles then, the soul of honor—there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knight¬ ed first. W hat honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good—but the scene shifts—faugh! what hangman hands Fin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII. Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a liowlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and Change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend’s glowing hoof—to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. xx. So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them head¬ long in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: file river which had done them ail the wrong, Whate’cr that was, rolled by, de¬ terred no whit, XXI. Which, while I forded,—good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man’s cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair 01 beard! —It may have been a water-rat I speared. But, ugh! it sounded like a baby’s shriek. XXII. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage? Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage— XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. When penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley- slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. XXIV. And more than that—a furlong on- why, there! What bad use was that engine for. that wheel, Or brake, not wheel—that harrow fit to reel Men’s bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet’s tool, on earth left unaware. Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. " CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME” 111 Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool tinds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood— Bog, clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, colored gay gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil’s Broke into moss or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXYII. And just as far as ever from the end: Naught in the distance but the even¬ ing, naught To point my footstep farther! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon’s bosom friend. Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap—perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, ’Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains—with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me,— solve it, you! How to get from them wasnoclearel case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when— In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress his way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts—you’re inside the den. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in tight; While to the left, a tall scalped moun¬ tain . . . Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round square turret, blind as the fool’s heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest’s mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf lie strikes on, only when the timbers start. XXXII. Not see ? because of night perhaps?— why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dving sunset kindled through u cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, 112 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. Cliin upon hand, to sec the game at bay,— “Now stab and end the creature— to the heft!” XXXIII. Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers,— How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate,yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV. There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met To view the last of me, a living frame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-liorn to my lips I set And blew “ Ghilde Roland to the Dark Tower came.” A GRAMMARIAN’S FUNERAL. SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE. Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes, Each in its tether Sleeping safe in the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow: Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row! That’s the appropriate country; there, man’s thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain jfs herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels: Clouds overcome it; No, yonder sparkle is the citadel’s Circling its summit. Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights! Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level’s and the night’s: He’s for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, ’Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous, calm, and dead, Borne on our shoulders. Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling tliorpe and croft Safe from the weather! He,whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, “New measures, other feet anon! “ My dance is finished? ” No, that’s the world’s way; (keep the mountain side. Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men’s pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: “ What’s in the scroll,” quoth he, “ thou keepest furled? Show me their shaping, Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,— A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. 113 Give! ”—So, lie gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page: Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, Accents uncertain: “Time to taste life,” another would have said, “Up with the curtain!” This man said rather, “ Actual life comes next? Patience a moment! Grant I have mastered learning’s crabbed text, Still there’s the comment. Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, Painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I’d fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy.” Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give! Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts— Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike tire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick! (Here’s the town-gate reached; there’s the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he’d learn how to live— No end to learning: Earn the means first—God surely will contrive Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, “But time escapes! Live now or never!” fie said, “ What’s time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever.” Back to his book then : deeper drooped his head: Calculus racked him: Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: Tussis attacked him. “Now, master, take a little rest!”— not he! (Caution redoubled! Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first. Fierce as a dragon He (soul-liydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon. Oh, if we draw a circle premature. Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain! Was it not great? did not he throw on God (He loves the burthen)— God’s task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? lie would not discount life, as fools do here Paid by instalment. He ventured neck or nothing—heav¬ en’s success Found, or earth’s failure: “Wilt thou trust death or not?” He answered, “Yes! Hence with life’s pale lure!” That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred’s soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, " Misses an unit. That, has the world here—should in# need the next. 114 CLEON. Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and un- perplexed Seeking shall find him. Bo, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer lie settled Jloti’s business—let it be!— Properly based Oun — Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic Dc , Dead from the waist down. Well, here’s the platform, here’s the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews ! Here’s the top-peak; the multitude below Live, for they can, there : This man decided not to Live but Know — Bury this man there? Here—here’s his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like ef¬ fects : Loftily lying, Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying. CLEON. “ As certain also of your own poets have said ”— Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o’erlace the sea, And laugh their pride when the light waves lisps “ Greece”),— To Protus in his Tyranny: much health 1 They give thy letter to me, even now: I read and seem as if I heard thee speak, The master of thy galley still unlades Gift after gift; they block my court at last And pile themselves along its portico Iioyal with sunset, like a thought of tliee ; And one white she-slave, from the group dispersed Of black and white slaves (like the checker-work Pavement, at once my nation’s work and gift, Now covered with this settle-down of doves) One lyric woman, in her crocus vest Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands Commends to me the strainer and the cup Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. Well counselled, king, in thy mu¬ nificence! For so shall men remark, in siicli an act Of love for him whose song gives life its joy, Thy recognition of the use of life : Nor call thy spirit barely adequate To help on life in straight ways, broad enough For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest, Thou, in the daily building of thy tower,— Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, Or when the general work, ’mid good acclaim, Climbed with the eye so cheer the architect,— Didst ne’er engage in work for mere work’s sake: Iladst ever in thy heart the luring hope Of some eventual rest a-top of it, CLEON. 115 Whence, all the tumult of the build' ing hushed, Thou hist of men mights! look out to the East: The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. For this I promise, on thy festival To pour libation, looking o’er the sea, Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak Thy great words, and describe thy royal face— Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most, Within the eventual element of calm. Thy letter’s first requirement meets me here. It is as thou hast heard: in one short life I, Cleon, have effected all those things Thou wonderingly does enumerate. That epos on thy hundred plates of gold Is mine, and also mine the little chant So sure to rise from every fishing-bark When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. The image of th e sun-god on the phare, Men turn from the sun’s self to see, is mine; The Pcecile, o’er-storied its whole length, As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. I know the true proportions of a man And woman also, not observed before; And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again. For music,—why 1 have combined the moods, Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine; Thus much the people know and rec- nize, Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not! We of these latter d«ys, with greater mind Than our forerunners, since more composite, Look not so great, beside their simple way, To a judge who only sees one way at once, One mind-point and no other at a time,— Compares the small part of a man of us With some whole man of the heroic age, Great in his way—not ours, nor meant for ours. And ours is greater, had we skill to know: For, what we call this life of men on earth, This sequence of the soul’s achieve¬ ments here, Being, as I find much reason to con¬ ceive, Intended to be viewed eventually As a great whole, not analyzed to parts, But each part having reference to all,—- How shall a certain part, pronounced complete, Endure eflacement by another part? Was the thing done?—then, what’s to do again? See, in the checkered pavement oppo¬ site, Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid— He did not overlay them, superimpose The new upon the old and blot it out, But laid them on a level in his work, Making at last a picture; there it lies. So first the perfect separate forma were made, The portions of mankind; and after, so, Occurred the combination of the same, For where had been a progress, other¬ wise? Mankind, made up of Ml the single men,— In such a synthesis the labor ends. How mark me! those divine men of old time Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point 116 CLEON .; The outside verge that rounds our faculty; And where they reached, who can do more than reach? It takes but little water just to touch At some one point the inside of a sphere, And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest In due succession: but the finer air Which not so palpably nor obviously, Though no less universally, can touch The whole circumference of that emptied sphere, Fills it more fully than the water did; Holds thrice the weight of water in itself Resolved into a subtler element. And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full Up to the visible height—and after, void; Rot knowing air’s more hidden prop¬ erties. And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus To vindicate his purpose in our life: Why stay we on the earth unless to grow ? Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out, That he or other god descended here And, once for all, showed simultane¬ ously What,in its nature, never can be shown Piecemeal or in succession; showed, 1 say, The worth both absolute and relative Of all his children from the birth of time, Ilis instruments for all appointed work, I now go on to image,—might we hear The judgment which should give the due to each, Show where the labor lay and where the ease, And prove Zeus’ self, the latent every¬ where ! This is a dream:—but no dream, let us hope, That years and days, the summers and the springs, Follow each other with unwaning powers. The grapes which dye thy wine, are richer far Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers; That young and tender crescent moon, thy slave, Sleeping upon her robe as if on clouds, Refines upon the women of my youth. What, and the soul alone deteriorates? I have not chanted verse like Ilomer, no— Ror swept string like Terpander, no— nor carved And painted men like Phidias and his friend: I am not great as they are, point by point. But I have entered into sympathy With these four, running these into one’s soul, Who, separate, ignored each others’ arts. Say, is it nothing that I know them all? The wild-flower was the larger; I have dashed Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup’s Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, And show a better flower if not so large. I stand myself. Refer this to the gods Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare (All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext That such a gift by chance lay in my hand, Discourse of lightly or depreciate? It might have fallen to another’s hand: what then? I pass too surely* let at least truth stay! CLEON. m And next, of what thou followest on to ask. This being with me, as I declare, O king! My words in all these varicolored I kinds, So done by me, accepted so by men— Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men’s hearts) I must not be accounted to attain The very crown and proper end of life? Inquiring thence how, now life closetli up, I face death with success in my right hand: Whether I fear death less than dost thyself The fortunate of men? “For” (writest thou), “ Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught. Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, The pictures men shall study; while my life, Complete and whole now in its power and joy, Dies altogether with my brain and arm, Is lost indeed ; since, what survives myself ? The brazen statue to o’erlook my grave, Set on the promontory which I named. And that—some supple courtier of my heir Shall use its robed and sceptered arm, perhaps To fix the rope to, which best drags it down. I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go! ” Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. Is this apparent, when thou turn’st to muse Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief, That admiration grows as knowledge grows? That imperfection means perfection hid. Reserved in part, to grace the after¬ time ? If, in the morning of philosophy, Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked On all earth’s tenantry, from worm to bird, Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage— Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced The perfectness of others yet unseen. Conceding which,—had Zeus then questioned thee “ Shall I goon a step, improve on this. Do more for visible creatures than is done ? ” Thou wouldst have answered, “Ay, by making each Grow conscious in himself—b}~ that alone. All’s perfect else : the shell sucks fast the rock, The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight, Till life’s mechanics can no farther go— And all this joy in natural life, is put, Like fire from off thy finger into each, So exquisitely perfect is the same. But ’tis pure fire, and they mere matter are: It has them, not they it; and so I choose For man, thy last premeditated work (If I might add a glory to the scheme) That a third thing should stand apart from both, A quality arise within his soul, Which, intro-active, made to super¬ vise And feel the force it has, may view itself, And so be happy.” Man might live at first The animal life: but is there nothing more? In due time, let him critically learn 118 CLE01S. llow lie lives; and, the more lie gets to know Of his own life’s adaptabilities, The more joy-giving will his life be¬ come, Thus man, who hath this quality, is best. But thou, king, liadst more reason¬ ably said: “ Let progress end at once,—man make no step Beyond the natural man, the better beast, Using the senses, not the sense of sense ! ” In man there’s failure, only since lie left The lower and inconscious forms of life. We called it an advance, the rendering plain Man’s spirit might grow conscious of man’s life, And by new lore so added to the old, Take each step higher over the brute’s head. This grew the only life, the pleasure- house, Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul, Which whole surrounding flats of natural life Seemed only tit to yield subsistence to; A tower that crowns a country. But alas, The sold now climbs it just to perish there! For thence we have discovered (’tis no dream— We know this, which we had not else perceived) That there’s a world of capability For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, Inviting us ; and still the soul craves all. And still the flesh replies, “Take no jot more Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad 1 Nay so much less as that fatigue has brought Deduction to it,” We struggle, fain to enlarge Our bounded physical recipiency, Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, Repair the waste of age and sickness : no, It skills not! life’s inadequate to joy, As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. They praise a fountain in my garden here Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow Thin from her tube: she smiles to see it rise. What if I told her, it is just a thread From that great river which the hills .shut up, And mock her with my leave to take the same ? The artificer has given her one small tube Past power to widen or exchange— what boots To know she might spout oceans if she could ? She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread : And so a man can use but a man’s joy While lie sees God’s. Is it for Zeus to boast, “ See, man, how happy I live, and de¬ spair— That I may be still happier—for thy use! ” If this were so, we could not thank our lord, As hearts beat on to doing : ’tis not so— Malice it is not. Is it carelessness ? Still, no. If care—where’s the sign ? I ask, And get no answer, and agree in sum, O king! with thy profound discour¬ agement, Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. Most progress is most failure : thou sayest well. 6 'LEON. 119 The last point now. Tliou dost ex¬ cept a case—■ Holding joy not impossible to one With artist-gifts—to such a man as I Who leave behind me living works in¬ deed ; For, such a poem, such a painting lives. What ? dost thou verily trip upon a word, Confound the accurate view of what joy is (Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) With feeling joy? confound the know¬ ing how And showing how to live (my faculty) With actually living ?—Otherwise Where is the artist’s vantage o’er the king ? Because in my great epos I display How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act— Is this as though I acted ? if I paint, Carve the young Phoebus, am I there¬ fore young ? Metliinks I’m older that I bowed mv- self The many years of pain that taught me art ! Indeed, to know is something, and to prove How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more : But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too. Ton rower, with the moulded muscles there, Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. I can write love-odes : thy fair slave’s an ode. I get to sing of love, when grown too gray For being beloved : she turns to that young man, The muscles all a-ripple on his back. I know the joy of kingship : well tliou art king ! : ‘But,” sayest tliou—(and I marvel, I repeat, To find thee tripping on a mere word) 4 ‘ what Thou writest, paintcst, stays; that doe< not die. Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, And iEschylus, because we read his plays! ” Why, if they live still, let them come and take Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive? Say rather that my fate is deadlier still. In this, that every day my sense of joy Grows more acute, my soul (intensi¬ fied By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen: While every day my hair falls more and more, My liana shakes, and the heavy years increase— The horror quickening still from year to year, The consummation coming past es¬ cape, When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy— When all my works wherein I prove my worth. Being present still to mock me in men’s mouths, Alive still, in the phrase of such as thou, I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, The man who loved liis life so over¬ much, Shall sleep in my urn. It is so horri¬ ble, I dare at times imagine to my need Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, Unlimited in capability For joy, as this is in desire for joy, —To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait On purpose to make prized the life at large— Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death. i20 IXSTAXS TYRANNVk We burst there, as the worm into the Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no! Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, He must have done so, were it possi¬ ble! Live long and happy, and in that thought die, Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest, I cannot tell thy messenger aright Where to deliver what he bears of thine To one called Paul us; we have heard his fame Indeed, if Christus be not one with him— 1 know not, nor am troubled much to know. Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew As Paulus proves to be, one circum¬ cised, Hath access to a secret shut from us? Thou wrongest our philosophy, O kin ^ In stooping to inquire of such an one, As if his answer could impose at all! He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write. Oh, the Jew findetli scholars! certain slaves Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; And (as I gathered from a by-stander) Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. INSTANS TYRANNUS. i. Of the million or two, more or less, I rule and possess, One man for some cause undefined, Was least to my mind. ii. I struck him, he groveled of course— For, what was his force? I pinned him to earth with my weight And persistence of hate; And lie lay, would not moan, would not curse, As his lot might be worse. hi. “ Were the object less mean,would he stand At the swing of my hand! Foi obscurity helps him, and blots The hole where he squats.” So I set my five wits on the stretch To inveigle the wretch. All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw, Still he couched there perdue; I tempted his blood and his flesh, Hid in roses my mesh, Choicest cates and the flagon’s best spilth: Still he kept to his filth. IV. Had he kith now or kin, w T ere access To his heart, did I press: Just a son or a mother to seize! No such booty as these. Were it simply a friend to pursue ’Mid my million or two, Who could pay me, in person or pelf, What he owes me himself! No: I could not but smile through my chafe: For the fellow lay safe As his mates do, the midge and the nit, —Through minuteness, to wit. Y. Then a humor more great took its place At the thought of his face: The droop, the low cares of the mouth. The trouble uncouth ’Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain To put out of its pain. And “ no!” I admonished myself, “ Is one mocked by an elf, Is one baffled by toad or by rat? The gravamen’s in that! How the lion, who crouches to suit His back to my foot, AN EPlSTLll Would admire that I stand in debate ! But the small turns the great If it vexes you,—that is the thing! Toad or rat vex the king? Though I waste half my realm to un¬ earth Toad or rat, ’tis well worth!” VI. So, I soberly laid my h\«t plan To extinguish the man. Round his creep-hole, with never a break, Ran my tires for his sake; Overhead, did my thunder combine With my underground mine: Till I looked from my labor content To enjoy the event VII. When s adden . . . how think ye, the end ? Did I say “ without friend ”? Say rather, from marge to blue marge The whole sky grew liis targe With the sun’s self for visible boss, While an Arm ran across, Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast, Where the wretch was safe prest! I)o you see? Just my vengeance complete, The man sprang to his feet, Stood erect,caught at God’s skirts,and prayed! —So, / was afraid! AN EPISTLE CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF KAIISHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN. Karshish, the picker-up of learning’s crumbs, The not-incurious in God’s handiwork (This man’s-tiesh he hath admirably made, Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, To coop up and keep down on earth a space 121 That puff of vapor from his mouth, man’s soul) —To Abib, all-sagacious in our art, Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast, Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip Back and rejoin its source before the term,— And aptest in contrivance (under God) To baffle it by deftly stopping such:—■ The vagrant Scholar to his sage at home Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace) Three samples of true snake-stone— rarer still. One of the other sort, the melon- shaped (But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs), And writeth now the twenty-second time. My journeyings were brought to Jericho: Thus I resume. Who, studious in our art, Shall count a little labor unrepaid? I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone On many a flinty furlong of this land. Also, the country-side is all on fire With rumors of a marching hither¬ ward. Some say Vespasian cometli, some, his son. A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear; Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: I cried and threw my staff, and he was gone. Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, And once a town declared me for a spy; But at the end. 1 reach Jerusalem, 122 AiV EPISTLE. Since this poor covert where I pass the night, This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence A man with plague-sores at the third degree Buns till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here! ’Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip, And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. A viscid choler is observable In tertians, I was nearly bold to say; And falling sickness hath a happier cure Than our school wots of ; there’s a spider here Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back; Take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind. The Syrian runagate I trust this to? His service payeth me a sublimate Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. Best wait: I reach Jerusalem at morn, There set in order my experiences, Gather what most deserves, and give thee all— Or I might add, Judaea’s gum-traga- cantli Scales off in purer flakes, shines clear¬ er-grained, Cracks ’twixt the pestle and 1110* por- Phyry, In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp- disease Confounds me, crossing so wdtli lep¬ rosy: Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar— But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end. Yet stay! my Syrian blinketli grate- fully,_ Protesteth his devotion is my price—- -—« Suppose I wu’ite what harms not, though he steal? I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush, What set me off a-writing first of all. An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang 1 For, be it this town’s barrenness,—01 else The Man had something in the look of him,— His case has struck me far more than ’tis worth. So, pardon if—(lest presently I lose, In the great press of novelty at hand, The care and pains this somehow stole from me) I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, Almost in sight—for, wilt thou have the truth? The very man is gone from me but now, Whose ailment is the subject of dis¬ course. Thus then, and let thy better wit help all! ’Tis but a case of mania: sub¬ induced By epilepsy, at the turning-point Of trance prolonged unduly some three days When, by the exhibition of some drug Or spell, exorcization, stroke of art Unknown to me and which ’twere w T cll to know, The evil thing, out-breaking, all at once, Left the man whole and sound of body indeed,— But, flinging, (so to speak) life’s gates too wide, Making a clear house of it too sud¬ denly, The first conceit that entered might inscribe Whatever it was minded on the w T all So plainly at that vantage, as it were (First come, first served), that nothing subsequent Attaineth to erase those fancy scrawls The just-returned and new-established soul AN EPISTLE. 123 Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart That henceforth she will read or these or none. And first—the man’s own firm con¬ victions rests That he was dead (in fact they buried him) .—That he was dead and then restored to life By a Nazarene physician of his tribe: --’Sayeth, the same bade “ Rise!” and he did rise. ,r Such cases are diurnal,” thou wilt cry. Not so this figment!—not, that such a fume. Instead of giving way to time and health, Should eat itself into the life of life, As saffron tingeth ficsli, blood, bones and all! For see, how he takes up the after-life. The man—it is one Lazarus a Jew, Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, The body’s habit wholly laudable, As much, indeed, beyond the common health As he were made and put aside to show. Think, could we penet rate by any drug And bathe the wearied soul and wor¬ ried flesh, And bring it clear and fair, by three days’ sleep! Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? This grown man eyes the world now like a child. Some elders of his tribe, I should pre¬ mise, Led in their friend,obedient as a sheep, To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, Now sharply, now with sorrow,—told the case,— He listened not except 1 spoke to him, But folded his two hands and let them talk. Watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool And that’s a sample how his years must go. Look if a beggar, in fixed middle- life, Should find a treasure,—can he use the same. With straitened habitude and tastes starved small, And take at once to his impoverished brain The sudden element that changes things, That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand, And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? Is he not such an one as moves to mirth— Warily parsimonious, when no need, Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? All prudent counsel as to what befits The golden mean, is lost on such an one: The man’s fantastic will is the man’s law. So here—we call the treasure knowl¬ edge, say, Increased beyond the fleshly faculty— Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, Earth forced on a soul’s use while seeing heaven: The man is witless of the size, the sum. The value in proportion of all things, Or whether it be little or be much. Discourse to him of prodigious arma¬ ments Assembled to besiege his city now. And of the passing of a mule with gourds— ’Tisone! Then take it on the other side, Speak of some trifling fact,—he will gaze rapt With stupor at its very littleness (Far as I see), as if in that indeed lie caught prodigious import, whole results; And so will turn to us the by standers In ever the same stupor (note this I point), 124 AN EPISTLE. That we, too, see not with his opened eyes. Wonder and doubt come wrongly into Play, Preposterously, at cross purposes. Should his child sicken unto death,— why, look For scarce abatement of his cheerful¬ ness, Or pretermission of the daily craft! While a word, gesture, glance from that same child At play or in the school or laid asleep, Will startle him to an agony of fear, Exasperation, just as like. Demand The reason why—“ ’tis but a word,” object— “A gesture”—lie regards thee as our lord Who lived there in the pyramid alone, Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young, We both would unadvisedly recite Some charm’s beginning, from that book of his, Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst All into stars, as suns grow old are wont. Thou and the child have each a veil alike Thrown o’er your heads, from under which ye both Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match Over amine of Greek fire,did ye know! He holds on firmly to some thread of life— (It is the life to lead perforcedly) Which runs across some vast, distract¬ ing orb Of glory on either side that meager thread, Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet— The spiritual life around the earthly life: The law of that is known to him as this, His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. So is the man perplexed with impulses Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, Proclaiming what is right and wrong across, And not along, this black thread through the blaze— “It should be” balked by “here it cannot be.” And oft the man’s soul springs into his face As if he saw again and heard again His sage that bade him “ Rise,” and he did rise. Something, a word, a tick o’ the blood within Admonishes: then back he sinks at once To ashes, who was very fire before, In sedulous recurrence to his trade Whereby he earnetli him the daily bread; And studiously the humbler for that pride. Professedly the faultier that he knows God’s secret, while he holds the thread of life. Indeed the especial marking of the man Is prone submission to the heavenly will— Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. ’Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last For that same death which must restore his being To equilibrium, body loosening soul Divorced even now by premature full growth: He may live, nay, it pleaseth him to live So long as God please, and just how God please. He evert seeketh not to please God more (Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach The doctrine of his sect wliate’er it be, Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: How can he give his neighbor the real ground, His own conviction? Ardent as he is-- Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old 125 AN EPT^ r “Be it as God please ” re-assuretli him I probed the sore as thy disciple should: “ How, beast,” said I, “ this stolid carelessness Sufficetli thee, when Rome is on her march To stamp out like a little spark thy town, Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once ? ” lie merely looked with his large eyes on me. The man is apathetic, you deduce? Contrariwise, he loves both old and young, Able and weak, affects the very brutes And birds—how say I? flowers of the field— As a wise workman recognizes tools In a master’s workshop, loving what they make. Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: Only impatient, let him do his best, At ignorance and carelessness and sin— An indignation which is promptly curbed: As when in certain travel I have feigned To be an ignoramus in our art According to some preconceived dc- sign, Amd happened to hear the land’s prac¬ titioners Steeped in conceit sublimed by igno¬ rance, Prattle fantastically on disease, Its cause and cure—and I must hold my peace! Thou wilt object— Why have I not ere this Sought out the sage himself . theNaz- erene Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, Conferring with the frankness that be¬ fits? Alas! it grievetli me, the learned leech /Perished in a tumult many years ago, Accused, — our learning’s fate, — of wizardy. Rebellion, to the setting up a rule And creed prodigious as described to me. His death, which happened when the earthquake fell (Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss To occult learning in our lord the sage Who lived there in the pyramid alone) Was wrought by the mad people— that’s their wont! On vain recourse, as I conjecture it, To his tried virtue, for miraculous help— How could he stop the earthquake? That’s their way! The other imputations must be lies: But take one, though I loath to give it thee, In mere respect for any good man’s fame. (And after all, our patient Lazarus Is stark mad; should we count o n what he says? Perhaps not: though in writing to t leech ’Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) This man so cured regards the curcr, then, As—God forgive me! who but God himself, Creator and sustainer of the world, That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile! —’Sayeth that such an one was born and lived, Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house, Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, And yet was . . . what I said nor choose repeat, And must have so avouched himself, in fact, In hearing of this very Lazarus Who sait.ii—but why all this of what he saitli? Why write of trivial matters, things of price 120 CALIBAN UPON SETUP OS. Calling at every moment for remark? I noticed on flie margin of a pool Blue-llowering borage, the Aleppo sort, Aboundeth.very nitrous. It is strange! Thy pardon for this long and tedi¬ ous case, Which, now that I review it, needs must seem Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth! Nor I myself discern in what is writ Good cause for the peculiar interest And awe indeed this man has touched me with. Perhaps the journey’s end, the weari¬ ness Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus: I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills Like an old lion’s cheek teeth. Out there came A moon made like a face with certain spots Multiform, manifold, and menacing: Then a wind rose behind me. So we met In this old sleepy towm at unaware, The man and I. I send thee what is writ. Regard it as a chance, a matter risked To this ambiguous Syrian: he may lose. Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. Jerusalem’s repose shall make amends For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine; Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell! The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think? So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too— So, through the thunder comes a hu¬ man voice Saying: “ O heart I made, a heart beats here! Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself 1 Thou Jiast no pow r er nor mayst con¬ ceive of mine: But love I gave thee, with myself to love, And thou must love me who have died for thee! ” The madman saitli He said so: it is strange. CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS; OK, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND. “ Thou though tost that I was altogether such a one as thyself.” [’Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best. Flat on his belly in the pit’s much mire, With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, And feels about his spine small eft- things course, Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: And while above his head a pompion plant, Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, And now a fiower drops with a bee inside, And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,— He looks out o’er yon sea which sun¬ beams cross And recross till they w r eave a spider¬ web (Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times), And talks to his own self, howe’er he please, Touching that other, whom his dam called God. Because to talk about Him, vexes—ha. Could he but know! and time to vex is now, "When talk is safer than in wintertime CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. 127 Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep In confidence lie drudges at their task: And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! ■jKPThinketh, He dwelletli i’ the cold o’ the moon. JJL Tliinketh, He made it, with the sun to match, But not the stars; the stars came other¬ wise ; Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 'Tliinketh, it came of being ill at ease: He hated that He cannot change His cold, Nor cure its ache. ’Hath spied an icy fish That longed to ’scape the rock-stream wdiere she lived, And thaw herself within the bike- warm brine O’ the lazy sea, her stream thrusts far amid, A crystal spike ’twdxt two warm walls of wave; Only, she ever sickened, found repulse At the other kind of water not her life (Green-dense and dim-delicWis, bred o’ the sun), Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, And in her old bounds buried her despair, Hating and loving -warmth alike; so He. ’Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown, lie had watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, And says a plain w 7 ord-w T lien she finds her prize, But will not eat the ants ; the ants themselves That build a wall of seed and settled stalks About their hole—He made all these and more, Made all we see, and us, in spite*, how else? He could not, Himself, make a second self To be His mate: as well have made Himself: lie would not make wdiat He mislikes or slights. An eyesore to Him, or not worth Ilis pains; But did, in envy, listlessncss, or sport, Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be— Weaker in most parts, stronger in a few T , Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, Things He admires and mocks too,— that is it. Because, so brave, so better though they be, It nothing skills if He begin to plague. Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash, Add honeycomb and pods, I have per¬ ceived. Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,— Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; Hist, throw me on my back i’ the / seeded thyme, 128 CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. And wanton, wishing I were horn a bird. Put case, unable to be wliat I wish, I yet could make a live bird out of clay: Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban Able to fly?—for, there, see, he hath wings, And great comb like the hoopoe’s to admire, And there, a sting to do his foes offense, There, and I will that he begin to live, Fly to you, rock-top, nip me off the horns Of grigs high up that make the merry din Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, And he lay stupid-like,—why, I should laugh; And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,— Well, as the chance were, this might take or else Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, And give the manikin three legs for one, Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, Drinking the mash with brain become alive, Making and marring clay at will? So He. ’Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. ’Am strong myself compared to yonder Crabs That march now from the mountain to the sea; ’Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty- first, Loving not, hating not, just choosing so, ’Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; ’Say, This bruised fellow shall receive a worm, And two worms he whose nippers end in red As it likes me each time, I do-, so He. Well then, ’supposeth He is good i’ the main, Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, And envietli that, so helped, such things do more Than He who made them! What con¬ soles but this? That they, unless through Him, do naught at all, And must submit: what other use in things? ’Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint That, blown through, gives exact the scream o’ the jay When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay Flock within stone’s throw, ‘glad their foe is hurt: Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth “ I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, I make the cry my maker cannot make With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!” Would not I smash it with my foot? So He. But wherefore rough, why c All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine— And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign? I yearned—“ Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, I woud add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence As this moment,—had love but the warrant, love’s heart to dispense!” XVI. Then the truth came upon me. Ho harp more—no song more! outbroke— XVTI. “I have gone the whole world of creation: I saw and I spoke; I, a work of God’s hand for that purpose, received in my brain . And pronounced on the rest of his handwork—returned him again His creation’s approval or censure: I spoke as I saw. I report, as a man may of God’s work—all’s love, yet all’s law. Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care! Do I task any faculty highest to image success? I but open my eyes,—and perfection, no more and no less, In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul ;uid the clod. And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew (With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) The submission of man’s nothing-perfect to God’s all-complete. As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his teet. Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. There’s a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh as I think). Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst E’en the Giver in one gift.— Behold, I could love if I durst! 138 SAUL. But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o’ertake God’s own speed in the one w r ay of love: I abstain for love’s sake. ■—What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, Nine and ninety tiew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appall ? In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all ? Do I find love so full in my nature, God’s ultimate gift, That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here the parts shift? Here, the creature surpass the creator,—the end, what began ? Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, Such a body, and then such an earth for inspliering the whole ? And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height This perfection,—succeed, with life’s dayspring, death’s minute of night? Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, the mistake, Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now,—and bid him awake From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set Clear and safe in new light and new life,—a new harmony yet To be run and continued, and ended—who knows?—or endure! The man taught enough by life’s dream, of the rest to make sure; By the pain-tlirob, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, And the next world’s reward and repose, by the struggles in this. XVIII. “ I believe it! ’Tiss thou, God, that givest, ’tis I who receive: In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. All’s one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer, As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaotli: I will ?—the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth To look that, even that in the face too ? Why is it I dare Think but lightly of such impuissance ? What stops my despair? This ;—’tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do See the King—I would help him, but cannot, the wishes fall through. Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would—knowing which, I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now! Would I suffer for him that 1 love ? So wouldst thou—so wilt thou! So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown—■ And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath, Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death! As thy love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being beloved! He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak. ’Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that 1 seek In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be A Face like my face that receives tliee; a Man like to me, RABBI BEN EZRA. 130 Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like this band Shall throw open the gates of new life to tliee! See the Christ stand!” XIX. I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware: I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, As a runner beset by the populace famished for news— Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews; And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot Out in fire the strong paint of pent knowledge: but I fainted not, For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth— Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day’s tender birth; In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills; In the shuddering forests’ held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills; In the startled wild beasts that bore oft, each with eye sidling still Though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill That rose heavily as I approached them, made stupid with awe: E’en the serpent that slid away silent—he felt the new law. The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers ; The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine bowers: And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, With their obstinate, all but hushed voices—“E’en so. it is so!” RABBI BEN EZRA. i. Gnow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith, “ A whole I planned. Youth shows but half : trust God: see all, nor be afraid!” ii. Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, “Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall! ” Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, “ Nor Jove, nor Mars ; Mine be some figured flame which blends transcends them all! ” ITT. Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth’s brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. IV. Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast. Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? Y. Rejoice we are allied To That which doth provide lllBBI BEN EZRA. 140 And not partake, effect and not re¬ ceive! A spark disturbs our clod : Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. VI. Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth’s smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! VII. For thence,—a paradox Which comforts while it mocks,— Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And what not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i’ the scale. VIII. What is he but a brute Whose flesh hath soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test— Thy body at its best, IIow far can that project its soul on its lonely way? IX. Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole: Should not the heart beat once “ IIow good to live and learn ” ? x. Not once beat “ Praise be thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now love per¬ fect too. Perfect I call Thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou slialt do ! ” XI. For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul in its rose-mesli Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best! ” XII. Let us not always say “ Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole! ” As the bird wings and sings, Let us cry “ All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!” XIII. Therefore I summon age To grant youth’s heritage, Life’s struggle having so far reached its term; Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ. XIV. And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue. > XY. Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the tire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same, J Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. RABBI BEJY EZRA. 141 cmti - -- ■ - — - XYI. For, note when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots—“ Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day.” XVII. So, still within this life, Though lifted o’er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, “ This rage was right ’i the main, That acquiescence vain; The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.” XVIII. For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to¬ day ; Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool’s true play. XIX. As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made; So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age; wait death, nor be afraid ! xx. Enough now, if the Eight And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute. Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. XXI. Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! XXII. Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I re* ceive: Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall my soul believe? XXIII. Not on the vulgar mass Called “work,” must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O’er which from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: XXIV. But all, the world’s coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main ac¬ count; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man’s amount: XXV. Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped: All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. xxvr. Ay, note that Potter’s wheel, That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,— Thou to whom fools propound, 142 EPILOGUE. When the wine makes its round, “Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!” XXVII. Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall: Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure. What entered into tliec, That was, is, and shall be: Time’s wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. XXVIII. lie fixed thee mid this dance Of plastic circumstance. This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth suffici¬ ently impressed. XXIX. What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? What though, about thy rim, Skull-tilings in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? XXX. Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp’s flash, and trumpet's peal, The new wine’s foaming flow, The Master’s lips aglow! Thou, heaven’s consummate cup, what needst thou with earth’s wheel? XXXI. But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men! And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I,—to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Tliy thirst; XXXII. So, take and use Thy work, Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o’ the stuff, what warp ing past the aim! My times be in Thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! EPILOGUE. Fiiist Speaker, as David. i. Ox the first of the Feast of Feasts, The Dedication Day, When the Levites joined the priests At the altar in robed array. Gave signal to sound and say,— ii. When the thousands, rear and van, Swarming with one accord, Became as a single man (Look, gesture, thought, and word), In praising and thanking the Lord,— in. When the singers lift up their voice, And the trumpets made endeavor, Sounding, “In God rejoice! ” Saying, “ In Him rejoice Whose mercy endureth forever!” IV. Then the Temple filled with a cloud, Even the House of the Lord; Porch bent and pillar bowed: For the presence of the Lord, In the glory of His cloud, Had filled the House of the Lord. Second Speaker, as Renan. Gone now! All gone across the dark so far, 1 Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still, Dwindling into the distance, dies that stay EPILOGUE. 148 Which came, stood, opened once! We gazed our fill With upturned faces on as real a Face That, stooping from grave music and mild fire, Took in our homage, made a visible place Through many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre, For the dim human tribute. Was this true? Could man indeed avail; mere praise of his, To help by rapture God’s own rap¬ ture too, Thrill with a heart’s red tinge that pure pale bliss? Why did it end? AVho failed to beat the breast, And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide, When a first shadow showed the star addressed Itself to motion, and on either side The rims contracted as the rays re¬ tired ; The music, like a fountain’s sicken¬ ing pulse, Subsided on itself: a while transpired Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse, No prayers retard; then even this was gone, Lost in the night at last. We, lone and left Silent through centuries, ever and anon Venture to probe again the vault bereft Of all now save the lesser lights,a mist Of multitudinous points, yet suns, men say— And this leaps ruby, this lurks ame¬ thyst, But where may hide what came and loved our clay? How shall the sage detect in yon ex¬ panse The star which chose to stoop and stay for us? Unroll the records! Hailed ye such advance Indeed, and did your hope evanish thus? Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred ? We shall not look up, know our¬ selves are seen, Speak, and be sure that we again are heard, Acting or suffering, have the disk’s serene Reflect our life,absorb an earthly flame, Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb, Its core had never crimsoned all the same, Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb? Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post, Sad sway of scepter whose mere touch appals, Ghastly dethronement,cursed by those the most On whose repugnant brow the crown next falls! Third Speaker. i. Witless alike of will and way divine, How heaven’s high with earth’s low should intertwine! Friends, I have seen through your eyes: now use mine! ii. Take the least man of all mankind, as I; Look at bis head and heart, find how and why He differs from his fellows utterly: hi. Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas (They said of old) the instinctive water flees IV. Toward some elected point of central rock. 144 A WALL. As though, for its sake only, roamed the tiock Of waves about the waste: a while they mock Y. With radiance caught for the occa¬ sion,—hues Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues As only heaven could fitly interfuse,— VI. The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, king O’ the current for a minute: then they wring Up by the roots and oversweep the thing, VII. And hasten off, to play again else¬ where The same part, choose another peak as bare, They find and flatter, feast and finish there. VIII. When you see what I tell you,—na¬ ture dance About each man of us, retire, advance, As though the pageant’s end were to enhance IX. His worth, and—once the life, his product gained—■ Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained, And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned,— x. When you acknowledge that one world coidd do All the diverse work, old yet ever new, Divide us, each from other, me from you,— XI. Why! where’s the ne^ri of Temple, when the walls O’ the world are that? What use of swells and falls From Levites’ choir, priests’ cries, and trumpet-calls? XII. That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows, Or decomposes but to recompose, Become my universe that feels and knows! A WALL. i. Oh the old wall here! How I could pass Life in a long midsummer day. My feet confined to a plot of grass, My eyes from a wall not once away! ii. And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green: Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, In lappets of tangle they laugh be¬ tween. hi. Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? Why tremble the sprays? What life o’erbrims The body,—the house, no eye can probe,— Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs? IV. And there again! But my heart may guess Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps: So, the old wall throbbed, and its life’s excess Died out and away in the leafy wraps. v. AVall upon wall are beneath us: life GARDEN FANCIES. 145 And song should away from heart to heart! I—prison-bird, with a ruddy strife At breast, and a lip whence storm- notes start— vr. Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing That’s spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free; Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring Of the rueful neighbors, and— forth to thee! APPARITIONS. i. Such a starved bank of moss Till, that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born! ii. Sky—what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Bay on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star! hi. World—how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God’s own smile came out: That was thy face! NATURAL MAGIC. i. All I can say is—I saw it! The room was as bare as your hand, I locked in the swarth little lady, — I swear, From the head to the foot of her— well, quite as bare ! “ No Nautcli shall cheat me,” said I, “ taking my stand At this bolt which I draw!” And this bolt—I withdraw it, And there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered With—who knows what verdure, o’er- fruited, o’erflowered? Impossible! Only—1 saw it! ii. All I can sing is—I feel it! This life was as blank as that room; I let you pass in here. Precaution, indeed ? Walls, ceiling, and floor, — not a chance for a weed! Wide opens the entrance: where’s cold now, where’s gloom ? No May to sow seed here, no June to reveal it, Behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing, These fruits of your bearing—nay, birds of your winging! A fairy-tale! Only—I feel it! MAGICAL NATURE. i. Flower —I never fancied, jewel—I profess you! Bright I see, and soft I feel the "outside of a flow T er. Save but glow inside and—jewel, I should guess you, Dim to sight and rough to touch: the glory is the dower. ii. You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, a jewel— Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime! Time may fray the flower-face: kind be time or cruel, Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time! GARDEN FANCIES. I. TIIE FLOWER’S NAME. I. Here’s the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while siuce: 146 GARDEN FANCIES. Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feel and forget it the leaves among. n. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe’s edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk- white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock- plants lie! hi. ♦ This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name, What a name! Was it love, or praise? Speech half-asleep, or song half- awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name’s sake. IV. Roses,—if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. But do not detain me now; for she lingers There,like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. v. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved for¬ ever! Bud, if I kiss you ’tis that you blow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves be¬ tween, Till round they turn and down they nestle; Is not the dear mark still to be seen? VI. Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow her beauties flee: Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June’s twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady’s lightest footfall! —Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces— Roses, you are not so fair after all! II. SLBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS. I. Plague take all your pedants, say I! He who wrote what I hold in my hand, Centuries back was so good as to die, Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; This, that was a book in its time, Printed on paper and bound in leather, Last month in the white of a matin- prime Just when the birds sang all together. ii. Into the garden I brought it to read, And under the arbute and laurus- tine Read it so help me grace in my need, GARDEN FANCIES. 147 From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count, As a curious traveler counts Stone¬ henge; Added up the mortal amount. And then proceeded to my revenge. nr. Yonder’s a plum-tree with a crevice An owl would build in, were he but sage; A>r a lap of moss, like a fine pont- levis In a castle of the middle age, Joins to lip of gum, pure amber; When he’d be private, there might he spend Hours alone in his lady’s chamber: Into this crevice 1 dropped our friend. IV. Splash, went he, as under he ducked, —At the bottom, I knew, rain-drip¬ pings stagnate; Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked To bury him with, my bookshelf’s magnate; Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf, Half a cheese, and a bottle of Cha- blis; Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. Y. Now, this morning, betwixt the moss And gum that locked our friend in limbo, A spider had spun his web across, And sat in the midst with arms akimbo: So, I took pity, for learning’s sake, And, deprofundis, accentibusleds, Cantate! quoth I, as I got a rake; And up 1 fished his delectable trea¬ tise. VI. Here you have it, dry in the sun, With all the binding all of a blister, And great blue spots where, the ink lias run. And reddish streaks that wink and glister O’er the page so beautifully yellow: Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks! Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow? Here’s one stuck in his chapter six! VII. How did he like it when the live creatures Tickled and toused and browsed him all over, And worm, slug, eft, with serious features, Came in, each one, for his right of trover? —When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face Made of her eggs the stately deposit. And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface As tiled in the top of his black wife’s closet? VIII. All that life and fun and romping, All that frisking and twisting and coupling, While slowly our poor friend’s leaves were swamping, And clasps were cracking, and cov¬ ers supplAg! As if you had carried sour John Knox To the playhouse at Paris, Vienna, or Munich, Fastened him into a front-row box, And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. ix. Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it? Back to my room shall you take your sweet self. Good-by, mother-beetle; liusband-eft, sufficit! See the snug niche I have made on my shelf! A.’s book shall prop you up, B.’s slik' 1 cover you, 148 THE LOST MISTRESS. Here’s C. to be grave with, or I). to be gay, And with E. on each side, and F. right over you, Dry- rot at ease till the Judgment- day! IN THREE DAYS. i. So I shall sec her in three days And just one night, but nights are short, Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn! Feel, where my life broke off from thine, llow fresh the splinters keep and tine,— Only a touch and we combine! ii. Too long, this time of year, the days! But nights, at least the nights are short. As night shows where her one moon is, A hand’s-breadth of pure light and bliss. So life’s night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her! What is worth The rest of heaven, the rest of earth? hi. 0 loaded curls! release your store Of warmth and scent, as once before The tinglinghair did, lights and darks Outbreaking into fairy sparks. When under curl and curl I pried After the warmth and scent inside, Through lights and darks how mani¬ fold— • The dark inspired, the light controlled, As early Art embrowns the gold! IV. What great fear, should one say, “ Three days, That change the world, might change as well Your fortune; and if joy delays, Be happy that no worse befell! ” What small fear, if another says, “Three days and one short night be¬ side May throw no shadow on your ways; But years must teem with change un¬ tried, With chance not easily defied, With an end somewhere undescried.” No fear!—or, if a fear be born This minute, fear dies out in scorn. Fear? I shall see her in three days And one night, now the nights are short, Then just two hours, and that is morn! THE LOST MISTRESS. i. All’s over, then; does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good night twitter About your cottage eaves! ii. And the leaf-buds on the vine are wooly, T noticed that to-day; One day more bursts them open fully: You know the red turns gray. hi. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we,—well, friends merest Keep much that I resign. iv. Each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart’s endeav¬ or,— Your voice, when you wish the snow¬ drops back, Though it stay in my soul forever,— v. Yet I will but say what mere frieiids say, RUDEL TO TEE LADY OF TRIPOLI 149 Or only a thought stronger; X will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer 1 ONE WAY OF LOVE. i. All June I hound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye. ii. How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute! To-day I venture all I know, She will not hear my music? So! Break the string; fold music’s wing; Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! hi. My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion—heaven or lieU? She will not give me heaven? ’Tis well! Lose who may—I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they! RITDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI. i. 1 know a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world: and, vainly favored, it re¬ pays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow. And, underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, He cannot have perceived, that changes ever At his approach; and, in the lost en¬ deavor To live his life, has parted, one by one, With all a flower’s true graces, for the grace Of being but a foolish mimic sun, With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. Men nobly call by many a name the Mount As over many a land of theirs its large Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, Each to its proper praise and own ac¬ count: Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. ii. O Angel of the East! one, one gold look Across the waters to this twilight nook, —The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook! hi. Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed? Go!—saying ever as thou dost proceed, That I, French Rudel, choose for my device A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice Before its idol. See! These inexpert And hurried fingers could L not fail to hurt The woven picture; ’tis a woman’s skill Indeed; but nothing baffled me, so, ill Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees ! On my flower’s breast as on a platform broad: But, as the flower’s concern is not for these 150 KUMPITOLEPTOS. But solely for the sun, so men applaud In vain tills Rudel, lie not looking here But to the East—the East! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear! NUMPIIOLEPTOS. Still you stand, still you listen, still you smile! Still melts your moonbeam through me, white a while, Softening, sweetening, till sweet and soft Increase so round this heart of mine, that oft I could believe your moonbeam-smile has past The pallid limit and, transformed at last, Lies, sunlight and salvation—warms the soul It sweetens, softens! Would you pass that goal, Gain love’s birth at the limit’s happier verge, And, where an iridescence lurks, but urge The hesitating pallor on to prime Of dawm!—true blood-streaked, sun- warmth, action-time, By heart-pulse ripened to a ruddy glow Of gold above my clay—I scarce should know From gold’s self, thus suffused! For gold means love. What means the sad slow silver smile above My clay but pity; pardon?—at the best But acquiescence that I take my rest, Contented to be clay, while in your heaven The sun reserves love for the Spirit- Seven Companioning God’s throne they lamp before, —Leaves earth a mute waste only wandered o’er By that pale soft sweet disempassioned moon Which smiles me slow forgiveness! Such, the boon I beg? Nay, dear, submit to this— just this Supreme endeavor! As my lips now kiss Your feet, my arms convulse your shrouding robe. My eyes, acquainted with the dust, dare probe Your eyes above for—what, if born, would blind Mine with redundant bliss, as flash may find The inert nerve, sting awake the pal¬ sied limb, Bid with life’s ecstasy sense overbrim And suck back death in the resurging joy— So grant me—love, whole, sole, with¬ out alloy! Vainly! The promise 'withers! I employ Lips, arms, eyes, pray the prayer which finds the wcrd, Make the appeal which must be felt, not heard, And none the more is changed your calm regard: Rather, its sweet and soft grow harsh and hard— Forbearance, then repulsion, then dis¬ dain. Avert the rest! I rise, see!—make, again Once more, the old departure for some track Untried yet through a world which brings me back Ever thus fruitlessly to find your feet, To fix your eyes, to pray the soft and sweet Which smile there—take from his new pilgrimage Your outcast, once your inmate, and assuage With love—not placid pardon now- his thirst For a mere drop from out the ocean erst NUMPHOLEPTOS. 151 He drank at! Well, the quest shall be renewed. F(Mir nothing! Though I linger, un- imhmed With any drop, my lips thus close. I go! So did I leave you, I have found you so, And doubtlessly, if fated to return, So shall my pleading persevere and earn Pardon—not love—in that same smile, I learn, And lose the meaning of, to learn once more. Vainly! What fairy track do I ex¬ plore? What magic hall return to, like the gem Centuplv-angled o’er a diadem? You dwell there, hearted; from your midmost home Hays forth — through that fantastic world I roam Ever—from center to circumference, Shaft upon colored shaft: this crim¬ sons thence, That purples out its precinct through the waste. Surely I had your sanction when I faced, Fared forth upon that untried yellow ray When I retrack my steps? They end to-day Where they began, before your feet, beneath Your eyes, your smile: the blade is shut in sheath, Fire quenched in flint; irradiation, late Triumphant through the distance, flnds its fate, Merged in your blank pure soul, alike the source And tomb of that prismatic glow: divorce Absolute, all-conclusive! Forth I fared, Treading the lambent flamelet: little cared If now its flickering took the topaz tint, If now my dull-caked path gave sul¬ phury hint Of subterranean rage — no stay nor stint To yellow, since you sanctioned that I bathe, Burnish me, soul and body, swim and swathe In yellow license. Here I reek suf¬ fused With crocus, saffron, orange, as I used With scarlet, purple, every dye o’ the bow Born of the storm-cloud. As before, you show Scarce recognition, no approval, some Mistrust, more wonder at a man be¬ come Monstrous in garb, nay — flesh dis¬ guised as well, Through his adventure. Whatsoe’er befell, I followed, wheresoe’er it wound, that vein You authorized should leave your whiteness, stain Earth’s sombre stretch beyond your midmost place Of vantage—trode that tinct whereof the trace On garb and flesh repel you! Yes, I plead Your own permission — your com¬ mand, indeed, That who would worthily retain the love Must share the knowledge shrined those eyes above, Go boldly on adventure, break through bounds O’ the quintessential whiteness that surrounds Your feet, obtain experience of each tinge That bickers forth to broaden out, impinge Plainer his foot its pathway all dis¬ tinct From every other. Ah, the wonder, linked APPEARANCES. 152 With fear, as exploration manifests Wliat agency it was first tipped the crests Of unnamed wikl-flower, soon pro¬ truding grew Portentous mid the sands, as when his hue Betrays him and the burrowing snake gleams through; Till, last . . . but why parade more shame and pain? Are not the proofs upon me? Here again I pass into your presence, I receive Your smile of pity, pardon, and I leave . . . Ho, not this last of times I leave you, mute, , Submitted to my penance, so my foot May yet agarn adventure, tread, from source To issue, one more ray of rays which course Each other, at your bidding, from the sphere Silver and sweet, their birthplace, down that drear Dark of the world,—you promise shall return Your pilgrim jeweled as with drops o’ the urn The rainbow paints from, and no smatch at all Of ghastliness at edge of some cloud- pall Heaven cowers before, as earth awaits the fall O’ the bolt and flash of doom. Who trusts your word Tries the adventure: and returns— absurd As frightful—in that sulphur-steeped disguise Mocking the priestly cloth-of-gold, sole prize The arcli-lieretic was wont to bear away Until he reached the burning. No, I say: No fresh adventure! No more seek¬ ing love At end of toil, and finding, calm above My passion, the old statuesque regard, The sad petrific smile! O you—less hard And hateful than mistaken and obtuse Unreason of a she-intelligence! You very woman with the pert pre¬ tence To match the male achievement! Like enough! Ay, you were easy victors, did the rough Straightway efface itself to smooth, the gruff Grind down and grow a wdiisper,— did man’s truth Subdue, for sake of chivalry and ruth, Its rapier edge to suit the bulrush- spear Womanly falsehood fights with! O that ear All fact pricks rudely, that thrice- superfine Feminity of sense, with right divine To waive all process, take result stain- free From out the very muck wherein . . . Ah me! The true slave’s querulous outbreak! All the rest Be resignation! Forth at your behest I fare. Who knows but this—the crimson-quest— May deepen to a sunrise, not decay To that cold sad sweet smile?—which I obey. APPEARANCES. i. And so you found that poor room dull. Dark, hardly to your taste, my Dear? Its features seemed unbeautiful: But this I know—’twas there, not here, You plighted troth to me, the word Which—ask that poor room how it heard! ii. And this rich room obtains your praise Unqualified,—so bright, so fair. THE WORST OP if. 153 So all whereat perfection stays ? Ay, but remember—here, not there. The other word was spoken! Ask This rich room how you dropped the mask! THE WORST OF IT. i. Would it wrnre I had been false, not you! I that am nothing, not you that are all: I, never the worse for a touch or two On my speckled hide; not you, the pride Of the day, my swan, that a first fleck’s fall On her wonder of white must un¬ swan, undo! ii. I had dipped in life’s struggle and, out again, Bore specks of it here, there, easy to see, When I found my swan and the cure was plain: The dull turned bright as I caught your white On my bosom: you saved me—saved in vain If you ruined yourself, and all through me! iit. Yes, all through the speckled beast I am, Who taught you to stoop; you gave me yourself. And bound your soul by the vows which damn: Since on better thought you break, as you ought, Vows—words, no angel set down, some elf Mistook,—for an oath, an epigram! IV. Yqs, might I judge you, here were my heart, And a hundred its like, to treat as 3 T ou pleased! I choose to be yours, for my proper part, Yours, leave me or take, or mar or make; If I acquiesce, why should you be teased With the conscience-prick and the memory-smart ? v. But what will God say? O my Sweet, Think, and be sorry you did this thing! Though earth were unworthy to feel your feet, There’s a heaven above may deserve your love: Should you forfeit heaven for a snapt gold ring And a promise broke, were it just or meet? VI. And I to have tempted you! I, who tried Your soul, no doubt, till it sank! Unwise, I loved and was lowly, loved and as¬ pired, Loved, grieving or glad, till I made you mad, And you meant to have hated and despised— Whereas, you deceived me nor in¬ quired ! VII. She, ruined? IIow? No heaven for her? Crowns to give, and none for the brow That looked like marble and smelt like myrrh ? Shall the robe be worn, and the palm-branch borne, And she go graceless, she graced now Beyond all saints, as themselves aver? VIII. Hardly 1 That must be understood! 154 THE WORST OF IT. The earth is your place of penance, then; And what will it prove ? I desire your good, But, plot as I may, I can find noway How a blow should fall, such as falls on men, Nor prove too much for your woman¬ hood. IX. It will come, I suspect, at the end of life, When you walk alone and review the past; And I, who so long shall have done with strife, And journeyed my stage and earned my wage And retired as was right,—I am called at last When the Devil stabs you, to lend the knife. ’ x. He stabs for the minute of trivial wrong, Nor the other hours are able to save, The happy, that lasted my whole life long: For a promise broke, not for first words spoke. The true, the only, that turn my grave To a blaze of joy and a crash of song. xr. Witness beforehand! Off I trip On a safe path gay through the flow¬ ers you flung: My very name made great by your lip, And my heart aglow with the good I know Of a perfect year when we both were young, And I tasted the angels’ fellowship. XII. And witness, moreover . . . Ah, but wait! I spy the loop whence an arrow shoots! It may be for yourself, when you meditate. That you grieve—for slain ruth, murdered truth: “ Though falsehood escape in the end, what boots? IIow truth would have triumphed! ” —you sigh too late. XIII. Ay, who would have triumphed like you, I say! Well, it is lost now; well, you must bear, Abide and grow fit for a better day. You should hardly grudge, could I be your judge! But hush! For you, can be no despair: There’s amends: ’tis a secret; hope and pray! XIV. For I was true at least—oh, true enough! And, Dear, truth is not as good as it seems! Commend me to conscience! Idle stuff! Much help is in mine, as I mope and pine, And skulk through day, and scowl in my dreams At my swan’s obtaining the crow’s rebuff. xv. Men tell me of truth now—“ False!” I cry: Of beauty—“ A mask, friend! Look, beneath! ” We take our own method, the Devil . and I, With pleasant and fair and wise and rare: And the best we wish to what lives, is—death; Which even in wishing, perhaps we lie! XVI. Far better commit a fault and have done— As you, Dear!—forever: and choose the pure, And look where the healing waters run, TOO LATE. 155 And strive and strain to be good again, And a place in the other world insure, All glass and gold, with God for its sun. XVII. Misery! What shall I s&y or do? I cannot advise, or,at least, persuade, Most like, you are glad you deceived me—rue No whit of the wrong: you endured too long, Have done no evil and want no aid, Will live the old life out and chance the new. XVIII. And your sentence is written all the same, And I can do nothing,—pray, per¬ haps: But somehow the world pursues its game,— If I pray, if I curse,—for better or worse: And my faith is torn to a thousand scraps, And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame. XIX. Dear, I look from my hiding-place. Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes? Be happy! Add but the other grace, Be good! Why want what the angels vaunt? I knew you once: but in Paradise, If we meet, I will pass nor turn my face. TOO LATE. i. Heue was I with my arm and heart And brain, all yours for a word, a want Put into a look—just a look, your part,— While mine, to repay it . . . vainest vaunt, Were the woman, that’s dead, alive to hear, Had her lover, that’s lost, love’s proof to show! But I cannot show it; you cannot speak From the churchyard neither, miles removed, Though I feel by a pulse within my cheek, Which stabs and stops, that the woman I loved Needs help in her grave and finds none near, Wants warmth from the heart which sends it—so! ii. Did I speak once angrily, all the dreai days You lived, you woman I loved so well, Who married the other? Blame or praise, Where was the use then? Time would tell, And the end declare what man for you, What woman for me was the choice of God. But, Edith dead! no doubting more! I used to sit and look at my life As it rippled and ran till, right before, A great stone stopped it: oh, the strife Of waves at the stone some devil threw In my life’s mid-current, thwarting God! hi. But either I thought, “ They may churn and chide A while,—my waves which came for their joy And found this horrible stone full-tide: Yet I see just a thread escape, deploy Through the evening-country, silent and safe, And it suffers no more till it finds the sea.” Or else I would think, “ Perhaps some night When new things happen, a meteor- ball TOO LATtf. May slip through the sky in a line of light, And earth breathe hard, and land¬ marks fall, And my waves no longer champ nor chafe, Since a stone will have rolled from its place: let be!” IV. But, dead! All’s done with: wait who may, Watch and wear and wonder who will. Oh, my whole life that ends to-day! Oh, my soul’s sentence, sounding still, “ The woman is dead, that was none of his; And the man, that was none of hers, may go! ” There’s only the past left: worry that! Wreak, liko a bull, on the empty coat, Rage, its late wearer is laughing at! Tear the collar to rags, having missed his throat; Strike stupidly on—“ This, this, and this, Where I would that a bosom re¬ ceived the blow! ” v. I ought to have done more: once my speech And once your answer, and there, the end, And Edith was henceforth out of reach! Why, men do more to deserve a friend, Be rid of a foe, get rich, grow wise, Nor, folding their arms, stare fate in the face. Why, better even have burst like a thief And borne you away to a rock for us two, In a moment’s horror, bright, bloody, and brief, Then changed to myself again— “ I slew Myself in that moment; a ruffian lies Somewhere: your slave, see, born in his place! ” vr. What did the other do? You be judged Look at us, Edith! Here are we both! Give him his six whole years: 1 grudge None of the life with you, nay, I loathe Myself that I grudged his start in ad¬ vance Of me who could overtake and pass. But, as if he loved you! No, not lie, Nor any one else in the world, tis plain: Who ever heard that another, free As I, young, prosperous, sound, and sane, Poured life out, proffered it—“Half a glance Of those eyes of yours and I drop the glass!” VII. Handsome, were you? ’Tis more than they held, More than they said; I was ’ware and watched: I was the ’scapegrace, this rat belled The cat, this fool got his whiskers scratched: The others? No head that was turned, no heart Broken, my lady, assure yourself! Each soon made his mind up; so and so Married a dancer, such and such Stole his friend’s wife, stagnated slow, Or maundered, unable to do as much, And muttered of peace where he had no part: While, hid in the closet, laid on the shelf,—- VIII. On the whole, you were let alone, I think! So you looked to the other, who acquiesced; My rival, the proud man,—prize your pink TOO LATE. 157 Of poets! A poet lie was! I’ve guessed: He rhymed you his rubbish nobody read, Loved you and doved you—did not I laugh! There was a prize! But we both were tried. O heart of mine, marked broad with her mark, Tekel, found wanting, set aside, Scorned! See, 1 bleed these tears in the dark Till comfort come and the last be bled: He? He is tagging your epitaph. IX. If it would only come over again! —Time to be patient with me, and probe This heart till you punctured the proper vein, Just to learn what blood is: twitch the robe From that blank lay-figure your fancy draped, Prick the leathern heart till the— verses spirt! >nd late it was easy; late, you walked Where a friend might meet you; Edith’s name Arose to one’s lip if one laughed or talked; If I heard good news, you heard the same; When I woke, I knew that your breath escaped; I could bide my time, keep alive, alert. x. And alive I shall keep and long, you will see! I knew a man, was kicked like a dog From gutter to cesspool; what cared he So long as he picked from the filth his prog? He saw youth, beamy, and genius die? And jollily lived to his hundredth year. But I will live otherw ; se: none of such life I At once I begin as I mean to end. Go on with the world, get gold in its strife, Give your spouse the slip, and be¬ tray your friend! There are two who decline, a woman and I, And enjoy our death in the dark¬ ness here. XI. I liked that way you had with your curls Wound to a ball in a net behind. Your cheek was chaste as a Quaker- girl’s, And your mouth—there was never, to my mind, Such a funny mouth, for it would not shut; And the dented chin too—what a chin! There were certain ways when you spoke, some words That you know you never could pronounce: You were thin, however; like a bird’s Your hand seemed—some would say, the pounce Of a scaly-footed hawk—all but! The world was right when it called you thin. XII. But I turn my back on the world: I take Your hand, and kneel, and lay to my lips. Bid me live, Edith! Let me slake Thirst at your presence! Fear no slips! ’Tis your slave shall pay, while his soul endures, Full due, love’s whole debt, sum- mum jvs. My queen shall have high observance, planned Courtship made perfect, no least line Crossed without warrant. There you stand, Warm too, and white too: would this wine 158 A LIKENESS. Had washed all over that body of yours, Ere I drank it, and you down with it, thus! BIFURCATION. We were two lovers; let me lie by her, My tomb beside her tomb. On hers inscribe— “I loved him; but my reason bade prefer Duty to love, reject the tempter’s bribe Of rose and lily when each path di¬ verged, And either I must pace to life’s far end As love should lead me, or, as duty urged, Plod the worn causeway arm in arm with friend. So, truth turned falsehood; ‘How I loathe a flower, How prize the pavement!’ still ca¬ ressed his ear — The deafish friend’s—through life’s day, hour by hour, As he laughed (coughing) ‘ Ay, it would appear! ’ But deep within my heart of hearts there hid Ever the confidence, amends for all, That heaven repairs what wrong earth’s journey did, When life from life-long exile comes at call. Duty and love, one broadway, were the best— Who doubts? But one or other was to choose. I chose the darkling half, and wait the rest In that new world where light and darkness fuse.” Inscribe on mine—“ I loved her: love’s track lay O’er sand and pebble, as all travellers know. Duty led through a smiling country, gay With greensward where the rose and lily blow. ‘ Our roads are diverse: farewell, lovt!' she said: ‘ ’Tis duty I abide by: homely sward And not the rock-rough picturesque > for me! Above, where both roads join, I wait reward. Be you as constant to the path whereon I leave you planted! ’ But man needs must move, Keep moving—whither, when the star is gone Whereby he steps secure nor strays from love? No stone but I was tripped by, stum- ling-block But brought me to confusion. Where I fell, There I lay flat, if moss disguised the rock: Thence, if flint pierced, I rose and cried, ‘ All’s well! Duty be mine to tread in that high sphere Where love from duty ne’er disparts, I trust, And two halves make that whole, whereof—since here One must suffice a man—why, this one must! ’ ” Inscribe each tomb thus: then, some sage acquaint The simple—which holds sinner, which holds saint! A LIKENESS. Some people hang portraits up In a room where they dine or sup: And the wife clinks tea-things under, And her cousin, he stirs his cup, Asks, “who was the lady, I won der? ”— “ ’Tis a daub John bought at a sale,” Quoth the wife,—looks black at thunder. “ What a shade beneath her nose! Snuff-taking, I suppose,”— Adds the cousin, while John’s corns ail. Or else, there’s no wife in the case, MAY AND DEATH. 159 But the portrait’s queen of the plane. Alone mid the other spoils Of youth,—masks, gloves, and foils, And pipe-sticks, rose, clierry-tree, jasmine, And the long whip, the tandem-lasher And the cast from a list ( “ not, alas! mine, But my master’s, the Tipton Slasher”) And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace, And a satin shoe used for a cigar-case, And the chamois-horns ( “ shot in the Cliablais ”) And prints — Rarey drumming on Cruiser, And Sayers,our champion, the bruiser, And the little edition of Rabelais: Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets May saunter up close to examine it, And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it, “But the eyes are half out of their sockets; That hair’s not so bad, where the gloss is, But they’ve made the girl’s nose a proboscis : Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Yichy! What, is not she Jane ? Then, who is she ? ” All that I own is a print, An etching, a mezzotint; ’Tis a study, a fancy, a fiction, Yet a fact (take my conviction), Because it lias more than a hint Of a certain face, I never Saw elsewhere touch or trace of In women I’ve seen the face of : Just an etching, and, so far, clever. I keep my prints an imbroglio. Fifty in one portfolio. When somebody tries my claret, We turn round chairs to the fire, Chirp over days in a garret, Chuckle o’er increase of salary, Taste the good fruits of our leisure, Talk about pencil and lyre. And the National Portrait Gallery: Then I exhibit my treasure. After we’ve turned over twenty, And the debt of wonder my crony owes Is paid to my Marc Antonios, He stops me—“ Festina lente ! ” What’s that sweet thing there, the etching? ” How my waistcoat strings want stretching, How my cheeks grow red as tomatoes. How my heart leaps! But hearts, after leaps, ache. “By the by, you must take, for a keepsake, That other, you praised, of Yolpato’s ” The fool! would lie try a flight far¬ ther and say— He never saw, never before to-day, What was able to take liis breath away, A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with,— why, I’ll not engage But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage, I should toss him the thing’s self— “ ’Tis only a duplicate, A thing of no value! Take it, I supplicate! ” MAY AND DEATH. i. I wish that when you died last May, Charles, there had died along with you Three parts of spring’s delightful things; Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too. A foolish though, and worse, perhaps! There must be many a pair of friends Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm Moon-births and the long evening- ends. iit. So, for their sake, be May still May! Let their new time, as mine of old s 160 A FORGIVENESS. Do all it did for me: I bid Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. IV. Only, one little sight, one plant, Woods have in May, that starts up green Save a sole streak which, so to speak, Is spring’s blood, split its leaves be¬ tween,— v. That, they might spare; a certain wood Might miss the plant ; their loss were small: But I,—whene’er the leaf grows there, Its drop conies from my heart, that’s all. A FORGIVENESS. I am indeed the personage you know. As for my wife,—what happened long ago— ; You have a right to question me, as I Am bound to answer. (“ Son, a fit reply! ” The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth, At the confession-grate I knelt be¬ neath.) Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place I had as still I have. I ran life’s race, With the whole world to see, as only strains His strength some athlete whose pro¬ digious gains Of good appall him: happy to excess— Work freely done should balance happiness Fully enjoyed: and, since beneath my roof Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven’s behoof I went forth every day, and all day long Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer’s song Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at at each sharp throe Of laboring fiesli and blood—“ She loves me so!” One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve That work grew play and vanished. ‘ ‘I deserve Haply my heaven an hour before the time! ” I laughed, as silvery the clockhouse- chime Surprised me passing through the pos¬ tern gate —Not the main entry where the menials wait And wonders why the world’s affairs allow The master sudden leisure. That was how I took the private garden-way for once. Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man My fancies in the natural order rap: “A spy,—perhaps a foe in ambus¬ cade,— A thief,—more like, a sweetheart of some maid Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps.” “ Stand there! ” I bid. Whereat my man but wraps Ilis face the closelier with uplifted arm AVliereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm This and that pedestal as,—stretch and stoop,— Now in, now out of sight, he tlirids the group Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged Each side the pathway, till the gate’s exchanged For safety: one step thence, the street, j you know! A FORGIVENESS. 1G1 Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow, Near on admiringly, I breathed again, And—back to that last fancy of the train— “ A danger risked for hope of just a word With—which of all my nest may be the bird This poacher coverts for a plumage, pray? Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay For such adventure, while Juana’s grave —Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave! He had the eye, could single from my brood ' Tis proper fledgeling! ” As I turned, there stood ( ".n face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white. Whether one bound had brought her, —at first sight Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be Next moment, of the venturous man and me,— Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey: Whether impelled because her death no day Could come so absolutely opportune A.s now at joy’s height, like a year in June Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose; Or whether hungry for my hate—wdio knows?— Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste Our tingling true relation, hate em¬ braced By hate one naked moment:—anyhow There stone-still stone-wliite stood my wife, but now The woman who made heaven within my house. Ay, she ‘who faced me was my very spouse As well as love—you are to recollect! “Stay!” she said. “Keep at least one soul unspecked With crime, that’s spotless hitherto— your own! Kill me who court the blessing, who alone Was, am, and shall be guilty, first tu last! The man lay helpless in the toils I cast About him, helpless as the statue there Against that strangling bell-flower’s bondage: tear Away and tread to dust the parasite, But do the passive marble no despite! I love him as I hate you. Kill met Strike At one bow both infinitudes alike Out of existence—hate and lovet Whence love? That’s safe inside my heart, nor wilt remove For any searching of your steel, I think. Whence hate? The secret lay on lip* at brink Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape, At every form wherein your love took shape, At each new provocation of your kiss Kill me!” We went in. Next day after this I felt as if the speech might come. 1 spoke— Easily, after all. “The lifted cloak Was screen sufficient: I concern my self , Hardly with laying hands on who fo* pelf— Whate’er the ignoble kind—may prowl and brave Cuffing and kicking proper to a knavo Detected by my household’s vigilance. Enough of such! As for my love ro mance— I, like our good Hidalgo, rub mj ^ w es 162 A FORGIVENESS. And wake and wonder how tlic film could rise Which changed for me a barber’s basin straight Into—Mambrino’s helm? I hesitate Nowise to say—God’s sacramental cup! Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up, Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold? To me—a warning I was overbold In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked Only to die, if I remember,—staked His life upon the basin’s worth, and lost: While I confess torpidity at most In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt, Still should I work on, still repair my fault Ere I took rest in death,—no fear at ‘ all! Now, work—no word before the cur¬ tain fall! ” The “curtain” ? That of death on life, I meant: My “word” permissible in death’s event, Would be—truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise, Day by day, three years long, there had to rise And, night by night, to fall upon our stage— Ours, doomed to public play by heri¬ tage— Another curtain, when the world, perforce Our critical assembly, in due course Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game If, suffered to set foot behind our scene, The world had witnessed how stage? king and queen, Gallant and lady, but a minute since Enarming each the other,would evince sign of recognition as they took His way and her way to whatever nook Waited them in the darkness either side Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride Had fired the audience to a frenzv-fit Of sympathetic rapture—every whit Earned as the curtain fell on her and me, —Actors. Three whole years, noth ing w r as to see But calm and concord: where a speech was due There came the speech; when smiles were wanted too Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine, Where foreign and domestic cares combine, There’s audience every day and all day long; But finally the last of the whole throng Who linger lets one see his back. For her— Why, liberty and liking: I aver, Liking and liberty! For me — I breathed, Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task Of personation till next day bade mask, And quietly betook me from that world To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled In work, its wings, my soul,the fretted power. Three years I worked, each minute of each hour Not claimed by acting:—work I may dispense With talk about, since work in evi¬ dence, Perhaps in history; who knows or cares? After three years, this way, all una¬ wares, Our acting ended. She and I, at close Of a loud night-feast, led, bet ween two rows Of bending male and female loyalty, <1 J i » *. v i; » * v • ?> * A FORGIVENESS. 103 Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high At arm’s length did the twisted tapers’ flare Herald his passage from our palace where Such visiting left glory evermore. Again the ascent in public, till at door As we two stood by the saloon—now blank And disencumbered of its guests— there sank A whisper in my ear, so low and yet So unmistakable! “ I half forget The chamber you repair to, and I want Occasion for a short word—if you grant That grace—within a certain room you called Our ‘Study,’ for you wrote there while I scrawled Some paper full of faces for my sport. That room I can remember. Just one short Word with you there, for the remem¬ brance’ sake! ” “ Follow me thither! ” I replied. We break The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp, Blind, disused, serpentining ways afar From where the habitable chambers are,— Ascend, descend stairs tunneled through the stone,— Always in silence,—till I reach the lone Chamber sepulchered for my very own (hit of the palace-quarry. When a boy, Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy, Proof-positive of ownership; in youth I garnered up my gleanings here—un¬ couth But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears; Finally, this became in after-years My closet of intreuchmeut to withstand Invasion of the foe on every hand— The multifarious herd in bower and hall, State-room, — rooms whatsoe’er the style, which call On masters to be mindful that, before Men, they must look like men and something more. Here,—when our lord the king’s be- stowment ceased To deck me on the day that, golden- fleeced, I touched ambition’s height,—’twas here, released From glory (always symboled by a chain!) No sooner was I privileged to gain My secret domicile than glad I flung That last toy on the table—gazed where hung On hook my father’s gift, the arque- buss— And asked myself “Shall I envisage thus The new prize and the old prize, when I reach Another year’s experience ? — own that each Equaled advantage — sportsman’s — statesman’s tool? That brought me down an eagle, this —a fool ! ” Into which room on entry, I set down The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace. Each of us looked the other in the face, She spoke. “Since I could die now ”... (To explain Why that first struck me, know—not once again Since the adventure at the porphyry’s edge Three years before, which sundered like a wedge Her soul to mine,—though daily, smile to smile. We stood before the public,—all the while 164 A FORGIVENESS. Not once liad I distinguished, in that face I paid observance to, the faintest trace Of feature more than requisite for eyes To do their duty by and recognize: So did I force mine to obey my wiJl And pry no farther. There exists such skill,— Those know who need it. What physician shrinks From needful contact with a corpse ? He drinks No plague so long as thirst for knowl¬ edge,—not An idler impulse,—prompts inquiry. What, And will you disbelieve in power to bid Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid A child from scrutiny that’s just and right In manhood? Sense, not soul, ac¬ complished sight, Reported daily she it was—not how Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.) “Since I could die now of the truth concealed, Yet dare not, must not die,—so seems revealed The Virgin’s mind to me,—for death means peace, Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease Of life and punishment the truth avowed May haply lengthen,—let me push the shroud Away, that steals to muffle ere is just M}^ penance fire in snow! I dare—I must Live, by avowal of the truth—this truth— I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent’s tooth That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite Than all preceding torture, proves me right! I loved you yet I lost you! May I go Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know? ” I think there never was such—how express?— Horror coqueting with voluptuous¬ ness, As in those arms of Eastern work¬ manship— Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip, Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways, Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays Love still at work with the artificer Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer. Except for love’s sake, that a blade should writhe And bicker like a flame?—now play the scythe As if some broad neck tempted,—now contract And needle ofl into a fineness lacked For just that puncture which the heart demands? Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold Roughened for use, but jewels! Nay, behold! Fancy my favorite—which I seem to grasp When I describe the luxury. No asp Is diapered more delicate round throat Than this below the handle! These denote —These mazy lines meandering, to end Only in flesh they open—what intend They else but water-purlings—pale contrast With the life-crimson where they blend at last? And mark the handle’s dim pellucid green, Carved the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean, Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecks A grape-buncli; his two eyes are ruby-specks A FORGIVENESS. 165 Pure from the mine: seen this way,— glassy blank, But turn them,—to the inmost fire, that shrank From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim! Why did I choose such toys? Per¬ haps the game Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men War-wearied get amusement from that pen And paper we grow sick of—statesfolk tired Of merely (when such measures are required) Dealing out doom to people by three words, A signature and seal: we play with swords Suggestive of quick process. That is how I came to like the toys described you now. Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed The table, even, while my wife pur¬ sued Her purpose to its ending. “ Now you know This shame, my three years’ torture, let me go.— Burn to the very ashes! You—I lost, Yet you—I loved !” The tiling I pity most In men is—action prompted by sur¬ prise Of anger: men? nay, bulls—whose onset lies At instance of the firework and the goad! Once the foe prostrate,—trampling once bestowed,— Prompt follows placability, regret, Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse My veins at this occasion for resolve. Had that devolved which did not then devolve Upon me, I had done—what now to do Was quietly apparent. “ Tell me who The man was, crouching by the por¬ phyry vase! ” “ No, never! All was folly in his case, All guilt in mine. I tempted, he com¬ plied.” “ And yet you loved me? ” “ Loved you. Double-dyed In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave Your heart and soul away from me to slave At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost, I stung myself to teach you, to your cost, What you rejected could be prized be¬ yond Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond Look on, a fatal word to.” “ And you still Love me? Do I conjecture well, or ill?” “ Conjecture—w 7 ell, or ill! I had three years To spend in learning you.” “We both are peers In knowledge, therefore: since three years are spent Ere thus much of yourself I learn— who went Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind f To bear upon your action: uncom- bined Motive from motive, till the dross, de¬ prived Of every purer particle, survived At last in native simple liideousnese, Utter contemptibility, nor less Nor more. Contemptibility—exempt How could I, from its proper due- contempt? j A FORGIVENESS. 1G8 I have too much despised you to di¬ vert My life from its set course by help or hurt Of your all-despicable life—perturb The calm I work in, by—men’s mouths to curb, Which at such news were clamorous enough— Men’s eyes to shut before my broid- ered stuff With the huge hole there, my emblaz¬ oned wall Blank where a scutcheon hung,—by, worse than all, Each day’s procession, my paraded life Robbed and impoverished through the wanting wife •—Now that my life (which means— my work) was grown Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby Of good and praise would—how re¬ ward in gly !— Fall at your feet,—a crown I hoped to cast Before your love, my love should crown at last. No love remaining to cast crown be¬ fore, My love stopped work now: but con¬ tempt the more Impelled me task as ever head and hand, Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand Rather than taste pure hell in idle¬ ness. Therefore I kept my memory down by stress Of daily work I had no mind to stay For the world’s wonder at the wife away. Oh, it was easy all of it, believe, For I despfied you! But your words retrieve Importantly the past. No hate as¬ sumed The mask of love at any time! There gloomed A moment when love took hate’s sem¬ blance, urged By causes you declare; but love’s self purged Away a fancied wrong I did both loves —Yours and my own: by no hate’s help, it proves, Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise High by how many a grade! I did despise— I do but hate you. Let hate’s punish¬ ment Replace contempt’s! First step to which ascent— Write down your own words I re¬ utter you! ‘ I loved my husband and I hated — who lie was, I took up as my first chance, mere Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with ! ’ Here Lies paper! ” “ Would my blood for ink suffice! ” “ It may: this minion from a land of spice, Silk, feather—every bird of jeweled breast— This poniard’s beauty, ne’er so lightly prest Above your heart there.” . . . “ Thus? ” “ It flows, I see. Dip there the point and write! ” “ Dictate to me! Nay, I remember.” And she wrote the words. I read them. Then—“ Since love, in you, affords License for hate, in me, to quench (I say) Contempt—why, hate itself has passed away In vengeance—foreign to contempt. Depart Peacefully to that death which East¬ ern art CENCIAJA. 167 Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true! Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you— Dead in our chamber! ” True as truth the tale. She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale Her cheek was ere it wore day’s paint- disguise And what a hollow darkened ’neath her eyes, Now that I used my own. She sleeps as erst Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours! Immersed In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps? For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps —Still plain I seem to see!—about his head The idle cloak,—about his heart (in¬ stead Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude My vengeance in the cloister’s soli¬ tude? Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow The cloak then, Father—as your grate helps now! CENCIAJA. Ocjni cencio vvol entrare in bucato .—Italian Proverb. May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass That when your Beatrice seemed—by lapse Of many a long month since her sen¬ tence fell— Assured of pardon for the parricide,— By intercession of stanch friends, or, say, By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope, Conniver at Francesco Cenci’s guilt,— Suddenly all things changed, and Clement grew “Stern,” as you state, “nor to be moved nor bent, But said these three words coldly, ‘Sha must die ’; Subjoining ‘ Pardon f Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother also yesterere, And he is fled! she shall not dee. at least! ’ ” —So, to the letter, sentence was ful¬ filled? Shelley, may I condense verbosity That lies before me, into some few words Of English, and illustrate your superb Achievements by a rescued anecdote, No great things, only new and true beside? As if some mere familiar of a house Should venture to accost the group at gaze Before its Titian,famed the wide world through, And supplement such pictured mas¬ terpiece By whisper “Searching in the ar¬ chives here, I found the reason of the Lady’s fate, And how by accident it came to pass She wears the halo and displays the palm: Who, haply, else had never suffered —no, Nor graced our gallery, by conse¬ quence.” Who loved the work would like the little news: Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me Relating how the penalty was paid By one Marcliese dell’ Oriolo, called Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise, For his complicity in matricide With Paolo his own brother, — he whose crime And flight induced “those three words —She must die.” Thus I unroll you then the manu¬ script. 168 GENClAJA. “God’s justice” — (of the multi¬ plicity Of such communications extant still, Recording, each, injustice done by God In person of his Vicar-upon-earth, Scarce one but leads off to the self¬ same tune)— “ God’s justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency. In proof I cite the case Of Paolo Santa Croce.” Many times 'The youngster,—having been impor¬ tunate That Marchesine Costanza, who re¬ mained His widowed mother, should supplant the heir Her elder son, and substitute himself In sole possession of her faculty,— And meeting just as often with re¬ buff,— Blinded by so exorbitant a lust Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits, Casting about to kill the lady—thus. He first, to cover his iniquity, Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then Authoritative lord, acquainting him Their mother was contamination— wrought Like liell-fire in the beauty of their House By dissoluteness and abandonment Of soul and body to impure delight. Moreover, since she suffered from disease, Those symptoms which her death made manifest Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin About to bring confusion and dis¬ grace Upon the ancient lineage and high fame O’ the family, when published. Duty- bound, He asked his brother—what a son should do? Which when Marchese dell’ Oriolo heard By letter, being absent at his land Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more: “ It must behoove a son,—things hap¬ ly so,— To act as honor prompts a cavalier And son, perform his duty to all three, Mother and brothers ”—here advice broke off. By which advice informed and for¬ tified As he professed himself—as bound by birth To hear God’s voice in primogeni¬ ture— Paolo, who kept his mother company In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared His whole enormity of enterprise And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead; Whose death demonstrated her inno¬ cence And happened,—by the way,—since Jesus Christ Died to save man, just sixteen hun¬ dred years. Costanza was of aspect beautiful Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age Sixty about, to far surpass her peers The coetaneous dames, in youth and grace. Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight, Foiling thereby the justice of the world: Not God’s however,—God, be sure, knows well The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here! The present sinner, when he least ex¬ pects, Snug-cornered somewhere i’ the Basi- licate, Stumbles upon his death by violence. A man of blood assaults the man of blood CENCIAJA. 169 And slays him somehow. This was afterward: Enough, he promptly met with his deserts, And, ending thus, permits we end with him, And push forthwith to this important point— His matricide fell out, of all the days Precisely when the law-procedure closed Respecting Count Francesco Cenci’s death Chargeable on his daughter, sons, and wife. “ Thus patricide was matched with matricide,” A poet not inelegantly rhymed: Nay, fratricide—those Princes Mas- simi!— Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope That all the likelihood Rome enter¬ tained Of Beatrice’s pardon vanished straight, And she endured the piteous death. Now see The sequel—wliat effect command¬ ment had For strict inquiry into this last case When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great His efficacy—nephew to the Pope!) Was bidden crush—ay,though his very hand Got soiled i’ the act—crime spawning everywhere! Because, when all endeavor had been used To catch the aforesaid Paola, all in vain— “ Make perquisition,” quoth our Emi¬ nence, “ Throughout his now deserted domi¬ cile! Ransack the palace, roof, and door, to find If haply any scrap of writing, hid In nook or corner, may convict—who knows?— Brother Onofrio of intelligence With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood Is but too likely: crime spawns every¬ where ! ” And, every cranny searched accord¬ ingly, There comes to light—O lynx-eyed Cardinal!— Onofrio’s unconsidered writing-scrap, The letter in reply to Paolo’s prayer, The word of counsel that — things proving so, Paolo should act the proper knightly part, And do as was incumbent on a son, A brother—and a man of birth, be sure! Whereat immediately the officers Proceeded to arrest Onofrio—found At foot-ball, child’s play, unaware of harm, Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat Monte Giordano; as he left the house He came upon the watch in wait for him Set by the Barigel,—was caught and caged. News of which capture being, that same hour, Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge, To have the process in especial care, Be, first to last, not only president In person, but inquisitor as well, Nor trust the by-work to a substitute: Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub The floor of Justice, so to speak,—go try . . His best in prison with the criminal; Promising, as reward for by-work done Fairly on all-fours, that, success ob¬ tained And crime avowed, or such conniv¬ ency With crime as should procure a decent death—• 170 CENCIAJA. Himself will humbly beg—which means, procure— The Hat and Purple from his relative The Pope, and so repay a diligence Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case, Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat. Whereupon did my lord the Gov¬ ernor So masterfully exercise the task Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week By week, and month by month, from first to last Deserved the prize: now, punctual at his place, Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post, Inquisitor — pressed cushion and scoured plank, Early and late. Noon’s fervor and night’s chill, Naught proved whom morn would, purpling, make amends! So that observers laughed as, many a day, He left home,in July when day is flame, Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged Into the vault where daylong night is ice, There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content, Examining Onofrio: all the stress Of all examination steadily Converging into one pin-point,—he pushed Tentative now of head and now of heart. As when the nut-hatcli taps and tries the nut This side and that side till the kernel sounds,— So did he press the sole and single point —What was the very meaning of the phrase “ Bo what beseems an honored cava¬ lier ” ? Which one persistent question-tor¬ ture,—plied Day by day, week by week, and month by month, Morn, noon, and night,—fatigued away a mind Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude, And one vivacious memory gnawing there As when a corpse is coffined with a snake: —Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem Admission that perchance his judg¬ ment groped So blindly, feeling foran issue—aught With semblance of an issue from the toils Cast of a sudden round feet late so free,— He possibly might have envisaged, scarce Recoiled from—even were the issue death —Even her death whose life was death and worse! Always provided that the charge of crime, Each jot and title of the charge were true. In such a sense, belike, he might ad¬ vise His brother to expurgate crime with . . . well, With blood, if blood must follow on ‘ ‘ the cou rse Taken as might beseem a cavalier .” Whereupon process ended, and re¬ port Was made without a minute of delay To Clement, who, because of those two crimes O’ the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late, Must needs impatiently desire result. Result obtained, he bade the Gover¬ nor Summon the Congregation and de¬ spatch. Summons made, sentence passed ac¬ cordingly —Death by beheading. When his death-decree Was intimated to Onofrio, all CENCIAJA. 1^1 Man could do—that did he to save himself. ’Twas much, the having gained for his defence The Advocate o’the Poor, with natural help Of many noble friendly persons fain To disengage a man of family, So young too, from his grim entangle¬ ment. But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled There must be no diversion of the law. Justice is justice, and the magistrate Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die. So, the Marchese had his head cut off In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge, With Home to see, a concourse infinite: Where magnanimity demonstrating Adequate to his birth and breed,— poor boy!— He made the people the accustomed speech, Exhorted them to true faith, honest works, And special good behavior as regards A parent of no matter what the sex, Bidding each son take warning from himself. Truly, it was considered in the boy Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore By such an angler as the Cardinal! Why make confession of his privity To Paolo’s enterprise? Mere sealing lips— Or,better, saying, “ When I counselled him • To do as might beseem a cavalier,’ What could I mean but, “ Hide our parent's shame As Christian ought, by aid of holy Church ! Bury it in a convent — ay, beneath Enough dotation to prevent its ghost , From troubling earth ! ’ ” Mere saying thus,—Mis plain, Not only were his life the recompense, But he had manifestly proved himself True Christian, and in lieu of punish¬ ment Been praised of all men !—So the populace. Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good (That of Aldobrandini, near and dear) And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much; A cardinal’s equipment, some such word As this from mouth to ear went saucily: “Taverna’s cap is dyed in what he drew From Santa Croce’s veins! ” So joked the world. I add: Onofrio left one child behind, A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace Abundantly of soul and body, doomed To life the shorter for her father’s fate. By death of her, the Marquisate re¬ turned To that Orsini House from whence it came: Oriolo having passed as donative To Santa Croce from their ancestors. And no word more? By all means! Would you know The authoritative answer, when folks urged “What made Aldobrandini, hound¬ like stanch, Hunt out of life a harmless simple¬ ton?” The answer was—“ Hatred implaca¬ ble, By reason they were rivals in their love.” The Cardinal’s desire was to a dame Whose favor was Onofrio’s. Picked with pride, The simpleton must ostentatiously Display a ring, the Cardinal’s love- gift. Given to Onofrio as the lady’s gage; Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand 172 PORPHYRIA’S LOVER. To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young; Whereon a fury entered him—the tire He quenched with what could quench tire only—blood. Nay, more: “there w r ant not who affirm to boot, The unwise boy, a certain festal eve, Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be That pressed too closely on him with a crowd. He struck the Cardinal a blow : and then, To put a face upon the incident, Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court I’ the Cardinal’s ante-cliamber. Mark and mend, Ye youth, by this example how may greed ' Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!” So ends the chronicler, beginning with “ God’s justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never till it reach delinquency.” Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome? PORPHYRIA’S LOVER. i. T HE rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And ’did its worst to vex the lake, I listened with heart fit to break. ii. When glided in Porphyria ; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled, and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm, Which done, she rose, and from her form hi. Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice re¬ plied, iv. She put my arm around her waist, And made her smooth white shoul¬ der bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,— v. Murmuring how she loved me—she Too weak, for all her heart’s en¬ deavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dis¬ sever, And give herself to me forever. vi. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night’s gay feast re* strain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. VII. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud: at last I knew Porphyria worshiped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. VIII. That moment she was mine, mine, fair. Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, IX. And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. FILIPPO BALD IN UCGI ON BURIAL. 175 As a shut bud that holds a bee, 1 warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. x. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before. Only, this time my shoulder bore XI. Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, An d 1, its love, am gained instead! XII. ' ?orphyria’s love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. Vnd thus we sit together now. And all night long w T e have not stirred, knd yet God has not said a word! PILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. A Reminiscence of A.D. 167G. i. /Vo, boy, we must not (so began My Uncle — lie’s with God long since— A-petting me, the good old man!) We must not (and he seemed to wince, And lose that laugh whereto had grown Ilis chuckle at my piece of news, How cleverly I aimed my stone) I fear we must not pelt the Jews! ii. When I was young indeed—ah, faith Was young and strong in Florence too! We Christians never dreamed of scathe Because we cursed or kicked the crew. But now — well, well! The olive* crops Weighed double then, and Arno’s pranks Would always spare religious shops Whenever he o’erflowed his banks! hi. I’ll tell you (and his eye regained Its twinkle) tell you something choice! Something may help you keep un¬ stained Your honest zeal to stop the voice Of unbelief with stone-throw—spite Of laws, which modern fools enact, That we must sulfer Jews in sight Go wholly unmolested! Fact! IV. There was, then, in my youth, and yet Is, by San Frediano, just Below the Blessed Olivet, A wayside ground wherein they thrust Their dead,—these Jews,—the more our shame! Except that, so they will but die, We may perchance incur no blame In giving hogs a hoist to sty. v. There, anyhow, Jews stow away Their dead; and—such their inso¬ lence— Slink at odd times to sing and pray As Christians do — all make-pre¬ tense !— Which wickedness they perpetrate Because they think no Christians see They reckoned here, at any rate, i Without their host: ha, ha, he, he! VI. For, what should join their plot of ground But a good Farmer’s Christian fleld? The Jews had hedged their corner round With bramble-bush to keep con¬ cealed 1*72 FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON BURIAL. Their doings: for the public road Ran betwixt this their ground and that The Farmer’s, where he ploughed and sowed, Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat. VII. So, properly to guard his store And gall the unbelievers too, He builds a shrine and, what is more, Procures a painter whom I knew, One Buti (he’s with God) to paint A holy picture there—no less Than Virgin Mary free from taint Borne to the sky by angels: yes! VIII. Which shrine he fixed,—who says him nay?— A-facing with its picture-side Not, as you'd think, the public way, But just where sought these hounds to hide Their carrion from that very truth Of Mary’s triumph: not a hound Could act his mummeries uncouth But Mary shamed the pack all round! IX. Now, if it was amusing, jndge! —To see the company arrive, Each Jew intent to end his trudge And take his pleasure (though alive) With all his Jewish kith and kin Below ground, have his venom out, Sharpen his wits for next day’s sin, Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt! x. Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds Mary, I warrant, soaring brave! And in a trice, beneath the folds Of filthy garb which gowns each knave, Down drops it—there to hide grimace, Contortion of the mouth and nose At finding Mary in the place They’d keep for Pilate, I suppose! XI. At last they will not brook—not they !-r Longer such outrage on their tribe: So, in some hole and corner, lay Their heads together—how to bribe The meritorious Farmer’s self To straight undo his work, restore Their chance to meet, and muse on pelf— Pretending sorrow, as before! XII. Forthwith, a posse, if you please, Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That Almost go down upon their knees To get him lay the picture fiat. The spokesman, eighty years of age, Gray as a badger, with a goat’s —Not only beard but bleat, ’gins wage War with our Mary. Thus lie dotes:— XIII. “Friends, grant a grace! How He¬ brews toil Through life in Florence—why re¬ late To those who lay the burden, spoil Our paths of peace? We bear our fate. But when with life the long toil ends, Why must you—the expression craves Pardon, but truth compels me, friends!— Why must you plague us in our graves? XIV. “ Thoughtlessly plague, I would be¬ lieve! For how can you—the lords of ease By nurture, birthright—e’en conceive Our luxury to lie with trees And turf,—the cricket and the bird Left for our last companionship: No harsh deed, no unkindly word, No frowning brow nor scornful lip? XV. “ Death’s luxury; we now rehearse While, living, through your streets we fare And take your hatred: nothing worse Have we,once dead and safe, to bearl So we refresh our souls, fulfil FILIPPO BALDUS'UCCI OF BURIAL. 1/5 Our works, our daily tasks; and thus Gather you grain—earth’s harvest— still The wheat for you, the straw for us. XYI. “ ‘ What flouting in a face, what harm, In just a lady borne from bier By boys’ heads, . wings for leg and arm?’ You question. Friends, the harm is here— That just when our last sigh is heaved, And we would fain thank God and you For labor done and peace achieved, Back comes the Past in full review! xvir. “ At sight of just that simple flag, Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag— o Though fangless—forth, what needs must strike When stricken sore, though stroke be vain Against the mailed oppressor! Give Play to our fancy that we gain Life’s rights when once we cease to live! XVIII. “ Thus much to courtesy, to kind, To conscience! Now to Florence folk! There’s core beneath this apple-rind, Beneath this white of egg there’s yolk! Boneath this prayer to courtesy, Kind, conscience—there’s a sum to pouch! IIow many ducats down will buy Our shame’s removal, sirs? Avouch! XIX. “Removal, not destruction, sirs! Just turn yottr picture! Let it front The public path! Or memory errs, Or that same public path is wont To witness many a chance befall Of lust, theft, bloodshed—sins enough, Wherein our Hebrew part is small. Convert yourselves!”—he cut up rough. XX. Look you, how soon a service paid Religion yields the servant fruit! A prompt reply our Farmer made So following: “ Sirs, to grant your suit Involves much danger! How? Trans¬ pose Our Lady! Stop the chastisement, All for your good, herself bestows? What wonder if I grudge consent? XXI. —“ Yet grant it: since, wliat cash I take Is so much saved from wicked use. We know you! And, for Mary’s sake A hundred ducats shall induce Concession to your prayer. One day Suffices: Master Buti’s brush Turns Mary round the other way, And deluges your side with slush. XXII. “Down with the ducats therefore!” Dump, Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece, Hard gold. Then out of door they stump, These dogs, each brisk as with new lease Of life, I warrant—glad he’ll die Henceforward just as he may choose, Be buried and in clover lie! Well said Esaias—“Stiff-necked Jews!” XXIII. Off posts without a minute’s loss Our Farmer, once the cash in poke, And summons Buti—ere its gloss Have time to fade from off the joke— To chop and change his work, undo The done side, make the side, now blank. FILIPPO BALDINUGOI ON BURIAL. 176 Recipient of our Lady—who, Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank! XXIV. Now, you’re no boy I need instruct In technicalities of Art! My nephew’s childhood sure lias sucked Along with mother’s-milk some part Of painter’s practice—learned, at least, How expeditiously is plied A work in fresco—never ceased When once begun—a day, each side. XXV. So, Buti—he’s with God—begins: First covers up the shrine all round With hoarding; then, as like as twins, Paints, t’other side the burial- ground, New Mary, every point the same; Next, sluices over, as agreed, The old; and last—but, spoil the game By telling you? Not I, indeed! XXYT. Well, ere the week was half at end, Out came the object of this zeal, This tine alacrity to spend Hard money for mere dead men’s weal! IIow think you? That old spokes¬ man Jew Was High Priest, and he had a wife As old, and she was dying too, And wished to end in peace her life! XXVII. And he must humor dying whims, And soothe her with the idle hope They’d say their prayers and sing their hymns As if her husband were the Pope! And she did die—believing just This privilege was purchased! Dead In comfort through her foolish trust! “Stiff-necked ones,” well Esaias said! XXVIII. So, Sabbath morning, out of gate And on to way, what sees our arch Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight— The corpse—on shoulder, and so, march! “Now for it, Buti!” In the nick Of time ’tis pully-hauly, hence With hoarding! O’er the wayside quick There’s Mary plain in evidence! XXIX. And here’s the convoy halting: right! Oh, they are bent on howling psalms And growling prayers, when opposite! And yet they glance, for all their qualms, Approve that promptitude of his, The Farmer’s—-duly at his post To take due thanks from every phiz, Sour smirk—nay, surly smile almost! XXX. Then earthward drops each brow again; The solemn task’s resumed; they reach Their holy field—the unholy train: Enter its precinct, all and each, Wrapt somehow in their godless rites; Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo They lift their faces! What delights The mourners as they turn to go? XXXI. Ha, ha, he, he! On just the side They drew their purse-strings to make quit Of Mary,—Christ the Crucified Fronted them now—these biters bit! Never was such a hiss and snort, Such screwing nose and shooting lip! Their purchase—honey in report— Proved gall and verjuice at first sip! XXXII. Out they break, on they bustle, where A-top of wall, the Farmer waits With Buti: never fun so rare! The Farmer has the best: he rates The rascal, as the old High Priest Takes on himself to sermonize— Nay, sneer “ We Jews supposed, at least, Theft was a crime in Christian eyes! ” FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON BURIAL. 177 XXXIII. “ Theft? ” cried the Farmer, your words! Show me what constitutes a breach Of faith in aught was said or heard! I promised you in plainest speech I’d take the thing you count disgrace And put it here—and here ’tis put! Did you suppose I’d leave the place Blank therefore, just your rage to glut? xxxiv. / “ I guess you dared not stipulate For such a damned impertinence! ;So, quick, my gray beard, out of gate I And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence! As long as I have house and land, ' To spite you irreligious chaps Here shall the Crucifixion stand— Unless you down with cash, per¬ haps!” XXXV. So snickered he and Buti both. The Jews said nothing, interchanged A glance or two, renewed their oath To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged From grace, for all our Church can do. Then off they scuttle: sullen jog Homewards, against our Church to brew Fresh mischief in their synagogue, xxxvi. But next da} r —see what happened, boy! See why I bid you have a care How you pelt Jews! The knaves employ Such methods of revenge, forbear No outrage on our faith, when free To wreak their malice! Here they took So base a method—plague o’ me If I record it in my Book! XXXVII. For, next day, while the Farmer sat Laughing with Buti, in his shop, At their successful joke—rat-tat,— Door opens, and they’re like to drop Down to the floor as in there stalks A. six-feet-high herculean-built Young he-Jew with a beard that balks Description. “ Help, ere blood be spilt!” XXXVIII. —Screamed Buti: for he recognized Whom but the son, no less no more, Of that High Priest his work surprised So pleasantly the day before! Son of the mother, then, whereof The bier he lent a shoulder to, And made the moans about, dared scoH At sober, Christian grief—the Jewt XXXIX. “ Sirs, I salute you! Never rise! No apprehension!” (Buti, white And trembling like a tub of size, Had tried to smuggle out of sight The picture’s self—the thing in oils, You know, from which a fresco’s dashed Which courage speeds while caution spoils) “ Stay and be praised, sir, una¬ bashed ! XL. “ Praised,—ay, and paid too: for I come To buy that very work of yours, My poor abode, which boasts—well, some Few specimens of Art, secures Haply, a masterpiece indeed If I should find my humble means Suffice the outlay. So, proceed! Propose—ere prudence intervene!” XLI. On Buti, cowering like a child, These words descended from aloft, In tone so ominously mild, With smile terrifically soft To that degree—could Buti dare (Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice? He asks, thus taken unaware, No more than just the proper pricet XLII. “Done!” cries the monster. “ I dis¬ burse Eat 178 FILIPPO BALD IN UCCl ON BURIAL. Forthwith your moderate demand. Count on my custom—if no worse Your future work be, understand, Than this I carry off! No aid! My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews: The burden’s easy, and we’re made, Easy or hard, to bear—we Jews! ” XLIII. Crossing himself at such escape, Buti by turns the money eyes And, timidly, the stalwart shape Now moving doorwards; but, more wise, The Farmer,—who though dumb, this while Had watched advantage,—straight conceived A reason for that tone and smile So mild and soft! The Jew—be¬ lieved ! XLIV. Mary in triumph borne to deck A Hebrew household! Pictured where No one was used to bend the neck In praise or bow the knee in prayer! Borne to that domicile by whom? The son of the High Priest! Through what? An insult done his mother’s tomb! Saul changed to Paul—the case came pat! XLY. “Stay, dog-Jew . . . gentle sir, that is! Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned— Mary, by miracle— Oh bliss!— My present to your burial-ground? Certain, a ray of light has burst Your veil of darkness! Had you else, Only for Mary’s sake, unpursed So much hard money? Tell—oh, toll’s! ” XLYI. Round—like a serpent that we took For worm and trod on—turns his bulk About the Jew. First dreadful look Sends Buti in a trice to skulk Out of sight somewhere, safe—alack! But our good Farmer faith made bold: And firm (with Florence at his back) He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled— XLYI I. “ Ay, sir, a miracle was worked, By quite another power, I trow, Than ever yet in canvas lurked, Or you would scarcely face me now! A certain impulse did suggest A certain grasp with this right-hand Which probably had put to rest Our quarrel,—thus your throat once spanned! XL VII I. “ But I remembered me, subdued That impulse, and you face me still! And soon a philosophic mood Succeeding (hear it, if you will!) Has altogether changed my views Concerning art. Blind prejudice! Well may you Christians tax us Jews With scrupulosity too nice! XLIX. “ For, don’t I see,—let’s issue join! — Whenever I’m allowed pollute (I—and my little bag of coin) Some Christian palace of repute,— Don’t I see stuck up everywhere Abundant proof that cultured taste Has Beauty for its only care, And upon Truth no thought to waste? L. “ ' Jew, since it must be, take in pledge Of payment ’—so a Cardinal Has sighed to me as if a wedge Entered his heart—‘ this best of all My treasures! ’ Leda, Ganymede, Or Antiope : swan, eagle, ape (Or what’s the beast of what’s the breed), And Jupiter in every shape 1 LI. “ Whereat if I presume to ask ‘ But, Eminence, though Titian’g whisk SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER. 179 Of brush have well performed its task, How comes it these false godships frisk In presence of—what yonder frame Pretends to image ? Surely, odd It seems, you let confront The Name Each beast the heathen called his god!’ LIT. “ Benignant smiles me pity straight The Cardinal. ‘ ’TisTruth,we prize! Art’s the sole question in debate! These subjects are so many lies. W e treat them with a proper scorn When we turn lies—called gods for¬ sooth—• To lies’ lit use, now Christ is born. Drawing and coloring are Truth. liit. “ ‘ Think you I honor lies so much As scruple to parade the charms Of Leda—Titian, every touch— Because the thing within her arms Means Jupiter who had the praise And prayer of a benighted world? Benighted I too, if, in days Of light, I kept the canvas furled!’ LIV. “ So ending, with some easy gibe. What power has logic! I, at once, Acknowledged error in our tribe, So squeamish that, when friends en¬ sconce A pretty picture in its niche To do us honor, deck our graves. We fret and fume and have an itch To strangle folk — ungrateful knaves! LV. “No, sir! Be sure that—what’s its style, Your picture?—shall posses un- grudged A place among my rank and file Of Ledas and what not—be judged Just as a picture!—and (because 1 fear me much I scarce have bought A Titian) Master Buti’s Haws Found there, will have the laugh Haws ought! ” LVI. So, with a scowl, it darkens door— This bulk—ho longer! Buti makes Prompt glad re-entry ; there’s a score Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes From what must needs have been a trance, Or he had struck (he swears) to ground The bold bad mouth that dared ad¬ vance Such doctrine the reverse of sound! LVII. Was magic here? Most like! For since, Somehow our city’s faith grows still More and more lukewarm, and o,ur Prince Or loses heart or wants the will To check increase of cold. ’Tis “Live And let live! Languidly repress The Dissident! In short,—contrive Christians must bear with Jews: no less!” LVIII. The end seems, any Israelite Wants any picture,—pishes, poohs. Purchases, hangs it full in sight In any chamber he may choose! In Christ’s crown, one more thorn w r e rue! In Mary’s bosom, one more sword! No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew! O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord? SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER. i. Gii-R-it—there go, my heart’s abhor¬ rence ! Water your damned flower-pots, do! If hate killed men, Broth-: Lawrence, God’s blood, would not mine kill you! What? your myrtle-busli wants trim¬ ming? Oh, that rose has prior claims— 180 THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? Hell dry you up with its flames! ii. At the meal we sit together : Salve tibi ! 1 must hear Wise talk of the kind of weather, Sort of season, time of year : Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely Dare ice hope oak-galls, 1 doubt: What's the Latin name for “parsley ”? What’s the Greek name for Swine’s Snout? hi. Whew! We’ll have our platter bur¬ nished, Laid with care on our own shelf! With afire-new spoon we’re furnished, And a goblet for ourself, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere ’tis fit to touch our chaps— Marked with L. for our initial! (He-he! There his lily snaps!) IV. Saint, forsooth! While brown Do¬ lores Squats outside the Convent bank With Sanchicha, telling stories, Steeping tresses in the tank, Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horse¬ hairs, —Can’t I see his dead eye glow, Bright as ’twere a Barbary corsair’s? (That is, if he’d let it show!) v. When he finishes refection, Knife and fork he never lays Cross-wise, to my recollection, As do I, in Jesu’s praise. I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange-pulp— In three sips the Arian frustrate; While he drains his at one gulp. vr. Oh, those melons? If lie’s able We’re to have a feast! so nice! One goes to the Abbot’s table, All of us get each a slice. How go on your flowers? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy? Strange!—And I, too, at such trouble Keep them close-nipped on the sly! VII. There’s a great text in Galatians, Once you trip on it, entails Twenty-nine distinct damnations, One sure, if another fails: If I trip him just a-dying, Sure of heaven as sure can be, Spin him round and send him flying Off to hell, a Manichee? VIII. Or, my scrofulous French novel On gray paper with blunt type! Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belial’s gripe: If I double down its pages At the w T oful sixteenth print, When he gathers his greengages, Ope a sieve and slip it in’t? IX. Or, there’s Satan!—one might venture Pledge one’s soul to him, yet leave Such a flaw 7 in the indenture As he’d miss till, past retrieve, Blasted lay that rose-acacia W e’re so proud of! Ily, Zy, JTine ... ’St, there’s Vespers! Plena gratia Are, Virgo! Gr-r-r—you swine! THE HERETIC’S TRAGEDY. A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE. ROSA MUNDI; SEU, FUI.CITE ME FI.OR1BU9. A CONCEIT OF MASTER GYSBRECHT, CANON-REGULAR OF SAINT JODOCUS BY THE-BAR, YPRE8 CITY, CANTUQUE, Vir- gilivs. AND HATH OFTEN BEEN SUNG AT HOCK TIDE AND FESTIVALS. GAVI- sus eram, Jessides. (It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques du Bourg-Molay, at Paris. A.D. 1314; as distorted by the refrac¬ tion from Flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of centuries.) I. I’RE ADMONISH ETII T1IE ABBOT DEO- DAET. The Lord, we look to once for all, Is the Lord we should look at, all f at once*. THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. lsl He knows not to vary,saith Saint Paul, Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce, Sec him no other than as he is! Give both the infinitudes their due— Infinite mercy, but, I wis, As infinite a justice too. [ Organ • plagal-cadence. As infinite a justice too. ir. ONE SINGE! H. John, Master of the Temple of God, Falling to sin the Unknown Sin, What he bought of Emperor Alda- brod, He sold it to Sultan Saladin: Till, caught by Pope Clement, a buzz¬ ing there, Hornet-prince of the mad wasps’ hive, And dipt of his wings in Paris square, They bring him now to be burned alive. [And wanteth there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth — We bring John now to be burned alive, iit. In the midst is a goodly gallows built; ’Twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck: But first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt, Make a trench all round with the city muck; Inside they pile log upon log, good store; Fagots not few, blocks great and small, Reach a man’s mid-thigh, no less, no more,— For they mean he should roast in the sight of all. cnonus. We mean he should roast in the sight of all. iv. Good sappy bavins that kindle forth- j with; Billets that blaze substantial and slow; Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith; Larch-heart that chars to a chalk¬ like glow: Then up they hoist me John in a chafe, Sling him fast like a hog to scorch, Spit in his face, then leap back safe, Sing “ Laudes,” and bid clap-to the torch. CHORUS. Lavs Deo —who bids clap-to the torch. v. John of the Temple, whose fame so bragged, Is burning alive in Paris square! How can he curse, if his mouth is gagged? Or wriggle his neck, with a collar there ? Or heave his chest, while a band goes round? Or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced? Or kick with his feet, now his legs arc bound? —Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ. [Here one crosseth himself. VI. Jesus Christ—John had bought and sold, Jesus Christ—John had eaten and drunk; To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold. {Sail'd reverentid ) Now it was, “Saviour, bountiful lamb, I have roasted thee Turks, though men roast me! See thy servant, the plight wherein I am! Art thou a saviour? Save thou me!” CHORUS. 'Tis John the mocker cries, “Save thou me! ” VII. Who maketh Gods menace an idle word? 182 HOLY-CROSS RAY. —Saitli, it no more means what it proclaims, Than a damsel’s threat to her wanton bird?— For she too prattles of ugly names. —Saitli, he knoweth but one thing,— what he knows? That God is good and the rest is breath; Why else is the same styled Sharon’s rose? Once a rose, ever a rose, he saitli. CHORUS. Oh, John shall yet find a rose, he saitli. vi ir. Alack, there be roses and roses, John! Some honeyed of taste like your leman’s tongue: Some, bitter; for why? (roast gayly on!) Their tree struck root in devil’s dung, When Paul once reasoned of righteous¬ ness And of temperance and of judgment to come, Good Felix trembled, he could no less: John, snickering, crooked his wick¬ ed thumb. CHORUS. What cometli to John of the wicked thumb ? IX. Ha, 1m! John plucketh now at his rose To rid himself of a sorrow at heart! Lo,—petal on petal, fierce rays un¬ close; Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart; And with blood for dew, the bosom boils; And a gust of sulphur is all its smell; And lo, he is horribly in the toils Of a coal-black giant flower of hell! CHORUS. What maketh heaven. That maketh hell. x. So, as .John caked now, through the fire amain, On the name, he had cursed with, all his life— To the Person, he bought and sold again—• For the Face, with his daily buffets rife— Feature by feature It took its place; And his voice, like a mad dog’s choking bark, At the steady whole of the Judge’s face— Died. Forth John’s soul flared into the dark. SUBJOINETH THE ABBOT DEODAET. God keep all poor souls lost in the dark! HOLY-CROSS DAY. ON WHICH THE JEWS WERE FORCED TO ATTEND AN ANNUAL CHRISTIAN SERMON IN ROME. [“ Now was come about Holy-Cross Hay, and now must my lord preach his first ser¬ mon to the Jews; as it was of old cared for in the merciful bowels of the Church, that, so to speak, a crumb, at. least, from her con¬ spicuous table here in Rome, should be, tnough but once yearly, cast to the famishing dogs, under-t ampled and bespitten-upon be- J neath the feet of the guests. And a moving sight in truth, this, of so many of the be¬ sotted blind restif and ready-to perish Ue- i brews ! now mate nallv brought—nay (for He saith, ‘ C' mpel them to come in ’), haled, | as it were, by the head and hair, and against their obstinate hearts, to partake of the heavenly grace. What awakeni g. what Btri' ing with tears, what workings of a yeasty conscience ! Nor was my lord wanting to himse f on so apt an occasion; witness the abundance of conversions wh ch did incon.i- nently reward him: hough not to my lord be altogether the glory .’"—Diary by the j Bishop's Secretary , 1600.J What the Jews really said, on thus being driven to church, was rather to this effect:— I. Fee, faw, fum! Bubble and squeak! I Blessedest Thursday’® the fat of the week. HOLY-CROSS DAY. Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, Slinking and savory, smug and gruiF, 'l ake the church-road, for the bell’s due chime Gives us the summons—’tis sermon- time! IT. Boh, here’s Barnabas! Job, that’s you? Up stumps Solomon —bustling too? Shame, man! greedy beyond your years To handsell the bishop’s shaving- shears? Fair play’s a jewel! Leave friends in the lurch? Stand on a line ere you start for the church! nr. Higgled}', piggledy, packed we lie, Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve, Wonns in a carcass, fleas in a sleeve. Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbs And buzz for the bishop—here he comes. IV. Bow, wow, wow—a bone for the dog! 1 liken his Grace to an acorned hog. What, a boy at his side, with the bloom of a lass, To help and handle my lord’s hour¬ glass! Didst ever behold so lithe a chine? llis cheek hath laps like a fresh- singed swine. v. Aaron’s asleep—shove hip to haunch, Or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch! Look at the purse with the tassel and knob, And tin* gown with the angel and thingumbob! What’s he at, quotha? reading his text! Now you’ve his curtsey—and what comes next? VI. See to our converts—you doomed black dozen — 183 No stealing away—nor cog nor cozen! You five, that were thieves, deserve it fairly; You seven, that were beggars, will live less sparely; You took your turn and dipped in the hat, Good fortune—and fortune gets you; mind that! vi r. Give your first groan—compunction’s at work; And soft! from a Jew you mount to a Turk. Lo, Mieah,—the selfsame beard on chin lie was four times already converted in! Here’s a knife, clip quick—it’s a sign of grace— Or he ruins us all with his hanging- face. VIII. Whom now is the bishop a-leering at? I know a point where his text falls pat. I ll tell him to-morrow, a word just now Went to my heart and made me vow To meddle no more with the worst of trades; Let somebody else play his serenades! IX. Groan all together now, whee—hee —heel It’s a-work, it’sa-work, ah, woe is me! It began, when a herd of us, picked and placed, Were spurred through the Corso, stripped to the waist; Jew brutes, with sweat and blood well spent To usher in worthily Christian Lent. x. It grew, when the hangman entered our bounds, Yelled, pricked us out to his church like hounds: It got to a pitch, when the hand iiv I deed HOLY-CROSS RAY. 184 Which gutted my purse, would throt¬ tle my creed: And it overflows, when, to even the odd, Mon I helped to their sins, help me to their God. XI. But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock, And the rest sit silent and count the clock, Since forced to muse the appointed time On these precious facts and truths sublime,— Let us fitly employ it, under our breath, In saying Ben Ezra’s Song of Death. XII. For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died Called sons and sons’ sons to his side, And spoke, “This world has been harsh and strange; Something is wrong: there needeth a change. But what, or where? at the last or first? In one point only we sinned, at worst. XIII. “ The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet, And again in his border see Israel set. When Judah beholds Jerusalem, The stranger-seed shall be joined to them: To Jacob’s House shall the Gentiles cleave, So the Prophet saitli and his sons be¬ lieve. xiv. “ Ay, the children of the chosen race Shall carry and bring them to their place : In the land of the Lord shall lead the same, Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame, When the slaves enslave, the op¬ pressed ones o’er The oppressor triumph for evermore! ' XY. “ God spoke, and gave us the word te keep : Bade never fold the hands nor sleep ’Mid a faithless world,— at watch and ward, Till Christ at the end relieve our guard. By his servant Moses the watch was set: Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet. XVI. “ Thou ! if thou wast he, wdio at mid' watch came, By the starlight, naming a dubious name ! And if, too heavy with sleep—too rash With fear—O thou, if that martyr- gash Fell on thee coming to take thine own, And we gave the Cross, when we. owed the Throne— XVII. “Thou art the Judge. We are bruised thus. But, the Judgment over, join sides with us ! Thine too is the cause! and not more thine Than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine, Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed, Who maintain thee in word, and defy thee in deed! XVIII. “We withstood Christ then? Be mindful how At least we withstand Barabbas now! Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared, To have called these—Christians, had w r e dared! Let defiance to them pay mistrust of thee, And Rome make amends for Calvary! XIX. “ By the torture, prolonged from age to age, i AMPHIBIAN. i s5 By the infamy, Israel’s heritage, By the Ghetto’s plague, by the garb’s disgrace, By the badge of shame, by the felon’s place, By the branding-tool, the bloody whip, And the summons to Christian fellow¬ ship,— xx. “We boast our proof that at least the Jew Would wrest Christ’s name from the Devil’s crew. Thy face took never so deep a shade But w r e fought them in it, God our aid! A trophy to bear, as we march, thy band South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!” \The late Pope abolished this bad business of the sermon. —R. B.] AMPHIBIAN. i. Tiie fancy I had to-day, Fancy which turned a fear ! I swam far out in the bay, Since waves laughed warm and clear. ii. I lay and looked at the sun, The noon-sun looked at me: Between us two, no one Live creature, that I could see. nr. Yes! There came floating by Me, who lay floating too, Such a strange butterfly! Creature as dear as new r : iv. Because the membraned wings So wonderful, so wide, So sun-suffused, were things Like soul and naught beside. v. A handbreadth over head! All of the sea my own, It owned the sky instead; Both of us were alone. VI. I never shall join its flight, For naught buoys flesh in air. If it touches the sea—good-niglit! Death sure and swift waits there. VII. Can the insect feel the better For watching the uncouth play Of limbs that slip the fetter, Pretend as they were not clay? VIII. Undoubtedly I rejoice That the air comports so well With a creature which had the choice Of the land once. Who can tell? IX. What if a certain soul Which early slipped its sheath, And has for its home the whole Of heaven, thus look beneath, x. Thus watch one who, in the world, Both lives and likes life’s way, Nor wishes the wings unfurled That sleep in the worm, they say? XI. But sometimes when the weather Is blue, and warm waves tempt To free one’s self of tether, And try a life exempt XII. From worldly noise and dust, In the sphere which overbrims With passion and thought,—why, just Unable to fly, one swims! XIII. By passion and thought upborne, One smiles to one’s self—“ They fare Scarce better, they need not scorn Our sea, who live in the air! ” XIV. Emancipate through passion And thought, with sea for sky, 186 ST. MARTItf’S SUMMER. We substitute, in a fashion, For heaven—poetry: xv. Which sea, to all intent, Gives tlesli such noon-disport As a finer element Affords the spirit-sort, XVI. Whatever they are, we seem: Imagine the things they know ; All deeds they do, we dream; Can heaven be else but so? XVII. And meantime, yonder streak Meets the horizon’s verge; That is the land, to seek If we tire or dread the surge; XVIII. Land the solid and safe— To welcome again (confess!) When, high and dry, we chafe The body, and don the dress. XIX. Does she look, pity, wonder At one who mimics flight, Swims—heaven above, sea under, Yet always earth in sight? ST. MARTIN’S SUMMER. i. No protesting, dearest! Hardly kisses even! Don’t we both know how it ends? How the greenest leaf turns searest? Bluest outbreak—blankest heaven? Lovers—friends ? ii. You would build a mansion, I would weave a bower —Want the heart for enterprise. Walls.admit of no expansion: Trellis-work may haply flower Twice the size. hi. What makes glad Life’s Winter? New buds, old blooms after. Sad the sighing “How suspect Beams would ere mid-autumn splin¬ ter, Rooftree scarce support a rafter. Walls lie wrecked?” IV. You are young, my princess! I am hardly older; Yet—I steal a glance behind! Dare I tell you what convinces Timid me that you, if bolder. Bold—are blind? v. Where we plan our dwelling Glooms a graveyard surely! Headstone, footstone moss may drape,— Name, date, violets hide from spell¬ ing— But, though corpses rot obscurely, Ghosts escape. VI. Ghosts! 0 breathing Beauty, Give my frank word pardon! What if I—somehow, some¬ where— Pledged my soul to endless duty Many a time and oft? Be hard on Love—laid there? VII. Nay, blame grief that’s fickle. Time that proves a traitor, Chance, change, all that purpose warps,— Death who spares to thrust the sickle. Which laid Love low, through flow¬ ers which later Shroud the corpse! VIII. And you, my winsome lady, Whisper me with like frankness! Lies nothing buried long ago? Are yon—which shimmer mid what’s shady Where moss and violet run to rank¬ ness— Tombs, or no? JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 1S7 IX. Who taxes you with murder? My hands are clean—or nearly! Love being mortal needs must pass. Repentance? Nothing were absurder. Enough: we felt Love’s loss severe- ] y; Though now—alas! x. Love’s corpse lies quiet therefore, Only Love’s ghost plays truant, And warns us have in wholesome awe Durable mansionry: that’s wherefore I weave but trellis-work, pursuant —Life, to law. XI. The solid, not the fragile, Tempts rain and hail and thunder. If bower stand firm at autumn’s close, Beyond my hope,—why, boughs were agile; If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder Wreathing—rose! XII. So, truce to the protesting, So, muffled be the kisses! For, would we but avow the truth, Sober is genuine joy. No jesting! Ask else Penelope, Ulysses— Old in youth! XIII. For why should ghosts feel angered? Let all their interference Be faint march-music in the air! “Up! Join the rear of us the van¬ guard! Up, lovers, dead to all appearance, Laggard pair! ” XIV. The while you clasp me closer, The while I press you deeper, As safe we chuckle, — under breath, Yet all the slyer, the jocoser,— “ So, life can boast its day, like leap-year, Stolen from death! ” XY. Ah me—the sudden terror! Hence quick—avaunt, avoid me, You cheat, the ghostly flesh-dis¬ guised ! Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error! So, ’twas Death’s self that clipped and coyed me, Loved—and lied! XVI. Ay, dead loves are the potent! Like any cloud they used you, Mere semblance you, but sub¬ stance they! Build we no mansion, w T eave we no tent! Mere flesh—their spirit interfused you! Hence, I say! XVII. All theirs, none yours the glamour! Theirs each low word that won me, Soft look that found me Love’s, and left What else but you—the tears and clamor That’s all your very own! Undone me— Ghost-bereft! JAMES LEE’S WIFE. I. JAMES LEE’S AVIFE SPEAKS AT THE WINDOW. I. Ait, Love, but a day, And the world has changed! The sun’s away, And the bird estranged; The wind has dropped, And the sky’s deranged: Summer has stopped. 188 JAMES LEE’S WIFE. ii. Look in my eyes! Wilt thou change too? Should I fear surprise? Shall I find aught new In the old and dear, In the good and true, With the changing year? iii. Thou art a man, But I am thy love. For the lake, its swan; For the dell, its dove; And for thee—(oh, haste!) Me to bend above, Me, to hold embraced. II. BY TIIE FIRESIDE. I. Is all our fire of shipwreck wood, Oak and pine? Oh, for the ills half-understood, The dim dead woe Long ago Befallen this bitter coast of France! Well, poor sailors took their chance; I take mine. ii. A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot O’er the sea; Do sailors eye the casement—mute Drenched and stark, From their bark— And envy, gnash their teeth for hate O’ the warm safe house and happy freight —Thee and me? hi. God help you, sailors, at your need! Spare the curse! For some ships, safe in port indeed, Ilot and rust, Iiun to dust. All through worms i’ the wood, which crept: Gnawed our hearts out while we slept; That is worse. IV. Who lived here before us two? Old-world pairs. Did a woman ever—would I knew !— Watch the man With whom began Love’s voyage full-sail,—(now gnash your teeth!) When planks start, open hell beneath Unawares? III. IN THE DOORWAY. I. The swallow has set her six young on the rail, And looks seaward: The water’s in stripes like a snake, olive-pale To the leeward,— On the weather-side, black, spotted white with the wind. “ Good fortune departs, and disaster’s behind,”— Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite wail! ii. Our fig-tree, that leaned for the salt¬ ness, lias furled Her five fingers, Each leaf like a hand opened wide to the world Where there lingers No glint of the gold, Summer sent for her sake: How her vines writhe in rows, each impaled on its stake! My heart shrivels up and my spirit shrinks curled. iii. Yet here are we two; we have love, house enough, With the field there, This house of four rooms, that field red and rough, Though it yield there, For the rabbit that robs, scarce a blade or a bent; JAMES LEE’S WIFE. 189 If a magpie alight now, it seems an event; And they both will be gone at Novem¬ ber's re bull. IY. But why must cold spread? but where¬ fore bring change To the spirit, God meant should mate his with an infinite range, And inherit His power to put life in the darkness and cold? O, live and love worthily, bear and be bold! Whom Summer made friends of, let Winter estrange! IY. ALONO THE BEACH. I. I will be quiet and talk with you, And reason why you are wrong. You wanted my love—is that much true ? And so I did love, so I do; What has come of it all along? ii. I took you—how could I otherwise? For a world to me, and more; For all, love greatens and glorifies Till God’s a-glow, to the loving eyes, In what was mere earth before. hi. l r es, earth—yes, mere ignoble earth! Now do I misstate, mistake? Do I wrong your weakness and call it worth? Expect all harvest, dread no dearth, Seal my sense up for your sake? IV. O Love, Love, no, Love ! not so, indeed You were just weak earth, I knew: With much in you waste, with many a weed, And plenty of passions run to seed, But a little good grain too. v. And such as you were, I took you for mine: Did not you find me yours, To watch the olive and wait the vine, And wonder when rivers of oil and wine Would flow, as the Book assures? VI. Well, and if none of these good things came, What did the failure prove? The man was my whole world, all the same, With his flowers to praise or his weeds’ to blame, And, either or both, to love. VII. l r et this turns now to a fault—there! there! That I do love, watch too long, And wait too well, and weary and wear; And ’tis all an old story, and my despair Fit subject for some new song; VIII. “How the light, light love, he has wings to fly At suspicion of a bond: My wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-by, Which will turn up next in a laughing eye, And why should you look beyond? Y. ON THE CLIFF. I. I leaned on the turf, I looked at a rock Left dry by the surf; For the turf, to call it grass were te mock: Dead to the roots, so deep was done The work of the summer sun. ii. And the rock lay flat As an anvil’s face*, 190 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. No iron like that! Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace: Sunshine outside, but ice at the core, Death’s altar by tiie lone shore, in. On the turf, sprang gay With his films of blue, No cricket, I’ll say, But a war-horse, barded and chan- froned too, The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight, Real fairy, with wings all right. IV. On the rock, they scorch Like a drop of fire From a brandished torch, Fall two red fans of a butterfly; No turf, no rock,—in their ugly stead, See, wonderful blue and red! Y. Is it not so With the minds of men? The level and low, The burnt and bare, in themselves; but then With such a blue and red grace, not theirs. Love settling unawares! YI. READING A BOOK, TJNDEIt TIIE CLIFF. I. “Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be ap¬ peased or no? Which needs the other’s office, thou or I? Dost want to be disburdened of a ■woe, And can, in truth, my voice untie Its links, and let it go? ii. “ Art thou a dumb, wronged thing that would be righted, Intrusting thus thy cause to me ? Forbear! No tongue can mend such pleadings; faith, requited With falsehood,—love at last aware Of scorn,—hopes, early blighted,— hi. “We have them; but I know not anj tone So fit as thine to falter forth a soi row: Dost think men would go mad with out a moan, If they knew any way to borrow A pathos like thy own? IV. “ Which sigh wouldst mock, of all thq sighs? The one So long escaping from lips starved and blue, That lasts while on her pallet-bed the nun Stretches her length; her foot comes through The straw she shivers on; v. “ You had not thought she was so tall: and spent, Her shrunk lids open, her lean fin¬ gers shut Close, close, their sharp and livid nails indent The clammy palm; then all is mute: That way, the spirit went. VI. “ Or wouldst thou rather that I under¬ stand Thy will to help me?—like the dog I found Once, pacing sad this solitary strand, Who would not take my food, poor hound, But whined, and licked my hand.” VII. All this, and more, comes from some young man’s pride Of power to see,—in failure and mistake, Relinquishment, disgrace, on every side,— Merely examples for his sake, Helps to his path untried: JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 191 yin. Instances he must—simply recognize? Oh, more than so!—must, with a learner’s zeal, Make doubly prominent, twice em¬ phasize, By added touches that reveal The god in babe’s disguise. IX. Oh, he knows what defeat means, and the rest! Himself the undefeated that shall be: Failure, disgrace, he flings them you to test,— His triumph, in eternity Too plainly manifest! x. Whence, judge if he learn forthwith what the wind Means in its moaning—by the happy prompt Instinctive way of youth, I mean; for kind Calm years, exacting their accompt Of pain, mature the mind: XI. And some midsummer morning, at the lull Just about davbreak, as he looks across A sparkling foreign country, wonder¬ ful To the sea’s edge for gloom and gloss, Next minute must annul,— XII. Then, when the wind begins among the vines, So low, so low, what shall it say but this ? “Here is the change beginning; here the lines Circumscribe beauty, set to bliss The limit time assigns.” XIII. Nothing can be as it has been before: Better, so call it, only not the same. To draw one beauty into pur hearts’ core. And keep it changeless! such oui claim; So answered,—Never more! XIV. Simple? Why this is the old woe o’ the world; Tune, to whose rise and fall we live and die. Rise with it, then! Rejoice that man is hurled From change to change unceasingly, His soul’s wings never furled! xv. That’s a new question; still replies the fact, Nothing endures: the wind moans, saying so; We moan in acquiescence: there’s life’s pact, Perhaps probation—do / know? God does: endure his act! XVI. Only, for man, how bitter not to grave On his soul’s hands’ palms one fair good wise thing Just as he grasped it! For himself, death’s wave; While time first washes —ah, the sting!— O’er all he’d sink to save. VII. AMONG THE ROCKS. I. Oh, good gigantic smile o’ the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How ho sets his bones To bask i’ the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twit¬ ters sweet. ii. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; 192 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. Such is life’s trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! VIII. BESIDE TIIE DHAW'ING-BOAItD. I. • “ As like as a Hand to another Hand! ” Whoever said that foolish tiling, Could not have studied to under¬ stand The counsels of God in fashioning, Out of the infinite love of his heart, This Hand, whose beauty I praise, apart From the world of wonder left to praise, If I tried to learn the other ways Of love, in its skill, or love in its power. “As like as a Hand to another Hand Who said that, never took his stand, Found and followed, like me, an hour, The beauty in this,—how free, how fine To fear, almost,—of the limit line! As I looked at this, and learned and drew. Drew and learned, and looked again, While fast the happy minutes flew, Its beauty mounted into my brain, And a fancy seized me: I was fain, To efface my work, begin anew, Kiss what before I only drew; Ay, laying the red chalk ’twixt my . lips, With soul to help if the mere lips failed, I kissed all right where the draw¬ ing ailed, Kissed fast the grace that somehow slips Still from one’s soulless finger-tips. ir. ’Tis a clay cast, the perfect thing, From Hand live once, dead long ago; Princess-like it wears the ring To fancy’s eye, by which we know That here at length a master found His match, a proud lone soul its mate, As soaring genius sank to ground And pencil could not emulate The beauty in this,—how free, how fine To fear almost!—of the limit-line. Long ago the god, like me The worm, learned, each in our de¬ gree; Looked and loved, learned and drew, Drew and learned and loved again, While fast the happy minutes flew, Till beauty mounted into his brain And on the finger which outvied Ilis art he placed the ring that’s there, Still by fancy’s eye descried, In token of a marriage rare: For him on earth, his art’s despair, For him in heaven, his soul’s fit bride. hi. Little girl with the poor coarse hand I turned from to a cold clay cast— I have my lesson, understand The worth of flesh and blood at last! Nothing but beauty in a Hand? Because he could not change the hue, Mend the lines and make them true To this which met his soul’s de¬ mand,— Would Da Vinci turn from you? I hear him laugh my woes to scorn— “ The fool forsooth is all forlorn Because the beauty, she thinks best, Lived long ago or was never born,— Because no beauty bears the test In this rough peasant Hand! Con* fessed ‘ Art is null and study void ! ” So sayest thou ? So said not I, Who threw the faulty pencil by, And years instead of hours emplo} r ed. Learning the veritable use Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath Lines and hue of the outer sheath, JAMES LEW'S WIFE. 193 If haply I might reproduce One motive of the mechanism, Flesh and bone and nerve that make The poorest coarsest human hand An object worthy to be scanned A whole life long for their sole sake. Shall earth and the cramped moment- space Yield the heavenly crowning grace? Now the parts and then the whole! Who art thou, with stinted soul And stunted body, thus to cry ‘I love,—shall that be life’s strait dole? I must live beloved or die! ’ This peasant hand that spins the wool And bakes the bread, why lives it on, Poor and coarse with beauty gone,— What use survives the beauty? Fool!” Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand! I have my lesson, shall understand. IX. ON DECK. I. There is nothing to remember in me, Nothing I ever said with a grace, Nothing I did that you care to see, Nothing I was that deserves a place In your mind, now I leave you, set you free. ii. Conceded! In turn, concede tome, Such things have been as a mutual flame. Your soul’s locked fast ; but love for a key, You might let it loose, till I grew the saine In your eyes, as in mine you stand; strange plea! hi. For then, then, what would it matter to me That I was the harsh,ill-favored one? We both should be like as pea and pea; It was ever so since the world be- gun: So, let me proceed with my reverie, IV. How strange it were if you had all me, As I have all you in my heart and brain, You, whose least word brought gloom or glee, Who never lifted the hand in vain Will hold mine yet, from over the sea! v. Strange, if a face, when you thought of me, Rose like your own face present now, With eyes as dear, in their due de¬ gree, Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow, Till you saw yourself, while you cried “Tis She!” VI. Well, you may, you must, set down to me Love that was life, life that was love; A tenure of breath at your lips’ decree, A passion to stand as your thought’s approve, A rapture to fall where your foot might be. VII. But did one touch of such love for mo Come in a word or look of yours, Whose words and looks will, circling, flee Round me and round while life en¬ dures,— Could I fancy “As I feel, thus feels He”; VIII. Why, fade you might to a thing liko me, And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree,— You might turn myself!—should I know or care, When I should be dead of joy, James .•&+ * * 194 BIS A LI TER VISUM; OR, LE BYRON BE NOS JOURS. RESPECTABILITY. i. Dear, had the world in its caprice Deigned to proclaim ‘ ‘ I know you both, Have recognized your plighted troth, Am sponsor for you: live in peace—!” How many precious months and years Of youth had passed, that speed so fast, Before we found it out at last, The world, and what it fears? ii. How much of priceless life were spent With men that every virtue decks, And women models of their sex, Society’s true ornament,— Ere we dared wander, nights like this, Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine, And feel the Boulevart break again To warmth and light and bliss? hi. I know! the world proscribes not love; Allows my finger to caress Your lips’ contour and downiness Provided it supply a glove. The world’s good word!—the Insti¬ tute! Guizot receives Montalembert! Eh? Down the court three lamp¬ ions flare; Put forward your best foot! DIS ALITER VISUM; OR, LE BYRON DE NOS JOURS. i. Stop, let me have the truth of that! Is that all true? I say, the day Ten years ago when both of us Met on a morning, friends—as thus We meet this evening, friends or what?— ii. Did you—because I took your arm And sillily smiled, “ A mass of brass That sea looks, blazing underneath!” While up the cliff-road edged with heath, N e took the turns nor came to harm— hi. Did you consider “Now makes twice That I have seen her, walked and talked With this poor pretty thoughtful thing, Whose worth I weigh; she tries to sing; Draws, hopes in time the eye grows nice; IV. “Reads verse and thinks she under stands; Loves all, at any rate, that’s great. Good, beautiful; but much as we Down at the bath-house love the sea, Who breathe its salt and bruise its sands; v. “While ... do but follow the fish¬ ing-gull That flaps and floats from wave to cave! There’s the sea-lover, fair my friend! What then? Be patient, mark and mend! Had you the making of your skull?” VI. And did you, when we faced the church With spire and sad slate roof, aloof From human fellowship so far, Where a few graveyard crosses arc, And garlands for the swallows’ perch,— VII. Did you determine, as we stepped O’er the lone stone fence, “ Let me get Her for myself, and what’s the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth— Compared with love, found, gained, and kept? VIII. “ fSchumann’s our music-maker now; DfS ALITER VISUM; OR, LE BYRON BE NOS JOURS. 105 Has his march-movement youth and mouth ? Ingres’s the modern man that paints; Which will lean on me, of his saints? Heine for songs; for kisses, how?” IX. And did you, when we entered, readied The votive frigate, soft aloft Hiding on air this hundred years, Safe-smiling at old hopes and fears,— Did you draw profit while she preached? x. Resolving, “ Fools we wise men groAV! Yes, I could easily blurt out curt Some question that might find reply As prompt in her stopped lips, dropped eye And rush of red to cheek and brow: XI. “ Thus were a match made, sure and fast, ’Mid the blue weed-flowers round the mound Where, issuing, we shall stand and stay For one more look at baths and bay, Sands, sea-gulls, and the old church last— XII. “ A match ’twixt me, bent, wigged, and lamed, Famous, however, for verse and worse, Sure of the Fortieth spare Arm-chair When gout and glory seat me there, So, one whose love-freaks pass un¬ blamed,— XIII. ' ‘ And this young beauty, round and sound As a mountain-apple, youth and truth With loves and doves, at all events With money in the Three per Cents; Whose choice of me would seem pro¬ found;-^ XIV. “ She might take me as I take her. Perfect the hour would pass, alas! Climb high, love high, vdiat matter? Still, Feet, feelings, must descend the hill: An hour’s perfection can’t recur. xv. “ Then follows Paris and full time For both to reason: ‘ Thus with us,’ She’ll sigh, ‘ Thus girls give body and soul At first word, think they gain the goal, When ’tis the starting-place they climb! XVI. “‘My friend makes verse and gets renown; Have they all fifty^ years, his peers? He knows the world, firm, quiet, and gay; Boys will become as much one day: They’re fools; he cheats, with beard less brown. XVII. “ * For boys say, Love me or I die! He did not say, The truth is, youth I leant, who am old and know too much; Id catch youth: lend me sight and touch ! Drop heart's hloocl where life's wheels grate dry ! ’ XVIII. “While I should make rejoinder ”— (then It was, no doubt, you ceased that least Light pressure of my arm in yours) “ * I can conceive of cheaper cures For a yawning-fit o’er books and men. XIX. “ ‘ What? All I am, was, and might be, All, books taught, art brought, life’s whole strife, Painful results since precious, just 196 CONFESSIONS. Were fitly exchanged, in wise dis¬ gust, For two cheeks freshened by youth and sea? xv. “‘All for a nosegay!—what came first; With fields in flower, untried each side; I rally, need my books and men, Amj. find a nosegay’: drop it, then, No match yet made for best or worst!” XXI. That ended me. You judged the porch We left by, Norman; took our look At sea and sky; wondered so few Find out the place for air and view; Remarked the sun began to scorch; XXII. Descended, soon regained the baths, And then, good-by! Years ten since then: Ten years! We meet: you tell me, now, By a window-seat for that cliff-brow, On carpet-stripes for those sand-paths. XXITI. Now I may speak; you fool, for all Your lore! Who made things plain in vain? What was the sea for? What, the gray Sad church, that solitary day, Crosses and graves and swallows’ call? XXIV. Was there naught better than to en¬ joy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven’s em¬ ploy? XXV. No wise beginning, here and now, What cannot grow complete (earth’s feat) And heaven must finish there and then? No tasting earth’s true food for men, Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet? XXVI. No grasping at love, gaining a share O’ the sole spark from God’s life at strife With death, so, sure of range above The limits here? For us and love, Failure; but, when God fails, despair. XXVII. Tins you call wisdom? Thus you add Good unto good again, in vain? You loved, with body worn and weak; I loved, with faculties to seek: Were both loves worthless since ill- clad? XXVIII. Let the mere star-fish in his vault Crawl in a wash of weed, indeed, Rose-jacyntli to the finger-tips: He, whole in body and soul, out¬ strips Man, found with either in default. XXIX. But what’s whole, can increase no more, Is dwarfed and dies, since here’s its sphere. The Devil laughed at you in his sleeve! You knew not? That I well believe; Or you had saved two souls: nay, four. XXX. For Stephanie sprained last night her wrist, Ankle or something. “ Pooh,” cry you? At any rate she danced, all say, Vilely: her vogue lias had its day. Here comes my husband from Ills whist. CONFESSIONS. i. Wiiat is he buzzing in my ears? “ Now that I come to die THE HOUSEHOLDER. 197 Do I view the world as a vale of tears 9 '’ Ah, reverend sir, not I! n. What I viewed there once, what I viewed again Where the physic bottles stand On the table’s edge,—is a suburb lane, With a wall to my bedside hand. hi. That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, From a house you could descry O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue Or green to a healthy eye? IV. To mine, it serves for the old June weather Blue above lane and wall; And that farthest bottle labelled “ Ether” Is the house o’er-topping all. Y. At a terrace, somewhat near the stop¬ per, There watched for me, one June, A girl: I know, sir, it’s improper, My poor mind’s out of tune. YI. Only, there was a way . . . you crept Close by the side, to dodge Eyes in the house, two eyes except: They styled their house “ The Lodge.” yh. What right had a lounger up their lane? But, by creeping very close, With the good wall’s help,—their eyes might strain And stretch themselves to Oes, VIII. 5fct never catch her and me together, As she left the attic, there, By the rim of the bottle labelled “Ether,” And stole from stair to stair. IX. And stood by the rose-wreatlied gate. Alas, We loved, sir—used to meet: How sad and bad and mad it was— But then, how it was sweet! THE HOUSEHOLDER. i. Savage I was sitting in my house, late, lone: Dreary, weary with the long day’s work: Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a stone: Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming like a Turk; When, in a moment, just a knock, call, cry, Half a pang and all a rapture, there again were we!— “ What, and is it really you again?” quoth I: “ I again, what else did you ex¬ pect? ” quoth She. ii. “ Never mind, hie away from this old house— Every crumbling brick embrowned with sin and shame! Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes arouse! Let them—every devil of the night —lay claim, Make and mend, or rap and rend, for me! Good-by! God be their guard from disturb¬ ance at their glee, Till, crash, comes down the carcass in aheap!” quoth I. “Nay, but there’s a decency re¬ quired!” quoth She. hi. “ Ah, but if you kne«v how time has dragged, days, nights! All the neighbor-talk with man and maid—such men! All the fuss and trouble of street- sounds, window-sights; 198 TEA r. All the worry of flapping door and echoing roof; and then, All the fancies . . . Who were they had leave, dared try Darker arts that almost struck de¬ spair in me! If you knew but how I dwelt down here!” quoth I: “ And was I so better otf up there?” quoth She. IY. “ Help and get it over! Re-united to his wife (How draw up the paper lets the parish-people know!) Lies M. or N., departed from this life, Day the this or that, month and year the so and so, Whati’ the way of final flourish? Prose, verse? Try! Affliction sore, long time he bore, or, what is it to be? Till God did please to grant him ease. Do end!” quoth I: “ I end with—Love is all and Death is naught! ” quoth She. TRAY. Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst Of soul, ye bards! Quoth Bard the first: “ Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don His helm and eke his habergeon” . . . Sir Olaf and his bard!— “ That sin-scatlied brow ” qjuotli Bard the second), “ That eye wide ope as though Fate I beckoned 'My hero to some steep, beneath Which precipice smiled tempting Death” . . . You too without your host have reck¬ oned! “A beggar-child ” (let’s hear this third!) “ Sat on a quay’s edge: like a bird Sang to herself at careless play, And fell into the stream. ‘ Dismay! Help, you the standers-by!’ None stirred. “ By-standers reason, think of wives And children ere they risk their lives. Over the balustrade has bounced A mere instinctive dog, and pounced Plumb on the prize. ‘ How well he dives! “‘Up he comes with the child, see; tight In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite A depth of ten feet—twelve, I bet! Good dog! What, off again? There’s yet Another child to save? All right! “ ‘ How strange we saw no other fall! It’s instinct in the animal. Good dog! But he’s a long while under: If he got drowned I should not won¬ der— Strong current, that against the wall! “ ‘ Here he comes, holds in mouth this time —What may the thing be? Well, that’s prime! Now, did you ever? Reason reigns In man alone, since all Tray’s pains Have fished—the child’s doll from the slime! ’ “ And so, amid the laughter gay, Trotted my hero off,—old Tray,— Till somebody, prerogatived With reason, reasoned: ‘ Why he dived, His brain would show us, I should say. “ ‘ John, go and catch—or, if needs be. Purchase that animal for me! By vivisection, at expense Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence, How brain secretes dog’s soul, we’ll seel’” Cavalier tunes. 199 CAVALIER TUNES. I. MARCHING ALONG. I. Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. ii. God for King Charles! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts ’em their treasonous paries T Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you’re— {Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great - hearted gentlemen, singing this song. hi. Hampden to hell, and his obsequies’ knell. Serve Hazel rig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! England, good cheer! Rupert is near! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here {Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great - hearted gentlemen, singing this song. IV. Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls To the Devil that pricks on such pes¬ tilent carles! Hold by the right, you double your might: So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight. {Chorus) March ice along, fifty-score strong, Great - hea rted gentlemen, singing this song. II. GIVE A ROUSE. I. King Charles, and who’ll do him right now? King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here’s, in hell’s despite now, King Charles! ii. Who gave me the goods that went since? ** Who raised me the house that sank once? Who helped me to gold I spent since? Who found me in wine you drank once? {Chorus) King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now ? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! hi. To whom used my boy George quaff else, By the old fool’s side that begot him? For whom did he cheer and laugh else, While Noll’s damned troopers shot him? {Chorus) King Charles, and who'll do him right now ? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now ? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! III. ROOT AND SADDLE. 1 . Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day BEFORE. £>00 Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, {Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! ii. Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you’d say; Many’s the friend there, will listen and pray, “ God’s luck to gallants that strike up the lay— {Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! hi. Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Round- heads’ array: Who laughs, “ Good fellows ere this, by my fay, ( Chorus ) Boot, saddle, to horse, and a way ? ” IY. Who? My wife Gertrude; that, hon¬ est and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrender¬ ing, “Nay! I’ve better counsellors; what counsel they? ( Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away !” BEFORE. i. Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far. God must judge the couple: leave them as they are —Whichever one’s the guiltless, to his glory, And whichever one the guilt’s with, to my story! ii. Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough, Strike no arm out farther, stick and stink as now, Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment. Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment? III. Who’s the culprit of them? How must he conceive God—the queen he caps to, laughing in liis sleeve, “ ’Tis but decent to profess one’s self beneath her: Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!” IV. Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes; Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves, When the sky, which noticed all makes no disclosure, And the earth keeps up her terrible composure. v. Let him pace a pleasure, past the walls of rose, Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes! For he ’gins to guess the purpose of the garden, With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden. YI. What’s the leopard-dog-thing, con¬ stant at his side, A leer and lie in every eye of its ob¬ sequious hide? When will come an end to all the mock obeisance, And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance? VII. So much for the culprit. Who’s the martyred man? Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can! He that strove thus evil’s lump with good to leaven, Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven! HE LIVE RIEL. 201 yin. All or nothing, stake it! Trusts lie God or no? Thus far and no farther? farther? be it so! Now, enough of your chicane of pru¬ dent pauses, Sage provisos, sub-intents, and saving- clauses ! IX. Ah, “ forgive ” you bid him? While God’s champion lives, Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives. But you must not end my friend ere you begin him: Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him. x. Once more—Will the wronger, at this last of all, Dare to say, “ 1 did wrong,” rising in his fall? No?—Let go, then! Both the fight¬ ers to their places! While I count three, step you back as many paces! AFTER. Take the cloak from his face, first Let the corpse do its worst! How lie lies in his rights of a man. Death has done all death can. And, absorbed in the new life he leads, lie recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance: both strike On his senses alike, And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change. Ha, what avails death to erase His otfence, my disgrace? I would we were boys as of old In the field, by the fold: Ilis outrage, God’s patience, man’s scorn Were so easily borne! I stand here now, he lies in his place: Cover the face! HERVfi RIEL. i. On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,— woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter- skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee, With the English fleet in view. ii. ’Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaled to the place “ Help the winners of a race ! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still, Here’s the English can and will! ” m. Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board: * Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?” laughed they: ‘ Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the ‘ Formidable’ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single' narrow way, Trust to enter where ’tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? 202 lIERVE RIEL. Now ’tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay! ” IV. Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: “ Here’s the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!” (Ended Damfreville his speech ) “ Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. Y. “Give the word!” But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these —A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. VI. And, “ What mockery or malice have w r e here?” cries Herve Riel: “Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shal¬ low, every swell Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying’s for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay. Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there’s a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this ‘ Formidable ’ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solido past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, —Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I’ve nothing but my life,— here’s my head! ” cries Herve Riel. VII. Not a minute more to wait. “ Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron! ” cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God’s grace! See the noble fellow’s face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea’s profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas “ An chor! ”—sure as fate, Up the English come, too late! VIII. So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o’erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. IN A BALCONY. 203 “ Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away ! ’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant rid¬ ing on the Ranee! ” How hope succeeds despair on each Captain’s countenance! Out burst all with one accord, “ This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France’s King Thank the man that did the thing! ” What a shout, and all one word, “ Herve Riel ! As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise ' In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. IX. Then said Damfreville, “ My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. ’Faith, our son was near eclipse! Demand whate’eryou will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart’s content and have! or my name’s not Damfreville.” x. Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As ths honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: “ Since I needs must say my say, • Since on board the duty’s done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— Since ’tis ask and have, I may— Since the others go ashore— Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore! ” That he asked and that he got,— nothing more. XI. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse. Herve Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! IN A BALCONY. Constance and Norbert. Nor. Now! Con. Not now! Nor. Give me them again, those hands— Put them upon my forehead, how it throbs! Press them before my eyes, the fire comes through! You cruellest, you dearest in the world, Let me! The Queen must grant whate’er I ask— How can I gain you and not ask the Queen? There she stays waiting for me, here stand you: Some time or other this was to be asked, Now is the one time—what I ask, I gain; Let me ask now, Love! Con. Do, and ruin us! 204 IN A BALCONY. Nor. Let it be now, Love! All my soul breaks forth. How I do love you! Give my love its way! A man can have but one life and one death, One heaven, one hell. Let me fulfill my fate— Grant me my heaven now! Let me know you mine, Prove you mine, write my name upon your brow, Hold you and have you, and then die away, If God please, with completion in my soul! Con. I am not yours then? How content this man! I am not his—who change into himself, Have passed into his heart and beat its beats, Who give my hands to him, my eyes, my hair, Give all that was of me away to him— Takes part with him against the woman here, Bids him not stumble at so mere a straw As caring that the world be cognizant How he loves her and how she worships him, You have this woman, not as yet that world. Go on, I bid, nor to stop to care for me By saving what I ceased to care about, The courtly name and pride of circumstance— The name you’ll pick up and be cumbered with Just for the poor parade’s sake, nothing more; Just that the world may slip from under you— Just that the world may cry “ So much for him— The man predestined to the heap of crowns: There goes his chance of winning one, at least!” Nor. The world ! Con. You love it! Love me quite as well, And see if I shall pray for this in vain! Why must you ponder what it knows or thinks? Nor. You pray for—what, in vain? Con. Oh my heart’s heart, How I do love you, Norbert! That is right: But listen, or I take my hands away! You say, “ Let it be now ”: you would go now And tell the Queen, perhaps six steps from us, Yon love me—so you do, thank God! Nor. Thank God! Con. Yes, Norbert,—but you fain would tell your love. And, what succeeds the telling, ask of her My hand. Now take this rose and look at it, Listening to me. You are the minister, The Queen’s first favorite, nor without a cause. To-night completes your wonderful year’s-work (This palace-feast is held to celebrate) Made memorable by her life’s success, The junction of two crowns, on her sole head, Her house had only dreamed of anciently: That this mere dream is grown a stable truth, ,, To-night’s feast makes authentic. Whose the praise? Whose genius, patience, energy, achieved IN A BALCONY. 205 Wliat turned the many heads and broke the hearts? You are the fate, your minute’s in the heaven. Next comes the Queen’s turn. “ Name your own reward 1 ” With leave to clinch the past, chain the to-come, Put out an arm and touch and take the sun And fix it ever full-faced on your earth, Possess yourself supremely of her life,— You choose the single thing she will not grant; Nay, every declaration of which choice Will turn the scale and neutralize your work: At best she will forgive you, if she can, You think I’ll let you choose—her cousin’s hand? Nor. Wait. First, do you retain your old belief The Queen is generous,—nay, is just? Con. There, there. So men make women love them, while they know No more of women’s hearts than . . . look you here, You that are just and generous beside, Make it your own case! For example now, I’ll say—I let you kiss me, hold my hands— Why? do you know why? I’ll instruct you, then— The kiss, because you have a name at court, This hand and this, that you may shut in each A jewel, if you please to pick up such. That’s horrible? Apply it to the Queen— Suppose I am the Queen to whom you speak. ‘ ‘ I was a nameless man; you needed me: Why did I proffer } r ou my aid? there stood A certain pretty cousin at your side. Why did I make such common cause with you?’ Access to her had not been easy else. You give my labors here abundant praise? ’Faith, labor, which she overlooked, grew play. How shall your gratitude discharge itself? Give me her hand! ” Nor. And still I urge the same. Is the Queen just? just—generous or no! Con. Yes, just. You love a rose; no harm in that: But was it for the rose’s sake or mine You put it in your bosom? mine, you said— Then, mine you still must say or else be false. You told the Queen you served her for herself ; If so, to serve her was to serve yourself, She thinks, for all your unbelieving face! I know her. In the hall, six steps from.us, One sees the twenty pictures; there’s a life Better than life, and yet no life at all. Conceive her born in such a magic dome, Pictures all round her! why, she sees the world. Can recognize its given things and facts, The fight of giants or the feast of gods, Sages in senate, beauties at +h g hath, * 206 IN A BALCONY. Chases and battles, the whole earth’s display. Landscape and sea-pieces, down to flowers and fruit— And who shall question that she knows them all, In better semblance than the things outside? Yet bring into the silent gallery Some live thing to contrast in breath and blood, Some lion, with the painted lion there— You think she’ll understand composedly? —Say, “ That’s his fellow in the hunting-piece Yonder, I’ve turned to praise a hundred times?” Not so. Her knowledge of our actual earth, Its hopes and fears, concerns and sympathies. Must be too far, too mediate, too unreal. The real exists for us outside, not her: How should it, with that life in these four walls, That father and that mother, first to last No father and no mother—friends a heap, Lovers, no lack—a husband in due time, And every one of them alike a lie! Things painted by a Ilubens out of naught Into what kindness, friendship, love should be; All better, all more grandiose than life, Only no life; mere cloth and surface-paint, You feel, while you admire. How should she feel? Yet now that she has stood thus fifty years The sole spectator in that gallery, You think to bring this warm real struggling love In to her of a sudden, and suppose She’ll keep her state untroubled? Here’s the truth: She’ll apprehend truth’s value at a glance, Prefer it to the pictured loyalty? You only have to say “So men are made, For this they act; the thing has many names, But this the right one: and now. Queen, be just! ” Your life slips back; } t ou lose her at the word: You do not even for amends gain me. He will not understand! O Norbert, NorbertI Do you not understand? Nor. The Queen’s the Queen, I am myself—no picture, but alive In every nerve and every muscle, here At the palace-window o’er the people’s street. As she in the gallery wfliere the pictures glow: The good of life is precious to us both. She cannot love; what do I want with rule? When first I saw your face a year ago I knew 7 my life’s good, my soul heard one voice— “ The woman yonder, there’s no use of life But just to obtain her ! heap earth’s woes in one And bear them—make a pile of all earth’s joys And spurn them, as they help or help not this; Only, obtgin her 1 ”—how was it to be? IN A BALCONY. 207 I found you were the cousin of the Queen; I must then serve the Queen to get to you. No other way. Suppose there had been one, And I, by saying prayers to some white star With promise of my body and my soul, Might gain you,—should I pray the star or no? Instead, there was the Queen to serve! I served. Helped, did wliat other servants failed to do. Neither she sought nor I declared m 3 7 end. Her good is hers, m 3 ' recompense be mine, I therefore name 3^011 as that recompense. She dreamed that such a thing could never be ? Let her wake now. She thinks there was more cause I 11 love of power, high fame, pure loyalty? Perhaps she fancies men wear out their lives Chasing such shades. Then, I’ve a fancy too; I worked because I want you with my soul: I therefore ask your hand. Let it be now! Con. Had I not loved you from the ver 3 7 first. Where I not yours, could we not steal out thus So wickedly, so wildly, and so well, You might become impatient. What’s conceived Of us without here, by the folks within? Where are you now? immersed in cares of state— Where am 1 now?—intent on festal robes— We two, embracing under death’s spread hand! What was this thought for, what that scruple of yours Which broke the council up?—to bring about One minute’s meeting in the corridor! And then the sudden sleights, strange secrecies, Complots inscrutable, deep telegraphs, Long-planned chance-meetings, hazards of a look, “ Does she know? does she not know? saved, or lost?’ A year of this compression’s ecstasy All goes for nothing! you would give this up For the old way, the open wa} r , the world’s, His way who beats, and his who sells his wife! What tempts \ r ou?—their notorious happiness, That 3 T ou are ashamed of ours? The best } 7 ou’ll gain Will be—the Queen grants all that you require, Concedes the cousin, rids herself of 3 T ou And me at once, and gives us ample leave To live like our five hundred happy friends. The world will show us with officious hand Our chamber-entry and stand sentinel, Where we so oft have stolen across its traps! Get the world’s warrant, ring the falcons’ feet, And make it duty to be bold and swift, Which long ago was nature. Have it so! We never hawked by rights till flung from fist? Oh, the man’s thought! no woman’s such a fool. Nor. Yes, the man’s thought and my thought, which is more— IN A BALCONY. One made to love you, let the world take note! Have I done worthy w r ork? be love’s the praise, Thoiigli hampered by restrictions, barred against By set forms, blinded by forced secrecies! Set free my love, and see what love can do Shown in my life—what work will spring from that! The world is used to have its business done ‘ On other grounds, find great effects produced For power’s sake, fame’s sake, motives in men’s mouth. So, good: but let my low ground shame their high! Truth is the strong thing. Let man’s life be true! And love’s the truth of mine. Time prove the rest! I choose to wear you stamped'all over me, Your name upon my forehead and my breast, You, from the sword’s blade to the ribbon’s edge, That men may see. all over, you in me— That pale loves may die out of their pretense In face of mine, shames thrown on love fall off. Permit this, Constance! Love has been so long Subdued in me, eating me through and through, That now ’tis all of me and must have w r ay. Think of my work, that chaos of intrigues, Those hopes and fears, surprises and delays, That long endeavor, earnest, patient, slow, Trembling at last to its assured result—• Then think of this revulsion! I resume Life after death (it is no less than life, After such long unlovely laboring days), And liberate to beauty life’s great need O’ the beautiful, which, wdiile it prompted w r ork, Suppressed itself erewliile. This eve’s the time, This eve intense witli yon first trembling star We seem to pant and reach; scarce aught between The earth that rises and the heaven that bends; All nature self-abandoned, every tree Flung as it will, pursuing its own thoughts And fixed so, every flower and every weed, No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat; All under God, each measured by itself. These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct, The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed, The Muse forever wedded to her lyre, The Nymph to her fawn, the Silence to her rose: See God’s approval on his universe! Let us do so—aspire to live as these In harmony with truth, ourselves being true! Take the first wary, and let the second come! My first is to possess mj r self of you; The music sets the march-step—forward then! And there’s the Queen, I go to claim you of, The world to witness, wonder, and applaud. Our flower of life break? pppn. No delay! IN A BALCONY. 209 Con. And so shall we be ruined, both of us. Norbert, I know her to the skin and bone: You do not know her, were not born to it, To feel what she can see or cannot see. Love, she is generous,—ay, despite your smile, Generous as you are: for in that thin frame Pain-twisted, punctured through and through with cares. There lived a lavish soul until it starved Debarred all healthy food. Look to the soul— Pity that, stoop to that, ere you begin (The true man’s-way) on justice and your rights. Exactions and acquittance of the past! Begin so—see what justice she will deal! We women hate a debt as men a gift. Suppose her some poor keeper of a school Whose business is to sit through summer months And dole out children leave to go and play, Herself superior to such lightness—she In the arm-chair’s state and pedagogic pomp, To the life, the laughter, sun and youth outside: We wonder such a face looks black on us? I do not bid you wake her tenderness (That were vain truly—none is left to wake), But, let her think her justice is engaged To take the shape of tenderness, and mark If she’ll not coldly pay its warmest debt! Does she love me, I ask you? not a whit: Yet, thinking that her justice was engaged To help a kinswoman, she took me up— Did more on that bare ground than other loves Would do on greater argument. For me, I have no equivalent of such cold kind To pay her with, but love alone to give If I give anything. I give her love: I feel I ought to help her, and I will. So, for her sake, as yours, I tell you twice That women hate a debt as men a gift. If I were you, I could obtain this grace— Could lay the whole I did to love's account, Nor yet be very false as courtiers go— Declaring my success was recompense; It would be so, in fact: what were it else? And then, once loose her generosity,— Oh, how I see it! then, were I but you To turn it, let it seem to move itself, And make it offer what I really take, Accepting just, in the poor cousin’s hand, Her value as the next thing to the Queen’s— Since none love Queens directly, none dare that. And a thing’s shadow or a name’s mere echo Suffices those who miss the name and thing! You pick up just a ribbon she has worn. 210 TN A BALCONY. To keep in proof liow near her breath you came. Say, I’m so near I seem a piece of her— Ask for me that way—(oli: you understand) You’d find the same gift yielded with a grace. Which, if you make the least show to extort . . . —You’ll see! and when you have ruined both of us. Dissertate on the Queen’s ingratitude! Nor. Then, if I turn it that way, you consent? ’Tis not my way ; I have more hope in truth: Still, if you won’t have truth—why, this indeed, Were scarcely false, as I’d express the sense. Will } T ou remain here? Con. O best heart of mine, How I have loved you! then, you take my w r ay? Are mine as you have been her minister, Work out my thought, give it effect for me. Paint plain my poor conceit and make it serve? I owe that withered woman every thing— Life, fortune, you, remember! Take my part— Help me to pay her! Stand upon your rights? You, with my rose, my hands, my heart on you? Your rights are mine—you have no rights but mine. Nor. Remain here. How you know me! Con. Ah, but still— [He breaks from her: she remains. Dance music from within. Enter the Queen. Queen. Constance? She is here as he said. Speak quick! Is it so? Is it true or false? One w r ord? Con. True. Queen. Mercifullest Mother, thanks to thee! Con. Madam? Queen. I love you, Constance, from my soul. Now say once more, with any words you will, ’Tis true, all true, as true as that I speak. Con. Why should you doubt it? Queen. Ah, why doubt? why doubt? Dear, make me see it! Do you see it so? None see themselves ; another sees them best. You say, “ Why doubt it?”— you see him and me It is because the Mother has such grace That if we had but faith—wherein we fail— Whate’er we yearn for would be granted us; Howbeit we let our whims prescribe despair, Our very fancies thwart and cramp our will, And so, accepting life, abjure ourselves. Constance, I had abjured the hope of love And being loved, as truly as } T on palm The hope of seeing Egypt from that plot. Con. Heaven! Queen. But it was so, Constance, it was sp| IN A BALCONY. 211 Men say—or do men say it? fancies say— “ Stop here, your life is set, you are grown old. Too late—no love for you, too late for love— Leave love to girls. Be queen : let Constance love!” One takes the hint—half meets it like a child, Ashamed at any feelings that oppose. “ O love, true, never think of love again! I am a queen : I rule, not love, indeed.” So it goes on : so a face grows like this, Hair like this hair, poor arms as lean as these, Till,—nay, it does not end so, I thank God! Con. I cannot understand— Queen. The happier you! Constance, I know not how it is with men: For women (I am a woman now like you) There is no good of life but love—but love! What else looks good, is some shade Hung from love; Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me, Never you cheat yourself one instant! Love, Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest! O Constance, how I love you! Con. I love you. Queen. I do believe that all is come through you. I took you to my heart to keep it warm When the last chance of love seemed dead in me; I thought your fresh youth warmed my withered heart. Oh, I am very old now. am I not? Not so! it is true and it shall be true! Con. Tell it me: let me judge if true or false. Queen. Ah, but I fear you! you will look at me And say, “ She’s old, she’s grown unlovely quite Who ne’er was beauteous: men want beauty still.” Well, so I feared—the curse ! so I felt sure! Con. Be calm. And now you feel not sure, you say? Queen. Constance, he came,—the coming was not strange^- Do not I stand and see men come and go? I turned a half-look from my pedestal Where I grow marble—“ one young man the more! lie will love some one; that is naught to me: What would he with my marble stateliness? ” Yet this seemed somewhat worse than heretofore; The man more gracious, youthful, like a god, And I still older, with less flesh to change— We two those dear extremes that long to touch. It seemed still harder when he first began Absorbed to labor at the state-affairs The old way for the old end—interest. Oh, to live with a thousand beating hearts Around you, swift eyes, serviceable hands, Professing they’ve no care but for your cause, Thought but to help you, love but for yourself. And you the marble statue all the tim§ 212 IN A BALCONY. They praise and point at as preferred to life, Yet leave for the first breathing woman’s cheek, First dancer’s, gypsy’s, or street baladine’s ! Why, how I have ground my teeth to hear men’s speech Stifled for fear it should alarm my ear, Their gait subdued lest step should startle me, Their eyes declined, such queendom to respect, Their hands alert, such treasure to preserve, While not a man of them broke rank and spoke, Or wrote me a vulgar letter all of love, Or caught my hand and pressed it like a hand! There have been moments, if the sentinel Lowering his halbert to salute the queen, Had flung it brutally and clasped my knees, I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul. Con. Who could have comprehended? Queen. Ay, who—who? Why, uo one, Constance, but this one who did. Nor they, not you, not I. Even now perhaps It comes too late—would you but tell the truth. Con. I wait to tell it. Queen. Well, you see, he came. Outfaced the others, did a work this year Exceeds in value all was ever done, You know—it is not 1 who say it—all Say it. And so (a second pang and worse) I grew aware not only of what he did, But why so wondrously. Oh, never work Like his was done for work’s ignoble sake— It must have finer aims to lure it on ! I felt, I saw, he loved—loved somebody. And Constance, my dear Constance, do you know, I did believe this while ’twas you he loved. Con. Me, Madam? Queen. It did seem to me, your face Met him where’er he looked: and whom but you Was such a man to love? It seemed to me, You saw he loved you, and approved the love. And so you both were in intelligence. You could not loiter in the garden, step Into this balcony, but I straight was stung And forced to understand. It seemed so true, So right, so beautiful, so like you both, That all this work should have been done by him Not for the vulgar hope of recompense, But that at last—suppose, some night like this—■ Borne on to claim his due reward of me, He might say, “ Give her hand and pay me so.” And I (O Constance, you shall love me now!) I thought, surmounting all the bitterness, —“ And he shall have it. I will make her blest, My flower of youth, my woman’s self that was, Iw A BALCOAf. 213 My happiest woman’s self that might have been! These two shall have their joy and leave me here.” Yes—yes! Con. Thanks! Queen. And the word was on my lips When he burst in upon me. I looked to hear A mere calm statement of his just desire For payment of his labor. When—O heaven. How can I tell you? cloud was on my eyes And thunder in my ears at that first word Which told ’twas love of me, of me, did all— He loved me—from the first step to the last, Loved me! Con. Y r ou did not hear . . . you thought he spoke Of love? what if you should mistake? Queen. Ho, no— Ho mistake! Ha, there shall be no mistake! He had not dared to hint the love he felt— You were my refiex—(how I understood!) He said you were the ribbon I had worn, He kissed my hand, he looked into my ej^es; And love, love was the end of every phrase. Love is begun; this much is come to pass: The rest is easy. Constance, I am yours! I will learn, I will place my life on you, But teach me how to keep what I have won! Am I so old? This hair was early gray; But joy ere now has brought hair brown again, And joy will bring the cheek’s red back, I feel. I could sing once too; that was in my youth. Still, when men paint me, they declare me . . . yes. Beautiful—for the last French painter did! I know they flatter somewhat; you are frank—- I trust you. How I loved you from the first! Some queens would hardly seek a cousin out And set her by their side to take the eye; I must have felt that good would come from you. I am not generous—like him—like you! But he is not your lover after all: It was not you he looked at. Saw you him? You have not been mistaking words or looks? He said you were the reflex of myself. And yet he is not such a paragon To you, to younger women who may choose Among a thousand Horberts. Speak the truth! You know you never named his name to me— You know, I cannot give him up—all God, Hot up now, even to you! Con. Then calm yourself. Queen. See, I am old—look here, you happy girl! I will not play the fool, deceive myself; ’Tis all gone: you put your cheek beside my cheek— 214 IN' A BALCONY. Ah, wliat a contrast does the moon behold! But then I set my life upon one chance, The last chance and the best—am I not left, My soul, myself ? All women love great men, If young or old; it is in all the tales: Young beauties love old poets who can love— Why should not he, the poems in my soul, The love, the passionate faith, the sacrifice. The constancy? I throw them at his feet. Who cares to see the fountain’s very shape. And whether it be a Triton’s or a Nymph’s That pours the foam, makes rainbows all around? You could not praise indeed the empty couch; But I’ll pour floods of love and hide myself. IIow I will love him! Cannot men love love? Who was a queen and loved a poet once Humpbacked, a dwarf? ah, women can do that! Well, but men too: at least, they tell you so. They love so many women in their youth, And even in age they all love whom they please; And yet the best of them confide to friends That ’tis not beauty makes the lasting love— They spend a day with such and tire the next: They like soul,—w 7 ell then, they like fantasy, Novelty even. Let us confess the truth, Horrible though it be, that prejudice, Prescription . . . curses! they will love a queen, They will, they do: and will not, does not—he? Con. How can he? You are wedded: ’tis a name We know, but still a bond. Your rank remains, His rank remains. IIow can he, nobly souled As you believe and I incline to think, Aspire to be your favorite, shame and all? Queen. Hear her! There, there now—could she love like me? What did I say of smooth-cheeked youth and grace? See all it does or could do! so, youth loves! Oh, tell him, Constance, you could never do What I will—you, it was not born in! I Will drive the difficulties far and fast As yonder mists curdling before the moon. I’ll use my light too, gloriously retrieve My youth from its enforced calamity, Dissolve that hateful marriage, and be his, Ilis own in the eyes alike of God and man. Con. You will do—dare do . . . pause on what you say. Queen. Hear her! I thank you, sweet, for that surprise. You have the fair face: for the soul, see mine! I have the strong soul: let me teach you, here. I think I have borne enough and long enough. And patiently enough, the world remarks, To have my own way now, unblamed by all. It does so happen (I rejoice for it) I.N A BA LG DAY. 215 This most unhoped-for issue cuts the knot. There’s not a better way of settling claims Than this: God sends the accident express: And were it for my subjects’ good, no more, ’Twere best thus ordered. I am thankful now. Mute, passive, acquiescent. I receive, And bless God simply, or should almost fear To walk so smoothly to my ends at last. Why, how I baffle obstacles, spurn fate! How strong I am! Could Norbert see me now! Con. Let me consider! It is all too strange. Queen. You, Constance, learn of me; do you, like me I You are young, beautiful: my own, best girl, You will have many lovers, and love one— Light hair, not hair like Norbert’s, to suit yours. And taller than he is, for yourself are tall. Love him, like me! Give all away to him; Think never of yourself; throw by your pride, Hope, fear,—your own good as you saw it once, And love him simply for his very self Remember, I (and what am I to you?) Would give up all for one, leave throne, lose life, Do all but just unlove him! He loves me. Con. He shall. Queen. You, step inside my inmost heart! Give me your own heart: let us have one heart! I’ll come to you for counsel; “this he says, This he does; what should this amount to, pray? Beseech you, change it into current coin! Is that worth kisses? Shall I please him there? ” And then we’ll speak in turn of you—what else? You love, according to your beauty’s worth, For you shall have some noble love, all gold: Whom choose you? we will get him at your choice. —Constance, I leave you. Just a minute since, I felt as I must die or be alone Breathing my soul into an ear like yours: Now, I would face the world with my new T life, With my new crown. I’ll walk around the rooms, And then come back and tell you how it feels. How soon a smile of God can change the world! How we are made for happiness—how work Grows play, adversity a winning fight! True I have lost so many years: what then? Many remain: God has been very good. You, stay here! ’Tis as different from dreams, From the mind’s cold calm estimate of bliss, As these stone statues from the flesh and blood. The comfort thou hast caused mankind, God’s moon! {She goes out , leaving Constance. Dance-music from within.) Nokbert enters. A T 0 r, Well? we have but one minute and one word! 216 IN a balcony. Con. I am yours, Norbert! Nor. Yes, mine. Con. Not till now! You were mine. Now I give myself to you. Nor. Constance? Con. Your own! I know the thriftier way Of giving—haply, ’tis the wiser way. Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole Coin after coin out (each, as that were all, With a new largess still at each despair), And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve Exhaustless to the end my part and yours, My giving and your taking ; both our joys Dying together. Is it the wiser way? I choose the simpler : I give all at once. Know what you have to trust to, trade upon! Use it, abuse it,—anything but think Hereafter, “ Had I known she loved me so, And what my means, I might have thriven with it.” This is your means. I give you all myself. Nor. I take you and thank God, Con. Look on through years ! We cannot kiss, a second day like this; Else were this earth, no earth. Nor. With this day’s heat We shall go on through years of cold. Con. So, best! —I try to see those years—I think I see. You walk quick and new warmth comes : you look back And lay all to the first glow—not sit down Forever brooding on a day like this While seeing the embers whiten and love die. Yes, love lives best in its effect; and mine, Full in its own life, yearns to live in yours. Nor. Just so. I take and know you all at once. Your soul is disengaged so easily, Your face is there, I know you ; give me time, Let me be proud and think you shall know me. My soul is slower : in a life I roll The minute out whereto you condense yours— Th« whole slow circle round you I must move. To be just you. I look to a long life To decompose this minute, prove it worth. ’Tis the sparks’ long succession one by one Shall show you, in the end, what lire was crammed In that mere stone you struck : how could you know, If it lay ever unproved in your sight. As now my heart lies? your own warmth would hide Its coldness, were it cold. Con. But how prove, how? Nor. Prove in my life, you ask? Con. Quick, Norbert—how? IN A BALCONY. To try the soul’s strength on, educe the man. Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve. As with the body—he who hurls a lance Or heaps up stone on stone, shows strength alike, So I will seize and use all means to prove And show this soul of mine, you crown as yours, And justify us both. Con. Could you write books, Paint pictures! One sits down in poverty And writes or paints, with pity for the rich. Nor. And loves one’s painting and one’s writing, then. And not one’s mistress! All is best, believe. And we best as no other than we are. We live, and they experiment on life— Those poets, painters, all who stand aloof To overlook the farther. Let us be The thing they look at! I might take your face And write of it, and paint it,— to what end? For whom? what pale dictatress in the air Feeds, smiling sadly, her tine ghost-like form With earth’s real blood and breath, the beauteous life She makes despised forever? You are mine, Made for me, not for others in the world, Nor yet for that I should call my art, The cold calm power to see how fair you look. I come to you ; I leave you not to write Or paint You are, I am, let Rubens there Paint us! Con. So, best! Nor. I understand your soul. You live, and rightly sympathize with life, With action, power, success. This way is straight ; And time were short beside, to let me cliange The craft my childhood learnt: my craft shall serve. Men set me here to subjugate, enclose, Manure their barren lives, and force the fruit First for themselves, and afterward for me In the due tithe ; the task of some one man, Through wa}^s of work appointed by themselves. I am not bid create,—they see no star Transfiguring my brow to warrant that,—■ But bind in one and carry out their wills. So I began: to-night sees how I end. What if it see, too, my first outbreak here Amid the warmth, surprise, and sympathy. And instincts of the heart that teach the head? What if the people have discerned at length The dawn of the next nature, the new man Whose will they venture in the place of theirs, And who, they trust, shall find them out new ways To heights as new which yet he only sees? I felt it when you kissed me. See this Queen, 2 is IN A BALCONY. This people,— in our phrase, this mass of men,— See how the mass lies passive to my hand And liow my hand is plastic, and you by To make the muscles iron! Oh, an end Shall crown this issue as this crowns the first! My will be on this people! then, the strain, The grappling of the potter with his clay, The long, uncertain struggle,—the success And consummation of the spirit-work, Some vase shaped to the curl of the god’s lip. While rounded fair for lower men to see The Graces in a dance all recognize With turbulent applause and laughs of heart! So triumph ever shall renew itself; Ever shall end in efforts higher yet, Ever begin . . . Con. I ever helping? Nor. Thus! [As he embraces her, the Queen enters.] Con. Hist, madam! So I have performed my part. You see your gratitude’s true decency, Norbert? A little slow in seeing it! Begin to end the sooner ! Wliat’s a kiss? Nor. Constance ? Con. Why, must I teach it you again? You w T ant a witness to your dullness, sir? What was I saying these ten minutes long? Then I repeat!—when some young, handsome man Like you lias acted out a part like yours, Is pleased to fall in love with one beyond, So very far beyond him, as he says,— So hopelessly in love that but to speak Would prove him mad,—he thinks judiciously, And makes some insignificant good soul, Like me, his friend., adviser, confidant, And very stalking-horse to cover him In following after what he dares not face— When his end’s gained—(sir, do you understand?) When she, he dares not face, has loved him first, —May I not say so, madam?—tops his hope, And overpasses so his wildest dream, With glad consent of all, and most of her The confidant who brought the same about— Why, in the moment when such joy explodes, 1 do hold that the merest gentleman Will not start rudely from the stalking-horse, Dismiss it with a “ There, enough of } r ou? ” Forget it, show his back unmannerly; But like a liberal heart will rather turn And say, “ A tingling time of hope was ours; Betwixt the fears and falterings, we two lived A chanceful time in waiting for the prize; IN A BALCONY. 219 The confidant, the Constance, served not ill. And though I shall forget her in due time, Her use being answered now, as reason bids, Nay as herself bids from her heart of hearts,— Still, she has rights, the first thanks go to her, The first good praise goes to the prosperous tool, And the first—which is the last—rewarding kiss.” Nor. Constance, it is a dream—ah, see, you smile ! Cor. So, now his part being properly performed, Madam, I turn to you and finish mine As duly: I do justice in my turn. Yes, madam, he has loved you—long and well; He could not hope to tell you so—’twas I Who served to prove your soul accessible, I led his thoughts on, drew them to their place When else they had wandered out into despair, And kept love constant toward its natural aim. Enough, my part is played ; you stoop half-way And meet us royally and spare our fears: ’Tis like yourself. He thanks you, so do I. Take him—with my full heart ! my work is praised By what comes of it. Be you happy, both! Yourself—the only one on earth who can— Do all for him, much more than a mere heart Which though warm is not useful in its warmth As the silk vesture of a queen! fold that Around him gently, tenderly. For him— For him,—he knows his own part! Nor. Have you done? I take the jest at last. Should I speak now? Was yours the wager, Constance, foolish child, Or did you but accept it? Well—at least You lose by it. Con. Nay, madam, ’tis your turn! Restrain him still from speech a little more, And make him happier and more confident! Pity him, madam, he is timid yet! Mark, Norbert! Do not shrink now! Here I yield My whole right in you to the Queen, observe! With her go put in practice the great schemes You teem with, follow the career else closed— Behold her!—Madam, say for pity’s sake Any thing—frankly say you love him! Else He’ll not believe it: there’s more earnest in His fear than you conceive: I know the man! Nor. I know the woman somewhat, and confess I thought she had jested better : she begins To overcharge her part. I gravely wait Your pleasure, madam: where is my reward? Queen. Norbert, this wild girl (whom I recognize Scarce more than you do, in her fancy-fit, Eccentric speech, and variable mirth, 220 IN A BALCONY. Not very wise perhaps and somewhat bold, Yet suitable, the whole night’s work being strange) —May still be right: I may do M r ell to speak And make authentic what appears a dream To even myself. For what she says is truth. Yes, Norbert—what you spoke just now of love, Devotion, stirred no novel sense in me. But justilied a warmth felt long before. Yes, from the first—I loved you, I shall say: Strange! but I do grow stronger, now ’tis said. Your courage helps mine: you did well to speak To-night, the night that crowns your twelvemonths’ toil : But still I had not waited to discern Your heart so long, believe me! From the first The source of so much zeal was almost plain, In absence even of your own words just now Which opened out the truth. ’Tis very strange, But takes a happy ending—in your love Which mine meets: be it so! as you choose me. So I choose you. Nor. And worthily you choose. I will not be unworthy your esteem, No, madam. I do love you; I will meet Your nature, now I know it. This was well. I see,—you dare and you are justified: But none had ventured such experiment, Less versed than you in nobleness of heart, Less confident of finding such in me. I joy that thus you test me ere you grant The dearest, richest, beauteousest, and best Of women to my arms: ’tis like yourself. So—back again into my part’s set words— Devotion to the uttermost is yours, But no, you cannot, madam, even you, Create in me the love our Constance does. Or—something truer to the tragic phi as j— Not yon magnolia-bell superb with scent Invites a certain insect—that’s myself— But the small eye-flower nearer to the ground. I take this lady. Con. Stay—not hers, the trap— Stay, Norbert—that mistake were worst of all! He is too cunning, madam! It was I. I, Norbert, who . . . Nor. You, was it, Constance ? Then, But for the grace of this divinest hour Which gives me you, I might not pardon here! I am the Queen’s; she only knows mv brain: She may experiment therefore on my heart And 1 instruct her too by the result. But you, Sweet, you who know me, who so long IN A BALCONY. 221 Have told my heart-beats over, held my life In those white hands of yours,—it is not well! Con. Tush! I have said it, did I not say it all? The life, for her—the heart beats, for her sake! Nor. Enough! my cheek grows red, I think. Your test? There’s not the meanest woman in the world, Nor she 1 least could love in all the world, Whom, did she love me, did love prove itself, I dare insult as you insult me now. Constance, 1 could say, if it must be said, “ Take back the soul you offer, I keep mine!” But—“ Take the soul still quivering on your hand, The soul so offered, which 1 cannot use, And please you, give it to some playful friend, For—what’s the trifle he requites me with?” —I, tempt a woman, to amuse a man, That two may mock her heart if it succumb? No: fearing Cod and standing ’ncatli his heaven, I would not dare insult a woman so Where she the meanest woman in the world, And he, I cared to please, ten emperors! Con. Norbert! Nor. I love once as I live but once. What case is this to think or talk about? I love you. Would it mend the case at all Should such a step as this kill love in me? Your part were done: account to God for it! But mine—could murdered love get up again. And kneel to whom you please to designate. And make you mirth? It is too horrible. You did not know this, Constance? now you know That body and soul have each one life, but one; And here’s my love, here, living, at your feet. Con. See the Queen! Norbert—this one more last word— If thus you have taken jest for earnest—thus Loved me in earnest . . . A or. Ah, no jest holds here! Where is the laughter in which jest breaks up, And what this horror that grows palpable? Madam—why grasp you thus the balcony? Have I done ill? Have I not spoken truth? How could I other? Was it not your test, To try me, what my love for Constance meant? Madam, your royal soul itself approves, The first, that 1 should choose thus! so one takes A beggar,—asks him, what would buy his child? And then approves the expected laugh of scorn Returned as something noble from the rags. Speak, Constance, I'm the beggar! Ha, what’s this? You two glare each at each like panthers now. Constance, the world fades: only you stand there! You did not, in to-night’s wild whirl of things, 999 Sh si si OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. Sell me—your soul of souls, for any price? No—no—’tis easy to believe in you! Was it your love’s mad trial to o’ertop Mine by this vain self-sacrifice? well, still— Though I should curse, I love you. I am love And cannot change: love’s self is at your feet! [ The Queen goes out. Con. Feel my heart: let it die against your own! Nor. Against my own. Explain not: let this be! This is life’s height. Con. Yours, yours, yours! Nor. You and I— Why care by what meanders we are here I’ the center of the labyrinth? Men have died Trying to find this place, which we have found. Con. Found', found! Nor. Sweet, never fear what she can dol We are past harm now. Con. On the breast of God. I thought of men—as if you were a man. Tempting him with a crown! Nor. This must end here: It is too perfect. Con. There’s the music stopped. What measured heavy tread? It is one blaze About me and within me. Nor. Oh, some death Will run its sudden fingers round this spark And sever us from the rest! Con. And so do well. Now the doors open. Nor. ’Tis the guard comes. Con. Kiss? OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. i. The morn when first it thunders in March, The eel in the pond gives a leap, the} say. As T lean, d and looked over the aloed arch Of the villa-gate this warm March day, No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled In the valley beneath where, white and wide And washed by the morning water- gold, Florence lay out on the mountain side. IT. River and bridge and street and square Lay mine, as much at my beck and call, Through the live translucent bath of air, As the sights in a magic crystal-half. And of all I saw and of all I praised, The most to praise and the best to see Was the startling bell-tower Giotto raised: But why did it more than startle me? hi. Giotto, how, with that soul of yours, OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 223 Could you play me false who loved you so? Some slights if a certain heart endures Yet it feels, I would have you fel¬ lows know! I’ faith, I perceive not why I should care To break a silence that suits them best, But the thing grows somewhat hard to bear When I find a Giotto join the rest. IV. On the arch where olives overhead Print the blue sky with twig and leaf (That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed), ’Twixt the aloes, I used to learn in chief. And mark through the wdnter after¬ noons, By a gift God grants me now and then, In the mild decline of those suns like moons, Who walked in Florence, besides her men. v. They might chirp and chaffer, come and go For pleasure or profit, her men alive— My business was hardly with them, I trow, But with empty cells of the human hive; —With the chapter-room, the cloister- porch, The cliurcn’s apsis, aisle or nave, Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch, Its face set full for the sun to shave. YI. Wherever a fresco peels and drops, Wherever an outline weakens and wanes Till the latest life in the painting stops, Stands One whom each fainter pulse- tick pains: One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick, Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster, —A lion who dies of an ass’s kick, The wronged great soul of an an¬ cient Master. YII. For oh, this w r orld and the wrong it does! They are safe in heaven with their backs to it, The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum and buzz Round the works of, you of the little wit! Do their eyes contract to the earth’s old scope, Now that they see God face to face, And have all attained to be poets, I hope? ’Tis their holiday now, in any case. VIII. Much they reck of your praise and you! But the wronged great souls—can they be quit Of a world where the ir work is all to do, Where you style them, you of the little wit, Old Master This and Early the Other, Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows: A younger succeeds to an elder brother, Da Vincis derive in good time from Dellos. IX. And here where your praise might yield returns, And a handsome word or two give help, Here, after your kind, the mastiff girns, And the puppy pack of poodles yelp. What, not a word for Stefano there. Of brow once prominent and starry, 224 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. Called Nature’s Ape and tlie world’s despair For his peerless painting? (see Va¬ sari.) x. There stands the Master. Study, my friends, What a man’s work comes to! So he plans it, Performs it, perfects it, makes amends For the toiling and moiling, and then, sic transit! Happier the thrifty blind folk labor, With upturned eye while the hand is busy, Not sidling a glance at the coin of tlieir neighbor! ’Tis looking downward makes one dizzy. XI. “ If you knew their work you would deal your dole.” May I take upon me to instruct you? When Greek Art ran and reached the goal, Thus much had the world to boast infructu — The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken, Which the actual generations garble. Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken) And limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble. XII. So, you saw yourself as you wished you were, As you might have been, as you cannot be; "Earth here,, rebuked by Olympus there: And grew content in your poor degree With your little power, by those statues’ godhead, And your little scope, by their eyes’ full sway, And your little grace, by their graee embodied, And your little date, by tlieir forms that stay. XIII. You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am? Even so, you will not sit like Theseus. You would prove a model? The Son of Priam Has yet the advantage in arms’ and knees’ use. You’re wroth—can you slay your snake like Apollo? You’re grieved—still Niobe’s the grander! You live—there’s the Racers’ frieze to follow: You die—there’s the dying Alex¬ ander. XIY. So, testing your weakness by their strength, Your meager charms by their rounded beauty, Measured by Art in your breadth and length, You learned—to submit is a mortal’s duty. —When I say “you,” ’tis the common soul, The collective, I mean: the race of Man That receives life in parts to live in a whole, And grow here according to God’s clear plan. XY. Growth came when, looking your last on them all, You turned your eyes inwardly one fine day And cried with a start—What if we so small Be greater and grander the while than they? Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature? In both, of such lower types are we Precisely because of our wider nature For time, theirs—ours, for eternity. XYI. To-day’s brief passion limits tlieir I range; OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 225 It seethes with the morrow for us and more. They are perfect—how else? they shall never change: We are faulty—why not ? we have time in store. The Artificer’s hand is not arrested With us; we are rougli-hewn, nowise polished. They stand for our copy, and, once invested With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished. XVII. ’Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven—- The better! What’s come to perfec¬ tion perishes. Things learned on earth, we shall practice in heaven: Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes. Thyself slialt afford the example, Giotto! Thy one work not to decrease or diminish, Done at a stroke, was just (was it not?) “O” Thy great Campanile is still to finish. XVIII. Is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter, But what and where depend on life’s minute? Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laugh¬ ter Our first step out of the gulf or in it? Shall Man, such step within his en¬ deavor, Man’s face, have no more play and action Than joy which is crystallized forever, Or grief, an eternal petrifaction? XIX. On which I conclude, that tlie early painters, To cries of “ Greek Art and what more wish you ? ”— Replied, “ To become now self-ac- quainters. And paint man, man, whatever the issue! Mane new hopes shine through the flesh they fray, New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters: To bring the invisible full into play, Let the visible go to the dogs—what matters? ” XX. Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory For daring so much, before the? well did it. The first of the news in our race’s story, Beats the last of the old; ’tis no idl* quiddit. The worthies began a revolution, Which if on earth you intend to ao knowledge, Why, honor them now! (ends my alio cution) Nor confer your degree when th* folks leave college. XXI. There’s a fancy some lean to and other# hate— That, when this life is ended, begins New work for the soul in another state, Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins: Where the strong and the weak, thia world’s congeries, Repeat in large what they practiced in small, Through life after life in unlimited series; Only the scale’s to be changed, that’s all. XXII. Yet I hardly know. When a soul ha* seen By the means of Evil that Good i# best, And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven’s serene,— When our faith in the same has stood the test— Why, the child grown man, you burr the rod, 226 OLD PICTURES m FLORENCE. The uses of labor are surely done; There remainetli a rest for the people of God: And I have had troubles enough, for one. XXIIT. But at any rate I have loved the sea¬ son Of Art’s spring-birth so dim and dewy: My sculptor is Nicola the Pisan, My painter—who butCimabue? Nor even was man of them all indeed, From these to Ghiberti and Gliir- landajo, Could say that lie missed my critic- meed. So, now to my special grievance— heigh-ho! XXIV. Their ghosts still stand, as I said be¬ fore, Watching each fresco flaked and rasped, Blocked up, knocked out, or white¬ washed o’er: —No getting again what the Church has grasped! The works on the wall must take their chance; “Works never conceded to En¬ gland’s thick clime!” (1 hope they prefer their inheritance Of a bucketful of Italian quick¬ lime.) xxv. When they go at length, with such a shaking Of heads o’er llie old delusion, sadly Each master his way through the black streets taking, Where many a lost work breathes though badly— Why don’t they bethink them of who has merited? Why not reveal, while their pictures dree Such doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted ? Why is it they never remember me? XXVI. Not that I expect the great Bigordi, Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose; Nor the wronged Lippino; and rot a word I Say of a scrap of Fra Angelico’s: But are you too tine, Taddeo Gaddi, To grant me a taste of your intonaco, Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye? Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Mo¬ naco? XXVII. Could not the ghost with the close red cap, My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman, Save me a sample, give me the hap Of a muscular Christ that shows the draughtsman? No Virgin by him the somewhat petty, Of finical touch and tempera crumbly— Could not Alesso Baldovinetti Contribute so much, I ask him humbly ? XXVIII. Marglieritone of Arezzo, With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret (Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so, You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?) Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion, Where in the foreground kneels the donor? If such remain, as is myconvicti m, The hoarding it does you but little honor. XXIX. They pass ; for them the panels may thrill, The tempera grow alive and tin- glish: Their pictures are left tothemucies still Of dealers and stealers, Jev « and the English, 22 ) OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. Who, seeing moro money’s worth in their prize, Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno At naked High Art, and in ecstasies Before some clay-cold vile Carlino! XXX. No matter for these! But Giotto, you, Have you allowed, as the town- tongues babble it— Oh, never! it shall not be counted true — That a certain precious little tablet Which Buonarroti eyed like a lover, Was buried so long in oblivion’s womb And, left for another than I to dis¬ cover, Turns up at last! and to whom*?— to whom? XXXI. I, that have haunted the dim San Spirito, (Or was it rather the Ognissanti?) Patient on altar-step planting a weary toe! Nay, I shall have it yet! Detur am anti! My Koh-i-noor—or (if that’s a plati¬ tude) Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Sob’s e} T e: So, in anticipative gratitude, What if I take up my hope and prophesy? XXXII. When the hour grows ripe, and a cer¬ tain dotard Is pitched, no parcel that needs in¬ voicing, To the worst side of the Mont St. Got hard, We shall begin by way of rejoicing ; Noneof that shooting the skv (blank cartridge), Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer, Hunting Kadetzky’s soul like a par¬ tridge Over Morello with squib and cracker. XXXIII. I his time we’ll shoot better game and bag ’em hot: No more display at the stone of Dante, But a kind of sober Witanagemot (Ex: “ Casa Guidi,” quod videos ante) Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to Florence, How Art may return that departed with her. Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine’s, And bring us the days of Orgagna hither! XXXIV. How we t shall prologuize, how wo shall perorate, Utter lit tliingsupon art and history, Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood . at zero-rate, Make of the want of the age no mystery; Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras, Show—monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks Out of I lie bear’s shape into Chimsera’s, While Pure Art’s birth is still the republic’s! XXXV. Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan, Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an “ issimo”), To end now our lmlf-told tale of Cam- buscan, And turn the bell-tower’s alt to altissimo: And, tine as the beak of a young beccaccia, The Campanile, the Puomo-’sfit ally, Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccria, Completing Florence, as Florence, Italy. XXXVI. Shall I be alive that morning the scaf¬ fold Is broken away, and the long-pent fire. 228 BISHOP BLOUGPAM'S APOLOGY. Like the golden hope of the world, unbaflied Springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire, While, “God and the People’’ plain for its motto, Thence the new tricolor flaps at the sky ? At least to foresee that glory of Giotto And Florence together, the first am I! Note.— The 8pace left here ^erupts to a word on the line about Apollo the snake- slayer, which my trend Professor Colvin condemns, believing that the God of the Belvedere grasps no bow, but tiie iEgis, as described in the 15th Iliad. Surely the text represents that portentuus object (bovpiv , deivij>v, aptyAaceiav, apnrpcTre ’ — pappa- perjv) & s “shaken violently ” or “held im¬ movably ” by both hands, not a single one, and that the left hand: akka ab y' ev xelpecoi kafi' alytda 6vaa - voeacav Tpv paK etucoe'uvv £* 0 and so on, jyv ap' o y’ ev xeipeocuv ex^v — X^polv ex' arpepa, k. t. I. Moreover, while he shouk it he “ shouted enormously,” aelo\ £7 tI 6' clvt'oq avcse paka peya, which the statue does not. Preseutly when Teulc- ros, on the other side, plies the bow, it is ro^ov itxuv ev X ei P L nakivTovov. Besides, by the act of dn-charg ng an arrow, the right arm and hand are thrown b- ck as we see,— a quite gratuitous and theatrical display in the case supposed. The conjecture of Flax- man that the statue was suggested by the bronze Apollo Alexikakos of Kalamis, men¬ tioned by Pausanias, remains probable ; though the “ hardness ” which Cicero con¬ siders to distinguish the artist’s workmanship from that of Muron is n- t by any means ap¬ parent in our marble copy, if it be one.— Feb. 16, 1880. BISHOP BLOUGRAM’S APOLOGY. No more wine? then we’ll push back chairs and talk. A final glass forme, though: cool, i’ faith! We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. It’s different, preaching in basilicas, And doing duty in some masterpiece Like this of brother Pugin’s, bless his heart! I doubt if they’re half baked, those chalk rosettes. Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere; It’s just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh? These hot, long ceremonies of our Church Cost us a little—oh, they pay the price, You take me—amply pay it! Now we’ll talk. So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs. No deprecation,—nay, I beg you, sir! Besides ’tis our engagement: don’t you know, I promised, if you’d watch a dinner out. We’d see truth dawn together?—truth that peeps Over the glass’s edge when dinner’s done, And body gets its sop and holds its noise, And leaves soul free a little. Now’s the time : ’Tis break of day! You do despise me then. And if I say, “ despise me,”—never fear! I know you do not in a certain sense— Not in my arm-chair, for example: here. I will imagine you respect my place (Status, entourage , worldly circumstance) BISHOP BLOUGH AM’S APOLOGY. 220 Quite to its value—very much indeed: —Are up to the protesting eyes of you In pride at being seated here for once— You’ll turn it to such capital account! When somebody, through years and years to come, Hints of the bishop,—names me—that’s enough: “ Blougram? I knew him”—(into it you slide) “ Dined with him once, a Corpus Cliristi Day, All alone, we too; lie’s a clever man: And after dinner,—why, the wine you know,— Oh, there was wine, and good!—what with the wine . . ’Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk! He’s no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen Something of mine he relished, some review: He’s quite above their humbug in his heart, Half said as much, indeed—the thing’s his trade. I warrant, Blougram’s sceptical at times, How otherwise? I like him, I confess!” Che che, my dear sir, as we say at Rome, Don’t you protest now! It’s fair give and take; You have had your turn, and spoken your home-truths: The hand’s mine now, and here you follow suit. Thus much conceded, still the first fact stays— You do despise me; your ideal of life Is not the bishop’s: you would not be I. You would like better to be Goethe, now, Or Buonaparte, or, bless me, lower still, Count D’Orsay,—so you did what you preferred, Spoke as you thought, and, as you cannot help, Believed or disbelieved, no matter what, So long as on that point, whate’er it was, You loosed your mind, were whole and sole yourself. —That, my ideal never can include, Upon that element of truth and worth Never be based! for say they make me Pope (They can’t—suppose it for our argument), Why, there I’m at my tether’s end, I’ve reached My height, and not a height which pleases you: An unbelieving Pope won’t do, you say. It’s like those eerie stories nurses tell, Of how some actor played Death on a stage. With pasteboard crown, sham orb, and tinseled dart, And called himself the monarch of the world; Then, going in the tire-room afterward, Because the play was done, to shift himself, Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly, The moment he had shut the closet door, By Death himself. Thus God might touch a Pope At unawares, ask what his baubles mean, And whose part he presumed to play just now? Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true! ‘2 30 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. So, drawing comfortable breath again, You weigh and find, whatever more or less I boast of my ideal realized, Is nothing in the balance when opposed To your ideal, your grand simple life. Of which you will not realize one jot. I am much, you are nothing: you would be all. I would be merely much: you beat me there. No, friend, you do not beat me: hearken why! The common problem, yours, mine, every one’s. Is—not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be,—but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair Up to our means: a very different thing! No abstract intellectual plan of life Quite irrespective of life’s plainest laws, But one, a man, who is man and nothing more. May lead within a world which (by your leave) Is Rome or London, not Fool’s-paradise. Embellish Rome, idealize away, Make paradise of London if you can, You’re welcome, nay, you’re wise. A simile! We mortals cross the ocean of this world Each in his average cabin of a life; The best’s not big, the worst yields elbow T -room. Now for our six-months’ voyage—how prepare? You come on shipboard with a landsman’s list Of things he calls convenient: so they are! An India screen is pretty furniture, A piano-forte is a fine resource, All Balzac’s novels occupy one shelf, The new edition fifty volumes long; And little Greek books, with the funny type They get up well at Leipsic, fill the next: Go on! slabbed marble, what a bath it makes! And Parma’s pride, the Jerome, let us add! ’Twere pleasant could Correggio’s fleeting glow Hang full in face of one where’er one roams, Since he more than the others brings with him Italy’s self,—the marvelous Modenese! Yet was not on your list before, perhaps -—Alas, friend! here’s the agent . . . is’t the name? The captain, or whoever’s master here— You see him screw his face up; what’s his cry Ere you set foot on shipboard? “ Six feet square!” If you won’t understand what six feet mean, Compute and purchase stores accordingly— And if, in pique because he overhauls Your Jerome, piano and bath, you come on board BISIIOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 231 Bare—why, you cut a figure at the first While sympathetic landsmen see you off; Not afterward, when long ere half seas over, You peep up from your utterly naked boards Into some snug and well-appointed berth. Like mine for instance (try the cooler jug— Put back the other, but don’t jog the ice!) And mortified you mutter “ Well and good; He sits enjoying his sea-furniture; ’Tis stout and proper, and there’s store of it: Though I’ve the better notion, all agree, Of fitting rooms up. Hang the carpenter, Neat ship-shape fixings and contrivances— I would have brought my Jerome, frame and all! ” And meantime you bring nothing; never mind— You’ve proved your artist-nature: what you don’t You might bring, so despise me, as I say. Now come, let’s backward to the starting-place. See my way: we’re two college friends, suppose. Prepare together for our voyage, then; Each note and check the other in his work,— Here’s mine, a bishop’s outfit; criticise! What’s wrong? why won’t you be a bishop too? Why first, you don’t believe, you don’t and can’t (Not statedly, that is, and fixedly And absolutely and exclusively). In any revelation called divine. No dogmas nail your faith; and what remains But say so, like the honest man you are? First therefore, overhaul theology! Nay, I too, not a fool, you please to think, Must find believing every whit as hard: And if I do not frankly say as much, The ugly consequence is clear enough. Now wait, my friend: well, I do not believe— If you’ll accept no faith that is not fixed. Absolute and exclusive, as you say. You’re wrong—I mean to prove it in due time. Meanwhile, i know where difficulties lie I could not, can not solve, nor ever shall, . So give up hope accordingly to solve— (To you, and over the wine). Our dogmas than With both of us, though in unlike degree, Missing full credence—overboard with them! I mean to meet you on your own premise: Good, there go mine in company with yours! And now what arc we? unbelievers both. Calm, and complete, determinately fixed Ooq U * / BISHOP PLOUGH AM^ APOLOGY To-day, to-morrow, and forever, pray? Ton'll guarantee me that? Not so, I think! In no wise! all we’ve gained is, that belief, As unbelief before, shakes us by fits, Confounds us like its predecessor. Where’s The gain? how can we guard our unbelief, Make it bear fruit to us?—the problem here. Just when we are safest, there’s a sunset-touch, A fancy from a flower-bell, some one’s death, A chorus-ending from Euripides,— And that’s enough for fifty hopes and fears As old and new at once as nature’s self, To rap and knock and enter in our soul, Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring, Round the ancient idol, on his base again,— The grand Perhaps! We look on helplessly. There the old misgivings, crooked questions are— This good God,—what he could do, if he would, Would, if he could—then must have done long since: If so, when, where, and how? some way must be,— Once feel about, and soon or late you hit Some sense, in which it might be, after all. Why not “The Way, the Truth, the Life”: That way Over the mountain, which who stands upon Is apt to doubt if it be indeed a road: While if he views it from the waste itself, Up goes the line there, plain from base to brow, Not vague, mistakable! what’s a break or two Seen from the unbroken desert either side? And then (to bring in fresh philosophy) What if the breaks themselves should prove at last The most consummate of contrivances To train a man’s eye, teach him what is faith? And so we stumble at truth’s very test! All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white,—we call it black, “ Well,” you rejoin, “ the end’s no worse, at least; We’ve reason for both colors on the board: Why not confess then, where I drop the faith And you the doubt, that I’m as right as you? ” Because, friend, in the next place, this being so, And both things even.—faith and unbelief Left to a man’s choice,—we’ll proceed a step, Returning to our image, which 1 like. A man’s choice, yes—but a cabin passenger’s— The man made for the special life o’ the world— BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 233 Do you forget him? I remember though! Consult our ship’s conditions and you find One and but one choice suitable to all; The choice, that you unluckily prefer, Turning things topsy-turvy—they or it Going to the ground. Belief or unbelief Bears upon life, determines its whole course, Begins at its beginning. See the world Such as it is,—you made it not, nor I; I mean to take it as it is,—and you, Not so you’ll take it,—though you get naught else. I know the special kind of life I like, What suits the most my idiosyncrasy, Brings out the best of me and bears me fruit In power, peace, pleasantness, and length of da} r s. I find that positive belief does this, For me, and unbelief, no whit of this. —For you, it does, however?—that, we’ll try! ’Tis clear, I cannot lead my life, at least, Induce the world to let me peaceably, Without declaring at the outset, “ Friends, j I absolutely and peremptorily Believe!”—I say, faith is my waking life; One sleeps, indeed, and dreams at intervals, We know, but waking’s the main point with us. And my provision’s for life’s waking part. Accordingly, I use heart, head, and hand All day, I build, scheme, study, and make friends; And when night overtakes me, down I lie, Sleep, dream a little, and get done with it, The sooner the better, to begin afresh. What’s midnight doubt before the dayspring’s faith? You, the philosopher, that disbelieve, That recognize the night, give dreams their weight— To be consistent you should keep your bed, Abstain from healthy acts that prove you man, For fear you drowse perhaps at unawares! And certainly at night you’ll sleep and dream, Live through the day and bustle as you please. And so you live to sleep as I to wake, To unbelieve as I to still believe ? Well, and the common sense o’ the world calls you Bed-ridden,—and its good things come to me. Its estimation, which is half the fight, That’s the first-cabin comfort I secure: The next . . . but you perceive with half an eyel Come, it’s best believing, if we may; You can’t but own that 1 Next, concede again If once we choose belief, on all accounts We can’t be too decisive in our faith, 234 msiwi> blougham's apology. Conclusive and exclusive in its terms, To suit the world which gives us the good things. In every man’s career are certain points Whereon he dares not be indifferent; The world detects him clearly, if he dare. As baffled at the game, and losing life. He may care little or he may care much % For riches, honor, pleasure, work, repose. Since various theories of life and life’s Success are extant which might easily Comport with either estimate of these; And whoso chooses wealth or poverty, Labor or quiet, is not judged a fool Because his fellow would choose otherwise: We let him choose upon his own account So long as he’s consistent with his choice. But certain points, left wholly to himself, When once a man has arbitrated on, We say he must succeed there or go hang. Thus, he should wed the woman he loves most Or needs most, whatsoe’er the love or need— For he can’t wed twice. Then, he must avouch. Or follow, at the least, sufficiently, The form of faith his conscience holds the best, Wliate’er the process of conviction was: For nothing can compensate his mistake On such a point the man himself being judge-, lie cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul. Well now, there’s one great form of Christian faith I happened to be born in—which to teach Was given me as I grew up, on all hands, As best and readiest means of living by; The same on examination being proved The most pronounced moreover, fixed, precise And absolute form of faith in the whole world— Accordingly, most potent of all forms For working on the world. Observe, my friend! Such as you know me, I am free to say, In these hard latter days which hamper one, Myself—by no immoderate exercise Of intellect and learning, but the tact To let external forces work for me, —Bid the street’s stones be bread and they are bread; Bid Peter’s creed, or rather, Hildebrand’s, Exalt me o’er my fellows in the world And make my life an ease and joy and pride: It does so,—which for me’s a great point gained. Who have a soul and body that exact A comfortable care in many ways. There’s power in me and will to dominate Which I must exercise, they hurt me else: BISHOP BIO (TO RAM’S APOLOGY. 235 In many ways I need mankind’s respect, Obedience, and the love lliat’s born of fear: While at the same time, there’s a taste I have, A toy of soul, a titillating thing, Refuses to digest these dainties crude. The naked life is gross till clothed upon: I must take what men offer, with a grace As though I would not, could not help it, take! An uniform I wear though over-rich— Something imposed on me, no choice of mine; No fancy dress worn for pure fancy’s sake And despicable therefore! now folks kneel And kiss my hand—of course the Church’s hand. Thus I am made, thus life is best for me, And thus that it should be I have procured; And thus it could not be another way, I venture to imagine. You’ll reply, So far my choice, no doubt, is a success; But were I made of better elements, With nobler instincts, purer tastes like you, I hardly would account the thing success Though it did all for me I say. But, friend, We speak of what it is; not of what might be, And how ’twere better if ’twere otherwise. I am the man you see here plain enough: Grant I’m a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts’ lives! Suppose I own at once to tail and claws; The tailless man exceeds me; but being tailed I’ll lash out lion fashion, and leave apes To dock their stump and dress their haunches up. My business is not to remake myself, But make the absolute best of what God made. Or—our first simile—though you prove me doomed To a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole, The sheep-pen or the pig-sty, I should strive To make what use of each were possible; And as this cabin gets upholstery, That hutch should rustle with sufficient straw. But, friend, I don’t acknowledge quite so fast I fail of all your manhood’s lofty tastes Enumerated so complacently, On the mere ground that you forsooth can find In this particular life 1 choose to lead No tit provision for them. Can you not? Say you, my fault is I address myself To grosser estimators than should judge? Anil that’s no way of holding up the soul. 233 BISHOP BROUGHAM'S APOLOGY. Which, nobler, needs men’s praise perhaps, yet knows One wise man’s verdict outweighs all the fools’— Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that, I pine among my million imbeciles (You think) aware some dozen men of sense Eye me and know me, whether I believe In the last winking Virgin, as I vow, And am a fool, or disbelieve in her And am a knave,—approve in neither case, Withhold their voices though I look their way: Like Verdi when, at his worst opera’s end (The thing they gave at Florence—what’s its name?) While the mad houseful’s plaudits near out-bang II is orchestra of salt-box, tongs and bones, lie looks through all the roaring and the wreaths Where sits Rossini patient in his stall. Kay, friend, I meet you with an answer here— That even your prime men who appraise their kind Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, See more in a truth than the truth’s simple self, Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the street Sixty the minute; what’s to note in that? You see one lad o’erstrkle a chimney-stack; Him you must watch—he’s sure to fall, yet stands! Our interest’s on the dangerous ends of things, The honest thief, the tender murderer, The superstitious atheist, demirep That loves and saves her soul in new French books— We watch while these in equilibrium keep The giddy line midway: one step aside, They’re classed and done with. I, then, keep the line Before your sages,—just the men to shrink From the gross weights, coarse scales, and labels broad You olfer their refinement. Fool, or knave? Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave When there’s a thousand diamond weights between? So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve, you’ll find, Profess themselves indignant, scandalized At thus being held unable to explain How a superior man who disbelieves May not believe as well: that’s Schelling’s way! It’s through my coming in the tail of time, Kicking the minute with a happy tact. Had I been born three hundred years ago They’d say, “ What’s strange? Blougram of course believest’ And, seventy years since, “ disbelieves of course.” But now, “He may believe; and yet, and yet How can he?” Ail eyes turn with interest. Whereas, step oil the line on either side— You, for example, clever to a fault. The rough and. ready man who write apace, f BISHOP BIOUGBAM'S APOLOGY. 237 Read somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less— You disbelieve! Who wonders and who cares? Lord So-and-so—his coat bedropped with wax, All Peter’s chains about his waist, his back Brave with the needlework of Noodledom— Believes! Again, who wonders and who cares? But I, the man of sense and learning too, The able to think yet act, the this, the that, I, to believe at this late time of day! Enough; you see, I need not fear contempt. —Except it’s yours! Admire me as these may, You don’t. But whom at least do you admire? Present your own perfection, your ideal, You pattern man for a minute—oh, make haste! Is it Napoleon you would have us grow? Concede the means; allow his head and hand (A large concession, clever as you are), Good! In our common primal element Of unbelief (we can’t believe, you know— We’re still at that admission, recollect!) Where do you find—apart from, towering o’er The secondary temporary aims Which satisfy the gross taste you despise— Where do you find his star?—his crazy trust God knows through what or in what? it’s alive And shines and leads him, and that’s all we want. Have we aught in our sober night shall point Such edds as his were, aud direct the means Of working out our purpose straight as his, Nor bring a moment’s trouble on success With after-care to justify the same? —Be a Napoleon and yet disbelieve— Why, the man’s mad, friend, take his light away! What’s the vague good o’ the world, for which you dare With comfort to yourself blow millions up? We neither of us see it! we do see The blown-up millions—spatter of their brains And writhing of their bowels and so forth, In that bewildering entanglement Of horrible eventualities Past calculation to the end of time! Can I mistake for some clear word of God (Which were my ample warrant for it all) Ilis puff of hazy instinct, idle talk, The State, that’s I,” quack-nonsense about crowns, And (when one beats the man to his last hold) A vague idea of setting things to rights, Policing people efficaciously, More to their profit, most of all to his own; The whole to end that dismalest of ends By an Austrian marriage, cant to us the Church, And resurrection of the old regime? 238 BISHOP BLOUGRAM’S APOLOGY,\ Would I, who hope to live a dozen years-. Fight Austerlitz for reasons such and such? No: for, concede me but the merest chance Doubt may be wrong—there’s judgment, life to come! With just that chance, I dare not. Doubt proves right? This present life is all?—you offer me Its dozen noisy years, without a chance That wedding an arch-duchess, wearing lace. And getting called by divers new-coined names, Will drive off ugly thoughts and let me dine, Sleep, read, and chat in quiet as I like! Therefore I will not. Take another case, Fit up the cabin yet another way. What say you to the poets? shall we write Hamlet, Othello—make the world our own, Without a risk to run of either sort? I can’t!—to put the strongest reason first. “ But try,” you urge, “the trying shall suffice; The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!” Spare my self-knowledge—there’s no fooling me! If I prefer remaining my poor self, I say so not in self-dispraise but praise. If I’m a Shakespeare, let the well alone; Why should I try to be what now I am? If I’m no Shakespeare, as too probable,— His power and consciousness and self-delight And all we want in common, shall I find— Trying forever? while on points of taste Wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and I Are dowered alike—I’ll ask you, I or he, Which in our two lives realizes most? Much, he imagined: somewhat, I possess. He had the imagination; stick to that! Let him say, “ In the face of my soul’s works Your world is worthless and I touch it not Lest I should wrong them ”—I’ll withdraw my plea. But does he say so? look upon his life! Himself, who only can, gives judgment there. He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces To build the trimmest house in Stratford town; Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, Giulio Romano’s pictures, Dowland’s lute; Enjoys a show, respects the puppets too, And none more, had he seen its entry once, Than “Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal.” Why then should I who play that personage, The very Pandulph Shakspeare’s fancy made, Be told that had the poet chanced to start From where I stand now (some degree like mine BISHOP BLOVORAM'S APOLOGY. 239 Being just the goal lie ran his race to reach) He would have run the whole race back, forsooth, And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays? Ah, the earth’s best can be but the earth’s best! Did Sliakspeare live, he could but sit at home And gets himself in dreams the Vatican, Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, And English books, none equal to his own, Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). —Terni’s fall, Naples’ bay, and Got hard’s top— Eh, friend? I could not fancy one of these; But, as I pour this claret, there they are; I’ve gained them—crossed St. Gothard last July With ten mules to the carriage and a bed Slung inside; is my hap the worse for that? We want the same things, Shakespeare and myself, And what I want, I have: he, gifted more, Could fancy he too had it when he liked, But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed, He would not have it also in my sense. We play one game; I send the ball aloft No less adroitly that of fifty strokes Scarce five go o’er the wall so wide and high Which sends them back to me: I wish and get. He struck balls higher and with better skill, But at a poor fence level with his head. And hit—his Stratford houses, a coat of arms, Successful dealings in his grain and wool: While I receive heaven’s incense in my nose. And style myself the cousin of Queen Bess. Ask him, if this life’s all, who wins the game? Believe—and our whole argument breaks up. Enthusiasm’s the best thing, I repeat; Only, we can’t command it; fire and life Are all, dead matter’s nothing, we agree: And be it a mad dream or God’s very breath, The fact’s the same,—belief’s fire, once in us, Makes of all else mere stuff to show itself: We penetrate our life with such a glow As fire lends wood and iron—this turns steel, That burns to ash—all’s one, fire proves its power For good or ill, since men call flare success. But paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. Light one in me. I’ll find it food enough! Why, to be Luther—that’s a life to lead, Incomparably better than my own. He comes, reclaims God’s earth for God, he says. Sets up God’s rule again by simple means, Re-opens a shut book, and all is done. He flared out in the flaring of mankind; Such Luther’s luck was: how shall.such be mine? 240 BISHOP BLOB OR AM'S APOLOGY. If he succeeded, nothing’s left to do; And if he did not altogether—well, Strauss is the next advance. All Strauss should be I might be also. But to what result? He looks upon no future: Luther did. What can I gain on the denying side? Ic 3 makes no conflagration. State the facts. Head the text right, emancipate the world— The emancipated world enjoys itself With scarce a thank-you: Blougram told it first It could not owe a farthing,—not to him More than Saint Paul! ’Twould press its pay, you think? Then add there’s still that plaguey hundredth chance Strauss may be wrong! And so a risk is run— For what gain? not for Luther’s, who secured A real heaven in his heart throughout his life, Supposing death a little altered things. “ Ay, but since really you lack faith,” you cry, “ You run the same risk really on all sides, In cool indifference as bold unbelief. As well be Strauss as swing ’twixt Paul and him. It’s not worth having, such imperfect faith, No more available to do faith’s work Than unbelief like mine. Whole faith, or none! ” Softly, my friend! I must dispute that point. Once own the use of faith, I’ll find you faith. We’re back on Christian ground. You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o’ercomes doubt. How I know it does? By life and man’s free will, God gave for that! To mould life as we choose it, shows our choice: That’s our one act, the previous work’s his own. You criticise the soil? it reared this tree— This broad life and whatever fruit it bears! What matter though I doubt at every pore, Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers’ ends. Doubts in the trivial w r ork of every day, Doubts at the very bases of my soul In the grand moments when she probes herself— If finally I have a life to show, The thing I did, brought out in evidence Against the thing done to me underground By hell and all its brood, for aught I know? I say, whence sprang this? shows it faith, or doubt? All’s doubt in me; where’s break of faith in this? It is the idea, the feeling and the love, God means mankind should strive for and show forth Whatever be the process to that end,— And not historic knowledge, logic sound, BISIIOP BLOUG RAM'S APOLOGY. 241 And metaphysical acumen, sure! “ Wliat think ye of Christ,” friend? when all’s done and said, Like you this Christianity, or not? It may be false, but will you wish it true? Has it your vote to be so if it can? Trust you an instinct silenced long ago That will break silence and enjoin you love What mortified philosophy is hoarse, And all in vain, with bidding you despise? If you desire faith—then you’ve faith enough: What else seeks God—nay, what else seek ourselves? You forma notion of me, w r e’ll suppose, On hearsay; it’s a favorable one: “ But still (you add), “ there was no such good man, Because of contradiction in the facts. One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, This Blougram; yet throughout the tales of him I see he figures as an Englishman.” Well, the two things are reconcilable. But w r ould I rather you discovered that, Subjoining—“ Still, what matter though they be? Blougram concerns me naught, born here or there.” Pure faith indeed—you know not what you ask! Naked belief in God the Omnipotent, Omniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. It were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare. Some think, Creation’s meant to show him forth: I say it’s meant to hide him all it can, And that’s what all the blessed evil’s for. Its use in Time is to environ us, Our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough Against that sight till we can bear its stress. Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain And lidless eyes and disemprisoned heart Less certainly would wither up at once Than mind, confronted with the truth of him. But time and earth case-harden us to live; The feeblest sense is trusted most; the child Feels God a moment, ichors o’er the place, Plays on, and grows to be a man like us. With me, faith means perpetual unbelief Kept quiet like the snake ’neatli Michael’s foot Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. Or, if that’s too ambitious,—here’s my box— I need the excitation of a pinch Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes. Leave it in peace! ” advise the simple folk: Make it aware of peace by itching-fits, £ay I—let doubt occasion still more faith! 242 BISHOP BLOUGRAM’S APOLOGY. You’ll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. How you’d exult if I could put you back Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, Geology, ethnology, what not (Greek endings, each the little passing-bell That signifies some faith’s about to die), And set you square with Genesis again! When such a traveler told you his last news, He saw the ark a top of Ararat But did not climb there since ’twas getting dusk And robber-bands infest the mountain’s foot! How should you feel, I ask, in such an age, How act? As other people felt and did, With soul more blank than this decanter’s knob, Believe—and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate Full in belief’s face, like the beast you’d be! No, when the fight begins within himself, A man’s worth something. God stoops o’er his head, Satan looks up between his feet—both tug— He’s left, himself, i’ the middle: the soul wakes And grows. Prolong that battle through his lifel Never leave growing till the life to come! Here we’ve got callous to the Virgin’s winks That used to puzzle people wholesomely: Men have outgrown the shame of being fools. What are the laws of nature, not to bend If the Church bid them?—brother Newman asks. Up with the Immaculate Conception, then— On to the rack with faith!—is my advice. Will not that hurry us upon our knees, Knocking our breasts, “ It can’t be—yet it shall! Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope? Low things confound the high things!” and so forth. That’s better than acquitting God with grace, As some folks do. He’s tried—no case is proved. Philosophy is lenient—He may go! You’ll say, the old system’s not so obsolete But men believe still : ay, but who and where? King Bomba’s lazzaroni foster yet The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes ; But even of these, what ragamuffin-saint Believes God watches him continually, As he believes in fire that it will burn, Or rain that it will drench him? Break fire’s law, Sin against rain, although the penalty Be just a singe or soaking? “ No,” lie smiles; “ Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves.” The sum of all is—yes, my doubt is great, My faith’s still greater, then my faith’s enough. bishop blougbam’s apology. 243 I have read much, thought much, experienced much. Yet would die rather than avow my fear The Naples’ liquefaction may be false, When set to happen by the palace-clock According to the clouds or dinner-time. I hear you recommend, I might at least Eliminate, decrassify my faith Since I adopt it; keeping what I must And leaving what I can—such points as this. I won’t—that is, I can’t throw one away. Supposing there’s no truth in what I hold About the need of trial to man’s faith, Still, when you bid me purify the same, To such a process I discern no end. Clearing off one excrescence to see two. There’s ever a next in size, now grown as big, That meets the knife: I cut and cut again! First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last But Fichte’s clever cut at God himself? Experimentalize on sacred things! I trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brain To stop betimes: they all get drunk alike. The first step, I am master not to take. You’d find the cutting-process to your taste As much as leaving growths of lies unpruned, Nor see more danger in it,—you retort, Your taste’s worth mine; but my taste proves more wise When we consider that the steadfast hold On the extreme end of the chain of faith Gives all the advantage, makes the difference With the rough purblind mass we seek to rule: We are their lords, or they are free of us, Just as we tighten or relax our hold. So, other matters equal, we’ll revert To the first problem—which, if solved my way And thrown into the balance, turns the scale— How we may lead a comfortable life, How suit our luggage to the cabin’s size. Of course you are remarking all this time How narrowly and grossly I view life, Respect the creature-comforts, care to rule The masses, and regard complacently “ The cabin,” in our old phrase. Well, I do. I act for, talk for, live for this world now, As this world prizes action, life, and talk: No prejudice to what next world may prove, Whose new laws and requirements, my best pledge To observe then, is that I observe these now, Shall do hereafter what I do meanwhile. X>et us concede (gratuitously though) Hi BISHOP BLOUGRAM’S APOLOGY. Next life relieves the soul of body, yields Pure spiritual enjoyment: well, my friend, Why lose this life i’ the mean time, since its use May be to make the next life more intense ? Do you know, I have often had a dream (Work it up in your next month’s article) Of man’s poor spirit in its progress, still Losing true life forever and a day Through ever trying to be and ever being— In the evolution of successive spheres— Before its actual sphere and place of life, Half way into the next, which having reached, It shoots with corresponding foolery Half way into the next still, on and off! As when a traveler, bound from North to South, Scouts fur in Pussia; what’s its use in France? In France spurns flannel; where’s its need in Spain? In Spain drops cloth, too cumbrous for Algiers! Linen goes next, and last the skin itself, A superfluity at Timbuctoo. When, tflirough his journey, was the fool at ease? I’m at ease now, friend; worldly in this world, I take and like its way of life; i think My brothers, who administer the means, Live better for my comfort—that’s good too; And God, if he pronounce upon such life, Approves my service, which is better still. If he keep silence,—why, for you or me Or that brute-beast pulled-up in to-day’s “ Times,” What odds is’t, save to ourselves, what life we lead? You meet me at this issue: you declare,— All special pleading done with, truth is truth, And justifies itself by undreamed ways. You don’t fear but it’s better, if we doubt, To say so, act up to our truth perceived However feebly.- Do then,—act away! ’Tis there I’m on the watch for you. How one acts Is, both of us agree, our chief concern: And how you’ll act is what I fain would see If, like the candid person you appear, You dare to make the most of your life’s scheme As I of mine, live up to its full law Since there’s no higher law that counterchecks. Put natural religion to the test You’ve just demolished the revealed with—quick, Down to the root of all that checks your will, All prohibition to lie, kill, and thieve, Or even to be an atheistic priest! Suppose a pricking to incontinence— Philosophers deduce you chastity BISHOP PLOUGH AMOS APOLOGY. 2f5 Or sliame, from just the fact that at the first Wlioso embraced a woman in the field, Threw club down and forewent his brains beside. So, stood a ready victim in the reach Of any brother-savage, club in hand; Hence saw the use of going out of sight In wood or cave to prosecute his loves: I read this in a French book t’other day. Does law so analyzed coerce you much? Oh, men spin clouds of fuzz where matters end, But you wdio reach where the first thread begins, You’ll soon cut that!—which means you can, but won’t Through certain instincts, blind, unreasoned-out. You dare not set aside, you can’t tell why, But there they are, and so you let them rule. Then, friend, you seem as much a slave as I, A liar, conscious coward and hypocrite, Without the good the slave expects to get, In case he has a master after all! You own your instincts? why, what else do I, Who want, am made for, and must have a God Ere I can be aught, do aught?—no mere name Want, but the true thing with what proves its truth. To wit, a relation from that thing to me, Touching from head to foot—which touch I feel. And with it take the rest, this life of ours! I live my life here: yours you dare not live. —Not as I stake it, who (you please subjoin) Disfigure such a life and call it names, While, to your mind, remains another way For simple men: knowledge and power have rights. But ignorance and weakness have rights too. There needs no crucial effort to find truth If here or there or anywhere about: We ought to turn each side, try hard and see, And if we can’t, be glad we ve earned at least The right, by one laborious proof the more, To graze in peace earth’s pleasant pasturage. Men are not angels, neither are they brutes: Something w T e may see, all w r e cannot see. What need of lying? I say, I see all, And swear to each detail the most minute In what I think a Pan’s face—you, mere cloud: I swear I hear him speak and see him w r ink, For fear, if once I drop the emphasis, Mankind may doubt there’s any cloud at all. You take the simple life—ready to see, Willing to see (for no cloud’s worth a face)— And leaving quiet what no strength can move, And which, who bids you move? who has the right? I bid you; but you are God’s sheep, not mine: 24(5 BISHOP PLOUGH AMP APOLOGY. “ Pastor est tui Dominies.” You find In this the pleasant pasture of our life Much you may eat without the least offence, Much you don’t eat because your maw objects, Much you would eat but that your fellow-llock Open great eyes at you, and even butt, And thereupon you like your mates so well You cannot please yourself, offending them; Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep, You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats And strike the balance. Sometimes certain fears Restrain you, real checks since you find them so; Sometimes you please yourself and nothing checks: And thus you graze through life with not one lie. And like it best. But do you, in truth’s name? If so, you beat—which means you are not I— Who needs must make earth mine and feed my fill Not simply unbutted at, unbickered with, But motioned to the velvet of the sward By these obsequious wethers very selves. Look at me, sir: my age is double yours: At yours, I knew beforehand, so enjoyed, What now I should be—as, permit the word, I pretty well imagine your whole range And stretch of tether twenty years to come. We have both minds and bodies much alike: In truth’s name, don’t you want my bishopric. My daily bread, my influence and my state? You’re young, I’m old, you must be old one day; Will you find then, as I do hour by hour, Women their lovers kneel to, who cut curls From your fat lap-dog’s ear to grace a brooch—• Dukes, who petition just to kiss your ring— With much beside you know or may conceive? Suppose we die to-night: well, here am I, Such were my gains, life bore this fruit to me. While writing all the same my articles On music, poetry, the fictile vase Found at Albano, chess, Anacreon’s Greek. But you—the highest honor in your life, The thing you’ll crown yourself with, all your days, Is—dining here and drinking this last glass I pour you out in sight of amity Before we part forever. Of your power And social influence, worldly worth in short. Judge what’s my estimation by the fact— I do not condescend to enjoin, beseech, Hint secrecy on one of all these words! Yon’re shrewd and know that should you publish one The world would brand the lie—my enemies first BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 247 Wlio’d sneer—“ the bishop’s an arch-hypocrite And knave perhaps, but not so frank a fool.” Whereas I should not dare for both my ears Breathe one such syllable, smile one such smile. Before the chaplain who reflects myself— My shade’s so much more potent than your flesh. What’s your reward, self-abnegating friend? Stood you confessed of those exceptional And privileged great natures that dwarf mine— A zealot with a mad ideal in reach, A poet just about to print his ode, A statesman with a scheme to stop this war. An artist whose religion is his art— I should have nothing to object: such men Carry the tire, all things grow warm to them, Their drugget’s worth my purple, they beat me. But you—you’re just as little those as I— You, Gigadibs, who, thirty years of age, Write statedly for Blackwood’s Magazine, Believe you see two points in Hamlet’s soul Unseized by the Germans yet—which view yon’ll print— Meantime the best you have to show being still That lively lightsome article we took Almost for the true Dickens,—what’s its name? “ The Slum and Cellar, or Whitechapel life Limned after dark !” it made me laugh, I know. And pleased a month, and brought you in ten pounds. —Success I recognize and compliment, And therefore give you, if you choose, three words (The card and pencil-scratch is quite enough) Which whether here, in Dublin or New York, Will get you, prompt as at my eyebrow’s wink. Such terms as never you aspired to get In all our own reviews and some not ours. Go write your lively sketches! be the first “ Blougram, or the Eccentric Confidence ”— Or better simply say, “ The Outward-bound.” Why, men as soon would throw it in my teeth As copy and quote the infamy chalked broad About me on the church-door opposite. You will not wait for that experience though, I fancy, howsoever you decide. To discontinue—not detesting, not Defaming, but at least—despising me! Over his wine so smiled and talked his hour Sylvester Blougram, styled inpartibus Episcopus , nec non —(the deuce knows what It’s changed to by our novel hierarchy) With Gigadips the literary man, Who played with spoons, explored his plate’s design, 248 MR. SLUDGE, “ TlIE MEDIUMU And ranged the olive-stones about its edge, While the great bishop rolled him out a mind Long rumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth. For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke. The other portion, as he shaped it thus For argumentatory purposes, He felt his foe was foolish to dispute. Some arbitrary accidental thoughts That crossed his mind, amusing because new, He chose to represent as fixtures there, Invariable convictions (such they seemed Beside his interlocutor’s loose cards Flung daily down, and not the same way twice) While certain hell-deep instincts, man’s weak tongue Is never bold to utter in their truth Because styled hell-deep (’tis an old mistake To place hell at the bottom of the earth) He ignored these,—not having in readiness Their nomenclature and philosophy: He said true things, but called them by wrong names. “ On the whole,” he thought, “ I justify myself On every point where cavillers like this Oppugn my life: he tries one kind of fence, I close, lie’s worsted, that’s enough for him. He’s on the ground: if ground should break away I take my stand on, there’s a firmer yet Beneath it, both of use may sink and reach. His ground was over mine and broke the first: So, let him sit with me this many a year ! ” He did not sit five minutes. Just a week Sufficed his sudden healthy vehemence. Something had struck him in the “ Outward-bound” Another way than Blougram’s purpose was: And having bought, not cabin-furniture But settler’s implements (enough for three) And started for Australia—there, I hope. By this time he has tested his first plow, And studied his last chapter of Saint John. MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM.” Now, don’t, sir! Don’t expose me! Just this oncel This was the first and only time, I’ll swear,— Look at me,—see, I kneel,—the only time, I swear, I ever cheated,—yes, by the soul Of Her who hears—(your sainted mother, sir!) Ail, except this last accident, was truth— This little kind of slip!—and even this, Mil SLUDGE , “ THE MEDIUM." It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne (I took it for Catawba, you’re so kind), Which put the folly in my head! “ Get up? ” You still inflict on me that terrible face? You show no mercy?—Not for Her dear sake, The sainted spirit’s, whose soft breath even now Blows on my cheek—(don’t you feel something, sir?) You’ll tell? Go tell, then! Who the Devil cares What such a rowdy chooses to . . . Aie—aie—aie! Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir! Ch—ch! Well, sir, I hope you’ve done it now! O Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday, When your departed mother spoke those words Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much, You gave me—( very kind it was of you ) These sliirt-studs—(better take them back again, Please, sir)—yes, little did I think so soon A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends Into an angry gentleman! Though, ’twas wrong. I don’t contest the point; your anger’s just: Whatever put such folly in my head, I know ’twas wicked of me. There’s a thick Dusk undeveloped spirit (I’ve observed ) Owes me a grudge—a negro’s, I should say, Or else an Irish emigrant’s; yourself Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir. When we had summoned Franklin to clear up A point about those shares i’ the telegraph: Ay, and he swore . . . or might it be Tom Paine? . . Thumping the table close by where I crouched, He’d do me soon a mischief: that’s come true! Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would! Then, this one time . . . don't take your hand away. Through yours I surely kiss your mother’s hand . . . You’ll promise to forgive me?—or, at least, Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir! What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe A rap or tip! What bit of paper’s here? Suppose we take a pencil, let her write, Make the least sign, she urges on her child Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! “ Twas your foot, And not a natural creak, sir? Answer, then! Once, twice, thrice . . . see, I’m waiting to say “ thrice! ” 250 Mil. SLUDGE, “ THE mediumu All to no use? No sort of hope for me? It’s all to post to Greeley’s newspaper? What? If I told you all about the tricks? Upon my soul!—the whole truth, and naught else, And how there’s been some falsehood—for your part, Will you engage to pay my passage out, And hold your tongue until I’m safe on board? England’s the place, not Boston—no offense! I see what makes you hesitate: don’t fear! I mean to change my trade and cheat no more, Yes, this time really it’s upon my soul! Be my salvation!—under heaven, of course. I’ll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do. A trifle, though, to start with! We’ll refer The question to this table? How you’re changed! Then split the difference; thirty more, we’ll say. Ay, but you leave my presents! Else I’ll swear ’Twas all though those: you wanted yours again. So, picked a quarrel with me, to get them back! Tread on a worm, it turns, sir! If I turn, Your fault! Tis you’ll have forced me! Who’s obliged To give up life, yet try no self-defence? At all events, I’ll run the risk. Eh? Done! May I sit, sir? This dear old table, now! Please, sir, a parting egg-nogg and cigar! I’ve been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs, And sympathetic sideboards; what an end To all the instructive evenings! (It’salight.) Well, nothing lasts, as Bacon came and said. Here goes,—but keep your temper, or I’ll scream! Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol! You see, sir, it’s your own fault more than mine; It’s all your fault, you curious gentlefolk! You’re prigs,—excuse me,—like to look so spry, So clever, while you cling by half a claw To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost, Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch Because you chose it, so it must be safe. Oh, otherwise you’re sharp enough! You spy Who slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing, Wanting real foothold,—who can’t keep upright On the other perch, your neighbor chose, not you: There’s no outwitting you respecting him! For instance, men love money—that, you know— And what men do to gain it: well, suppose A poor lad, say a help’s son in your house, Listening at keyhole, hears the company Talk grand of dollars, V-notes, and so forth, Mr. sludge. tub: medium.” How hard they are to get, how good to hold, How much they buy,—if, suddenly, in pops he— “ I’ve got a V-note! ”—what do you say to him? What’s your first word which follows your last kick? “ Where did you steal it, rascal?” That’s because, He finds you, fain would fool you, off your perch, Not on the special piece of nonsense, sir, Elected your parade-ground; let him try Lies to the end of the list,—“ He picked it up, Ilis cousin died and left it him by will, The President flung it to him, riding by, An actress trucked it for a curl of his hair, He dreamed of luck and found his shoe enriched, He dug up clay, and out of clay made gold ”— How would you treat such possiblities? Would not you, prompt, investigate the case With cow-hide? “ Lies, lies, lies,” you’d shout: and why Which of the stories might not prove mere truth? This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin! Let’s see, now, give him me to speak for him! How many of your rare philosophers, In plaguy books I’ve had to dip into, Believed gold could be made thus, saw it made, And made it ? Oh, with such philosophers You’re on your best behavior! While the lad— With him, in a trice, you settle likelihoods, Nor doubt a moment how he got his prize: In his case, you hear, judge, and execute. All in a breath: so would most men of sense. But let the same lad hear you talk as grand At the same keyhole, you and company, Of signs and wonders, the invisible world; IIow wisdom scouts our vulgar unbelief More than our vulgarest credulity; How good men have desired to see a ghost, What Johnson used to say, what Wesley did, Mother Goose thought, and fiddle-diddle-dee:— If he then break in with, “ Sir, 1 saw a ghost! ” Ah, the ways change! He finds you perched and prim; It’s a conceit of yours that ghosts may be: There’s no talk now of cow-hide. “ Tell it out! Don’t fear us! Take your time and recollect! Sit down first; try a glass of wine, my boy! And, David, (is not that your Christian name?) Of all things, should this happen twice—it may,— Be sure, while fresh in mind, you let us know!” Does the boy blunder, blurt out this, blab that, Break down in the other, as beginners will? All’s candor, all’s considerateness,—“ No haste! Pause and collect yourself! We understand! That’s the bad memory, or the natural shock, Or the unexplained phenomena / ” Mil SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM Egad, The boy takes heart of grace; finds, never fear. The readiest way to ope your own heart wide, Show—what I call your peacock-perch, pet post To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon! “ Just as you thought, much as you might expect! There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” . . e And so on. Shall not David take the hint, Grow bolder, stroke you down at quickened rate? If he ruffle a feather, it’s “ Gently, patiently! Manifestations are so weak at first! Doubting, moreover, kills them, cuts all short, Cures with a vengeance ! ” There, sir, that’s your style! You and your boy—such pains bestowed on him, Or any headpiece of the average worth, To teach, say Greek, would perfect him apace, Make him a Person (“ Porson? ” thank you, sir!) Much more, proficient in the art of lies You never leave the lesson! Fire alight, Catch you permitting it to die! You’ve friends; There’s no withholding knowledge.—least from those Apt to look elsewhere for their soul’s supply: Why should not you parade your lawful prize? Who finds a picture, digs a medal up, Hits on a first edition,—he henceforth Gives it his name, grows notable: how much more Who ferrets out a “ medium”? “ David’s } T ours, You highly favored man? Then, pity souls Less privileged! Allow us share your luck!” So, David holds the circle, rules the roast, Narrates the vision, peeps in the glass ball, Sets-to the spirit-writing, hears the raps, As the case may be. Now mark! To be precise,-* 1 Though I say, “ lies” all these, at this first stage, ’Tis just for science’ sake: I call such grubs By the name of what they’ll turn to, dragonflies. Strictly, it’s what good people style untruth; But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing: It’s fancying, fable-making, nonsense-work,— What never meant to be so very bad,— The knack of story-telling, brightening up Each dull old bit of fact that drops its shine. One does see somewhat when one shuts one’s eyes, If only spots and streaks; tables do tip In the oddest way of themselves: and pens, good Lord, Who knows if you drive them or they drive you? ’Tis but a foot in the water and out again; Not that duck-under which decides your dive. Note this, for it’s important: listen why- MR. SLUDGE , “ THE MEDIUM." 253 I’ll prove, you push on David till lie dives— And ends the shivering. Here’s your circle, now; Two-thirds of them, with heads like you their host, Turn up their eyes, and cry, as you expect, “ Lord, wlio’d have thought it!” But there’s always one Looks wise, compassionately smiles, submits “ Of vour veracity no kind of doubt, But—do you feel so certain of that boy’s? Really, I wonder! I confess myself More chary of my faith! ” That’s galling, sir! What! he the investigator, he the sage, When all’s done? Then, you just have shut your eyes. Opened your mouth, and gulped down David whole, You! Terrible were such catastrophe! So, evidence is redoubled, doubled again, You and they heard, your mother and your wife. Your children and the stranger in your gates: Did they, or did they not?” So much for him, The black sheep, guest without the wedding-garb, And doubting Thomas! Now’s your turn to crow: “ He’s kind to think you such a fool: Sludge cheats? Leave you alone to take precautions!” Straight The rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed, Sips silent some such beverage as this, Considers if it be harder, shutting eyes And gulping David in good fellowship, Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange, With no egg-nogg to lubricate the food, Some just as tough a morsel. Over the way, Holds Captain Sparks his court: is it better there? Have not you hunting-stories, scalping-scenes, And Mexican War exploits to swallow plump If you’d be free o’ the stove-side, rocking-chair, And trio of affable daughters? Doubt succumbs! Victory! All your circle’s yours again! Out of the clubbing of submissive wits, David’s performance rounds, each chink gets patched, Every protrusion of a point’s tiled fine, All’s tit to set a-rolling round the world, And then return to David finally, Lies seven-feet thick about his first half-inch. Here’s a choice birth o’ the supernatural, Poor David’s pledged to! You’ve employed no tool That laws exclaim at, save the Devil’s own, Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling you To the top o’ your bent,—all out of one half-lie! You hold, if there’s one half or a hundredth part Of a lie, that’s his fault,—his be the penalty! 254 MR. SLUDGE , “THE MEDIUM.” I dare say! You’d prove firmer in liis place? You’d find the courage,—that first fiurry over, That mild bit of romancing-work at end,— To interpose with “ It gets serious, this; Must stop here. Sir, I saw no ghost at all. Inform your friends I made . . . well, fools of them, And found you ready made. I’ve lived in clover T1 »ese three weeks: take it out in kicks of me!” I doubt it. Ask your conscience! Let me know, Twelve months hence, with how few embellishments You’ve told almighty Boston of this passage Of arms between us, your first taste o’ the foil From Sludge who could not fence, sir! Sludge, your boy! I lied, sir,—there! I got up from my gorge On otfal in the gutter, and preferred Your canvas-backs: I took their carver’s size, Measured his modicum of intelligence, Tickled him on the cockles of his heart With a raven feather, and next week found myself Sweet and clean, dining daintily, dizened smart, Set on a stool buttressed by ladies’ knees, Every soft smiler calling me her pet, Encouraging my story to uncoil And creep out from its hole, inch after inch, “ How last night, I no sooner snug in bed, Tucked up, just as they left me,—than came raps! While a light whisked ” . . . “ Shaped somewhat like a star? ”— “ Well, like some sort of stars, ma’am,”—“ So we thought! And any voice? Not yet? Try hard next time, If you can’t hear a voice; we think you may: At least, the Pennsylvanian ‘ mediums ’ did.” Oh, next time comes the voice! “ Just as we hoped! ” Are not the liopers proud now, pleased, profuse O’ the natural acknowledgment? Of course! So, off we sweep, illy-oh-yo, trim the boat, On we sweep with a cataract ahead, We’re midway to the Horse-shoe: stop, 'who can, The dance of bubbles gay about our prow! Experiences become worth waiting for, Spirits now speak up, tell their inmost mind, And compliment the “ medium ” properly, . Concern themselves about his Sunday coat, See rings on his hands with pleasure. Ask yourself How you’d receive a course of treats like these! Why, take the quietest hack and stall him up, Cram him with corn a month, then out with him Among his mates on a bright April morn, With the turf to tread; see if you find or no A caper in him, if he bucks or bolts! Much more a youth whose fancies sprout as rank MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM.” 25 5 As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. ’Tis soon, “ Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry, Read, write, rap, rub-a-dub, and hang yourself!” I’m spared all further trouble; all’s arranged; Your circle does my business; I may rave Like an epileptic dervish in the books, Foam, fling myself flat, rend my clothes to shreds; No matter; lovers, friends, and countrymen Will lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things right By the rule o’ reverse. If Francis Verulam Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside With a y and a k , says he drew breath in York, Gave up the ghost in Wales when Cromwell reigned (As, sir, we somewhat fear he was apt to say, Before I found the useful book that knows), Why, what harm’s done? The circle smiles apace, “ It was not Bacon, after all, do you see! We understand; the trick’s but natural; Such spirits’ individuality Is hard to put in evidence: they in 'line To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts. You see, their world’s much like a jail broke loose, While this of ours remains shut, boP-ed, barred, With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend, Serves as this window, whether thin )r thick, Or stained or stainless; he’s the med^nn-pane Through which, to see us and be sera, they peep: They crowd each other, hustle for a chance, Tread on their neighbor’s kibes, play tricks enough! Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside? Up in his place jumps Barnum— ‘ I’m your man, I’ll answer you for Bacon! ’ Try once more! ” Or else it’s—“ What’s a ‘ medium ’? He’s a means. Good, bad, indifferent, still the only means Spirits can speak by; he may misconceive, Stutter, and stammer,—he’s their Sludge and drudge. Take him or leave him; they must hold their peace, Or else, put up with having knowledge strained To half-expression through his ignorance. Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed New music he’s brimful of; why, he turns The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge, And what he poured in at the mouth o’ the mill As a Thirty-third Sonata, (fancy now!) Comes from the hopper as brand-new Sludge, naught else, The Shakers’ Hymn in G, with a natural F, Or the ‘ Stars and Stripes’ set to consecutive fourths.” Sir, where’s the scrape you did not help me through, You that are wise? And for the fools the folk Who came to see,—the guests, (observe that word!) Pray do you find guests criticise your wine, 256 MR, SLUDGE, (t THE MEDIUM.” Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose? Then, why your “ medium ”? What’s the difference? Prove your Madeira red-ink and gamboge,— Your Sludge, a cheat—then somebody’s a goose For vaunting both as genuine. “Guests!” Don’t fear! They’ll make a wry face, not too much of that, And leave you in your glory. “No, sometimes They doubt and say as much! ” Ay, doubt they do! And what’s the consequence? “ Of course they doubt (You triumph) “ that explains the hitch at once! Doubt posed our ‘medium,’ puddled his pure mind; He gave them back their rubbish: pitch chaff in, Could flour come out o’ the honest mill? ” So, prompt Applaud the faithful: cases flock in point, “ How, when a mocker willed a ‘ medium ’ once Should name a spirit James whose name was George, ‘ James ’ cried the ‘ medium,’—’twas the test of truth! ” In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more. Does this convince? The better; does it fail? Time for the double-shotted broadside, then— The grand means, last resource. Look black and big! “ You style us idiots, therefore—why stop short? Accomplices in rascality: this we hear In our own house, from our invited guest Found brave enough to outrage a poor boy Exposed by our good faith! Have you been heard? Now, then, hear us; one man’s not quite worth twelve. You see a cheat? Here’s some twelve see an ass; Excuse me if I calculate: good-day! ” Out slinks the skeptic, all the laughs explode, Sludge waves his hat in triumph! Or—he don’t. There’s something in real truth (explain who can!) One casts a wistful eye at, like the horse Who mopes beneath stuffed liay-racks and won’t munch Because lie spies a corn-bag: hang that truth, It spoils all dainties proffered in its place! I’ve felt at times when, cockered, cosseted. And coddled by the aforesaid company, Bidden enjoy their bullying—never fear, But o’er their shoulders spit at the dying man— I’ve felt a child; only, a fractious child That, dandled soft by nurse, aunt, grandmother, Who keep him from the kennel, sun, and wind, Good fun and wholesome mud,—enjoined be sweet, And comely and superior,—eyes askance The ragged sons o’ the gutter at their game, Fain would be down with them i’ the thick o’ the filtiij, Making dirt-pies, laughing free, speaking plain, And calling granny the gray old cat she is. MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM .” £> / I've felt a spite, I say, at you, at them, Muggings and humbug—gnashed my teeth to mark A decent dog pass! It’s too bad, I say, Ruining a soul so! But what’s “ so,” what’s fixed. Where may one stop? Nowhere! the cheating’s nursed Out of the lying, softly and surely spun To just your length, sir! I’d stop soon enough; But you’re for progress. “ All old, nothing new? Only the usual talking through the mouth, Or writting by the hand? 1 own, 1 thought This would develope, grow demonstrable, Make doubt absurd, give figures we might see, Flowers we might touch. There’s no one doubts you, Sludge? You dream the dreams, you see the spiritual sights, The speeches come in your head, beyond dispute. Still, for the sceptics, sake, to stop all mouths, We want some outward manifestation!—well, The Pennsylvanians gained such; why not Sludge? He may improve with time! ” Ay, that he may! lie sees his lot: there’s no avoiding fate. Tis a trifle at first. “ Eh, David? Did you hear? You jogged the table; your foot caused the squeak, This time you’re . . . joking, are you not, my boy?”— “ N-n-no!”—and I’m done for, bought, and sold henceforth The old good easy jog-trot way, the . . . eh? The . . . not so very false, as falsehood goes, The spinning out and drawing fine, you know,— Really mere novel-writing of a sort, Acting, or improvising, make-believe, Surely not downright cheatery—any how, ’Tis (lone with and my lot cast; Cheat’s thy name: The fatal dash of brandy in your tea Has settled how you’ll have the Souchong smack: The caddy gives way to the dram-bottle. Then, it’s so cruel easy! Oh, those tricks That can’t be tricks, those feats by sleight of hand, Clearly no common conjurer’s!—no, indeed! A conjurer? Choose me any craft i’ the world A man puts hand to: and with six months’ pains, I’ll play you twenty tricks miraculous To people untaught the trade. Have you seen glass blowr. Pipes pierced? Why, just this biscuit that I chip, Did you ever watch a baker toss one flat To the oven. Try and do it! Take my word, Practise but half as much, while limbs are lithe, To turn, shove, tilt a table, crack your joints, Manage your feet, dispose your hands aright, Work wires that twitch the curtains, play the glove 258 MR. SLUDGE, “THE MEDIUM At end o’ your slipper,—then put out the lights And . . . there, there, all you want you’ll get, I hope! I found it slip, easy as an old shoe. Now, lights on table again! I’ve done my part, You take my place while I give thanks and rest. “ Well, Judge Humgruffin, wliat’s your verdict, sir? You, hardest head in the United States,— Did you detect a cheat here? Wait! Let’s see! Just an experiment lirst, for candor’s sake! I’ll try and cheat you, Judge! The table tilts: Is it I that move it? Write! I’ll press your hand: Cry when I push, or guide your pencil, Judge! ” Sludge still triumphant! “ That a rap, indeed? That the real writing? Very like a whale! Then, if, sir, you—a most distinguished man, And, were the Judge not here, I’d say, . . . no matter! Well, sir, if you fail, you can’t take us in,— There’s little fear that Sludge will! ” Won’t he, ma’am? But what if our distinguished host, like Sludge, Bade God bear witness that he played no trick, While you believed that what produced the raps Was just a certain child who died, you know, And whose last breath you thought your lips had felt? Eh? That’s a capital point, ma’am: Sludge begins At your entreaty with your dearest dead. The little voice set lisping once again, The tiny hand made feel for yours once more, The poor lost image brought back, plain as dreams, Which image, if a word had chanced recall, The customary cloud would cross your eyes, Your heart return the old tick, pay its pang! A right mood for investigation, this! One’s at one’s ease with Saul and Jonathan, Pompey and Caesar: but one’s own lost child . . . I wonder, when you heard the first clod drop From the spadeful at the grave, did you feel free To investigate who twitched your funeral scarf, Or brushed your flounces? Then, it came of course You should be stunned and stupid; then (how else?) Your breath stopped with your blood, your brain struck work But now, such causes fail of such effects, All’s changed,—the little voice begins afresh, Yet you, calm, consequent, can test and try And touch the truth, “Tests? Didn’t the creature tell Its nurse’s name, and say it lived six years, And rode a rocking-horse? Enough of tests! Sludge never could learn that! ” He could not, eh? You compliment him. “ Could not? ” Speak for yourself! MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM 250 I’d like to know the man I ever saw Once,—never mind where, liow, why, when,—once saw, Of whom I do not keep some matter treasured He’d swear I “ could not” know, sagacious soul! What? Do you live in this world’s blow of blacks, Palaver, gossipry, a single hour Nor find one smut has settled on your nose, Of a smut’s worth, no more, no less?—one fact Out of the drift of facts, whereby you learn What some one was, somewhere, somewhen, somcwhy? You don’t tell folk—“ See what has stuck to me! Judge Humgruffin, our most distinguished man, Your uncle was a tailor, and your wife Thought to have married Miggs, missed him, hit you!”— Do you, sir, though you see him twice a week? “ No,” you reply, “ what use retailing it Why should 1? ” But, you see, one day you should. Because one day there’s much use,—when this fact Brings you the Judge upon both gouty knees Before the supernatural; proves that Sludge Knows, as you say, a thing he “ could not ” know: Will not Sludge thenceforth keep an outstretched face The way the wind drives? “ Could not! ” Look you now. I’ll tell you a story! There’s a whiskered chap, A foreigner, that teaches music here And gets his bread,—knowing no better way. He says, the fellow who informed of him And made him fly his country and fall West, Was a hunchback cobbler, sat, stitched soles, and sang, In some outlandish place, the city Rome, In a cellar by their Broadway, all day long; Never asked questions, stopped to listen or look, Nor lifted nose from lapstone; let the world Roll round his three-legged stool, and news run in The ears he hardly seemed to keep pricked up. Well, that man went on Sundays, touched his pay, And took his praise from government, you see; For something like two dollars every week, He’d engage tell you some one little thing Of some one man, which led to many more (Because one truth leads right to the world’s end), And make you that man’s master—when he dined And on what dish, where walked to keep his health, And to what street. His trade was, throwing thus His sense out, like an anteater’s long tongue, Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible, And when ’twas crusted o’er with creatures—slick, Their juice enriched his palate. “ Could not Sludge! I’ll go yet a step farther, and maintain, Once the imposture plunged its proper depth 260 MR. SLUDGE, “T1IE MEDIUM.’ I’ the rotten of your natures, all of you— (If one’s not mad nor drunk, and hardly then), It’s impossible to cheat—that’s, be found out! Go tell your brotherhood this first slip of mine, All to-day’s tale, how you detected Sludge, Behaved unpleasantly, till he was fain confess, And so has come to grief! You’ll find, 1 think. Why Sludge still snaps his fingers in your face. There now, you’ve told them! What’s their prompt reply? “ Sir, did that youth confess he had cheated me, I’d disbelieve him. lie may cheat at times; That’s in the ‘ medium ’-nature, thus they’re made, Vain and vindictive, cowards, prone to scratch. And so all cats are; still a cat’s the beast You coax the strange electric sparks from out, By rubbing back its fur; not so a dog, Nor lion, nor lamb: ’tisthe cat’s nature, sir! Why not the dog’s? Ask God, who made them beasts! D’ye think the sound, the nicely balanced man Like me ”•—(aside)—“ like you yourself,”—(aloud) —“ He’s stuff to make a ‘ medium’? Bless your soul, ’Tis these hysteric, hybrid half-and-halfs, Equivocal, worthless vermin yield the fire! We must take such as we find them, ’ware their tricks, Wanting their service. Sir, Sludge took in you— How, 1 can’t say, not being there to watch: He was tried, was tempted by your easiness,— He did not take in me! ” Thank you for Sludge! I’m to be grateful to such patrons, eh, When what you hear’s my best word ? ’Tis a challenge: “ Snap at all strangers, half-tamed prairie-dog, So you cower duly at your keeper’s nod! Cat, show what claws were made for, muffling them Only to me! Cheat others if you can, JVIe, if you dare!” And, my wise sir, I dared— Did cheat you first, made you cheat others next, And had the help o’ your vaunted manliness To bully the incredulous. You used me? Have not I used you, taken full revenge, Persuaded folk they knew not their own name, And straight they’d own the error! Who was the fool When, to an awe-struck, wide-eyed, open-mouthed Circle of sages, Sludge would introduce Milton composing baby-rhymes, and Locke Reasoning in gibberish, Homer writing Greek In naughts and crosses, Asaph setting psalms To crotchet and quaver? I’ve made a spirit squeak In sham voice for a minute, then outbroke Bold in my own, defying the imbeciles— Have copied some ghost’s pothooks, half a page, MR. iSij EDGE, “THE MEDIUMT 261 Then ended with my own scrawl undisguised. “ All right! The ghost was merely using Sludge, Suiting itself from his imperfect stock! ” Don’t talk of gratitude to me! For what? For being treated as a showman’s ape, Encouraged to be wicked and make sport, Fret or sulk, grin or whimper, any mood So long as the ape be in it and no man— Because a nut pays every mood alike. Curse your superior, superintending sort, Who, since you hate smoke, send up boys that climb To cure your chimney, bid a “ medium” lie To sweep you truth down! Curse^our women too, Your insolent wives and daughters, that fire up Or faint away if a male hand squeeze theirs. Yet, to encourage Sludge, may play with Sludge As only a “ medium,” only the kind of thing They must humor, fondle . . . oh, to misconceive Were too preposterous! But I’ve paid them out! They’ve had their wish—called for the naked truth, And in she tripped, sat down and bade them stare : They had to blush a little and forgive! “ The fact is, children talk so; in next world All our conventions are reversed,—perhaps Made light of; something like old prints, my dear! The Judge has one, he brought from Italy, A metropolis in the background,—o’er a bridge, A team of trotting roadsters,—cheerful groups Of wayside travelers, peasants at their work, And, full in front, quite unconcerned, why not? Three nymphs conversing with a cavalier, And never a rag among them : ‘ fine,’ folk cry— And heavenly manners seem not much unlike! Let Sludge go on: we’ll fancy it’s in print! ” If such as came for wool, sir, went home shorn, Where is the wrong I did them? ’Twas their choice: They tried the adventure, ran the risk, tossed up And lost, as some one’s sure to do in games ; They fancied I was made to lose,—smoked glass Useful to spy the sun through, spare their eyes : And had I proved a red-hot iron plate They thought to pierce, and, for their pains, grew blind, Whose were the fault but theirs? While, as things go, Their loss amounts to gain, the more’s the shame! They’ve had their peep into the spirit-world, And all this world may know iti They’ve fed fat Their self-conceit which else had starved: what chance Save this, of cackling o’er a golden egg And compassing distinction from the flock, Friends of a feather? Well, they paid for it, And not prodigiously; the price o’ the play, Not counting certain pleasant interludes, 262 MR. SLUDGE, “THE MEDIUM Was scarce a vulgar play’s worth. When you buy The actor’s talent, do you dare propose For his soul beside? Whereas, my soul you buy! Sludge acts Macbeth, obliged to be Macbeth, Or you’ll not hear his first word! Just go through That slight formality, swear liimself’s the Thane, And thenceforth he may strut and fret his hour, Spout, sprawl, or spin 1 is target, no one cares! Why hadn’t I leave to play tricks. Sludge as Sludge? Enough of it all! I’ve wiped out scores with you—• Vented your fustian, let myself be streaked Like tom-fool with your ochre and carmine, Worn patchwork your respectable fingers sewed To metamorphose somebody,—yes, I’ve earned My wages, swallowed down my bread of shame, And shake the crumbs off—where but in your face? As for religion - why, I served it, sir! I’ll stick to that! With my phenomena I laid the atheist sprawling on his back, Propped up Saint Paul, or, at least, Swedenborg! In fact, it’s just the proper way to balk These troublesome fellows—liars, one and all, Are not these sceptics? Well, to baffle them, No use in being squeamish: lie yourself! Erect your buttress just as wide o’ the line, Your side, as they’ve built up the wall on theirs; Where both meet, midway in a point, is truth, High overhead: so, take your room, pile bricks, Lie! Oh, there’s titillation in all shame! What snow may lose in white, it gains in rose! Miss Stokes turns—Raliab,—nor a bad exchange! Glory be on her, for the good she wrought, Breeding belief anew ’neatli ribs of death, Brow-beating now the unabashed before, Ridding us of their whole life’s gathered straws By a live coal from the altar! Why, of old, Great men spent years and years in writing books To prove we’ve souls, and hardly proved it then: Miss Stokes with her live coal, for you and me! Surely, to this good issue, all was fair— Not only fondling Sludge, but, even suppose He let escape some spice of knavery,—well, In wisely being blind to it! Don’t you praise Nelson for setting spy-glass to blind eye And saying . . . what was it—that he could not see The signal he was bothered with? Ay, indeed! I’ll go beyond: there’s a real love of a lie, Liars find ready-made for lies they make, As hand for glove, or tongue for sugar-plum. At best, ’tis never pure and full belief; Mil. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM.” 203 Those farthest in the quagmire,—don’t suppose They strayed there with no warning, got no chance Of a tilth-speck in their face, which they clinched teeth, Bent brow against! Be sure they had their doubts, And fears, and fairest challenges to try The floor o’ the seeming solid sand! But no! Their faith was pledged, acquaintance too apprised, All but the last step ventured, kerchiefs waved, And Sludge called “ pet ’twas easier marching on To the promised land; join those who, Thursday next. Meant to meet Shakespeare; better follow Sludge— Prudent, oh sure!—on the alert, how else? But making for the mid-bog, all the same! To hear your outcries, one would think I caught Miss Stokes by the scuff o’ the neck, and pitched her flat, Foolish-face-foremost! Hear these simpletons, That’s all I beg, before my work’s begun, Before I’ve touched them with my finger-tip! Thus they await me (do but listen, now! It’s reasoning, this is,—I can’t imitate The baby voice, though) In so many tales Must be some truth, truth though a pin-point big, Yet, some: a single man’s deceived, perhaps— Hardly, a thousand: to suppose one cheat Can gull all these, were more miraculous far Than aught we should confess a miracle ”— And so on. Then the Judge sums up—(it’s rare) Bids your respect the authorities that leap To the judgment-seat at once,—why, don’t you note The limpid nature, the unblemished life, The spotless honor, indisputable sense Of the first upstart with his story? What— Outrage a boy on whom you ne’er till now Set eyes, because he finds raps trouble him? Fools, these are: ay, and how of their opposites Who never did, at bottom of their hearts. Believe for a moment?— Men emasculate, Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use, With superstition safely,—cold of blood, Who saw what made for them i’ the mystery, Took their occasion, and supported Sludge —As proselytes? Ho, thank you, far too shrewd! —But promisers of fair play, encouragers O’ the claimant; who in candor needs must hoist Sludge upon Mars’ Hill, get speech out of Sludge To carry off, criticise, and cant about! Didn’t Athens treat Saint Paul so?—at any rate, It’s “a new thing,” philosophy fumbles at. Then there’s the other picker out of pearl From (lung-heaps,—av,your literary man. Who draws on his kid gloves to deal with Sludge 264 MR. SLUDGE , “THE MEDIUM.” Daintily and discreetly,—shakes a dust O’ the doctrine, flavors thence, he well knows how, The narrative or the novel,—half-believes, All for the book’s sake, and the public’s stare, And the cash that’s God’s sole solid in this world! Look at him! Try to be too bold, too gross For the master! Not you! He’s the man for muck; Shovel it forth, full-splash, he’ll smooth your brown Into artistic richness, never fear! Find him the crude stuff ; when you recognize Your lie again, you’ll doff your hat to it, Dressed out for company! “ For company,” I say, since there’s the relish of success: Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth. Save the soft, silent, smirking gentleman Who ushered in the stranger: you must sigh “ How melancholy, he, the only one Fails to perceive the bearing of the truth Himself gave birth to! ”— There’s the triumph’s smack! That man would choose to see the whole world roll I’ the slime o’ the slough, so he might touch the tip Of his brush with what I call the best of browns— Tint ghost-tales, spirit-stories, past the power Of the outworn umber and bistre! Yet I think There’s a more hateful form of foolery— The social sage’s, Solomon of saloons And philosophic diner-out, the fribble Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block To try the edge of his faculty upon, Prove how much common sense he’ll hack and hew I’ the critical minute ’twixt the soup and fish! These were my patrons: these, and the like of them Who, rising in my soul now, sicken it,— These I have injured! Gratitude to these? The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostitute To the greenhorn and the bully—friends of hers, From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club, To the snuff-box-decorator, honest man, Who just was at his wits’ end where to find So genial a Pasiphae! All and each Pay, compliment, protect from the police,. And how she hates them for their pains, like me! So much for my remorse at thanklessness Toward a deserving public! But, for God? Av, that’s a question! Well, sir, since you press— (IIow you do teaze the whole thing out of me! I don’t mean you, you know, when I say, “them: ” Hate you, indeed!‘ But that Miss Stokes, that Judge! MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUMS 265 Enough, enough—with sugar; thank you, sir!) Now for it then! Will you believe me, though? You’ve heard what I confess; I don’t unsay A single word: I cheated when I could, Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work, Wrote down names weak in sympathetic ink, Rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor-match, And all the rest; believe that: believe this, By the same token, though it seems to set The crooked straight again, unsay the said, Stick up what I’ve thrown down; I can’t help that, It’s truth! I somehow vomit truth to-day. This trade of mine—I don't know, can’t be sure But there was something in it, tricks and all! Really, I want to light up my own mind. They were tricks,—true, but what I mean to add Is also true. First,—don’t it strike you, sir? Go back to the beginning,—the first fact We’re taught is, there’s a world beside this world, With spirits, not mankind, for tenantry; That much within that world once sojourned here, That all upon this world will visit there, And therefore that we, bodily here below, Must have exactly such an interest In learning what may be the ways o’ the world Above us, as the disembodied folk How (by all analogic likelihood) In watching how things go in the old w r orld With us, their sons, successors, and what not. Oh, yes, with added powers probably, Fit for the novel state,—old loves grown pure, Old interests understood aright,—they watch! Eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to help, Proportionate to advancement: they're ahead. That’s all—do what we do, but noblier done— Use plate, whereas we eat our meals off delf (To use a figure). Concede that, and I ask Next what may be the mode of intercourse Between us men here, and those once-men there? First comes the Bible’s speech; then, history With the supernatural element,—you know— All that we sucked in with our mother’s milk, Grew up with, got inside of us at last, Till it’s found bone of bone and flesh of flesh. See now, we start with the miraculous, And know it used be, at all events: What’s the first step we take, and can’t but take, In arguing from the known to the obscure? Why, this: “ What was before, may be to-day. Since Samuel’s ghost appeared to Saul,—of course 26G MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM.” My brother’s spirit may appear to me.” Go tell your teacher that! What’s his reply? What brings a shade of doubt for the first time O’er his brow late so luminous with faith? “ Such things have been,” says he, “ and there’s no doubt Such things may be: but I advise mistrust Of eyes, ears, stomach,—more than all, of brain, Unless it be of your great-grandmother, Whenever they propose a ghost to you! ” The end is there’s a composition struck: ’Tis settled, we’ve some way of intercourse Just as in Saul’s time; only different: How, when, and where, precisely,—find it out!, I want to know, then, what’s so natural As that a person born into Ibis world And seized on by such teaching, should begin With firm expectancy and a frank look-out For his own allotment, his especial share I’ the secret,—his particular ghost, in fine? I mean, a person born to look that way, Since natures differ: take the painter sort. One man lives fifty years in ignorance Whether grass be green or red,—“ No kind of eye For color,” say you; while another picks And puts away even pebbles, when a child, Because of bluish spots and pinky veins— “ Give him forthwith a paint-box!” Just the same Was I born . . . “medium,’ you won’t let me say,— Well, seer of the supernatural Every when, everyhow, and everywhere,— Will that do? I and all such boys of course Started with the same stock of Bible-trutli; Only,—what in the rest you style their sense, Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative, This, betimes, taught them the old world had one law And ours another: “ New world, new laws,” cried they: “ None but old laws, seen everywhere at work,” Cried I, and by their help explained my life The Jews’ way, still a working way to me. Ghosts made (lie noises, fairies waved the lights, Or Santa Claus slid down on New-Year’s Eve And stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed, Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slate O’ the sum that came to grief the day before. This could not last long; soon enough I found Who had worked wonders thus, and to what end: But did I find all easy, like my mates? Henceforth no supernatural any more? Not a whit: what projects the billiard-balls? “ A cue,” you answer: “ Yes a cue,” said I; » MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM.” 267 “ But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue? What unseen agency, outside the world, Prompted its puppets to do this and that, Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind, These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters? ” Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since. Just so I reason, in sober earnest still, About the greater godsends, what you call The serious gains and losses of my life. What do I know or care about your world Which either is or seems to be? This snap O’ my fingers, sir! My care is for myself; Myself am whole and sole reality Inside a raree-show and a market-mob Gathered about it: that’s the use of things. ’Tis easy saying they serve vast purposes, Advantage their grand selves: be it true or false. Each thing may have two uses. What’s a star? A world, or a world’s sun: doesn’t it serve As taper also, timo )iece, weather-glass, And almanac? Are stars not set for signs When we shall shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees? The Bible says so. Well, I add one use To all the acknowledged uses, and declare If I spy Charles’s Wain at twelve to-night, It warns me, “ Go, nor lose another day, And have your hair cut, Sludge? ” You laugh: and why? Were such a sign too hard for God to give? No: but Sludge seems too little for such grace: Thank you, sir ! So you think, so does not Sludge! When you and good men gape at Providence, Go into history and bid us mark Not merely powder-plots prevented, crowns Kept on kings’ heads by miracle enough, But private mercies—oh, you’ve told me, sir, Of such interpositions! How yourself Once, missing on a memorable day Your handkerchief—just setting out, you know,—• You must return to fetch it, lost the train, And saved your precious self from what befell The thirty-three whom Providence forgot. You tell, and ask me what I think of this? Well, sir, I think, then, since you needs must know, What matter had you and Boston City to boot Sailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings? Much To you, no doubt: forme—undoubtedly The cutting of my hair concerns me more, Because, however sad the truth may seem. Sludge is of all-importance to himself. You set apart that day in every year 268 Mil SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM.’* For special thanksgiving, were a heathen else: Well, I who cannot boast the like escape, Suppose I said “ I don’t thank Providence For my part, owing it no gratitude? ”— “ Nay, but you owe as much ”—you’d tutor me, You, every man alive, for blessings gained In every hour o’ the day, could you but know! I saw my crowning mercy: all have such, Could they but see! ” Well, sir, why don’t they see? “ Because they won’t look,—or perhaps they can’t.” Then, sir, suppose I can, and will, and do Look, microscopically as is right. Into each hour with its infinitude Of influence, at work to profit Sludge? For that’s the case: I’ve sharpened up my sight To spy a providence in the fire’s going out, The kettle’s boiling, the dime’s sticking fast Despite the hole i’ the pocket. Call such facts Fancies, too petty a work for Providence, And those same thanks which you exact from me, Prove too prodigious payment: thanks for what, If nothing guards and guides us little men? No, no, sir! You must put away your pride, Resolve to let Sludge into partnership! I live by signs and omens: look at the roof Where the pigeons settle—“ If the farther bird, The white, takes wing first, I’ll confess when thrashed; Not, if the blue does ”—so I said to myself Last week, lest you should take me by surprise: Off flapped the white,— and I’m confessing, sir! Perhaps ’tis Providence’s whim and way With only me, i’ the world: how can you tell? “ Because unlikely! ” Was it likelier, now. That this our one out of all worlds beside, The what-d’you-call-’em millions, should be just Precisely chosen to make Adam for, And the rest o’ the tale? Yet the tale’s true, you know Such undeserving clod was graced so once; Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge? Are we merit-mongers, flaunt we filthy rags? All you can bring against my privilege Is, that another way was taken with you,— Which I don’t question. It’s pure grace, my luck. I’m broken to the way of nods and winks, And need no formal summoning. You’ve a help; Halloa his name or whistle, clap your hands, Stamp with your foot or pull the bell: all’s one, He understands you want him, here he comes. Just so, I come at the knocking: you, sir, wait The tongue o’ the bell, nor stir before you catch Reason’s clear tingle, nature’s clapper brisk, Or that traditional peal was wont to cheer MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM 209 Your mother’s face turned heavenward: short of these There’s no authentic intimation, eh? Well, when you hear, you’ll answer them, start up And stride into the presence, top of toe, And there find Sludge beforehand, Sludge that sprung At noise o’ the knuckle on the partition-wall! I think myself the more religious man. Religion’s"all or nothing; it’s no mere smile O’ contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir— No quality o’ the finelier-tempered clay Like its whiteness or its lightness; rather, stuff O’ the very stuff, life of life, and self of self. I tell you, men won’t notice; when they do. They’ll understand. I notice nothing else, I’m eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape, Nothing eludes me, every thing’s a hint, Handle, and help. It’s all absurd, and yet There’s something in it all, I know: how much? No answer! What does that prove? Man’s still man. Still meant for a poor blundering piece of work When all’s done; but, if somewhat’s done, like this, Or not done, is the case the same? Suppose I blunder in my guess at the true sense O’ the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten,— What if the tenth guess happen to be right? If the tenth shovel-load of powdered quartz Yield me the nugget? I gather, crush, sift all. Pass o’er the failure, pounce on the success. To give you a notion, now (let who wins laugh!) When first I see a man what do 1 first? Why count the letters which make up his name, And as their number chances, even or odd, Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course: Hiram II. Horsefall is your honored name, And haven’t I found a patron, sir, in you? “ Shall I cheat this stranger? ” I take apple-pips, Stick one in either canthus of my eye, And if the left drops first—(your left, sir, stuck) I’m warned, I let the trick alone this time. You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash. You judge of character by other rules: Don’t your rules sometimes fail you? Pray, what rule Have you judged Sludge by hitherto? Oh, be sure. You, everybody blunders, just u s I, In simpler tilings than these by far. For see: I knew two farmers,—one, a wiseacre Who studied seasons, rummaged almanacs, Quoted the dew-point, registered the frost, And then declared, for outcome of his pains, Next summer must be dampish: ’twas a drought. MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM 270 His neighbor prophesied such drought would fall. Saved hay and corn, made cent per cent thereby, And proved a sage indeed: how came his lore? Because one brindled heifer, late in March, Stiffened her tail of evenings, and somehow He got into his head that drought was meant! I don’t expect all men can do as much: Such kissing goes by favor. You must take A certain turn of mind for this,—a twist 1’ the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive, Open-mouthed, like my friend the anteatcr, Letting all nature’s loosely guarded motes Settle and, slick, be swallowed! Think yourself The one i’ the world, the one for whom the world Was made, expect it tickling at your mouth! Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies, Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive, Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough. I can’t pretend to mind your smiling, sir! Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way, Close converse, frank exchange of offices, Strict sympathy of the immeasurably great With the infinitely small, betokened here By a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks,— How does it suit the dread traditional text O’ the Great and Terrible Name? ” Shall the Heaven of heavens Stoop to such child’s play? Please, sir, go with*me A moment, and I’ll try to answer you. The “ Magnum et terribile” (is that right?) Well, folk began with this in the early day; And all the acts they recognized in proof Were thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealt Indisputably on men whose death they caused. There, and there only, folk saw Providence At work,—and seeing it, ’twas right enough All heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain, And knees knock hard together at the breath O’ the Name’s first letter; why, the Jews, I’m told, Won’t write it down, no, to tliis very hour. Nor speak aloud: you know best if’t be so. Each ague-fit of fear at end, they crept (Because somehow people once born must live) Out of the sound, sight, swing, and sway o’ the Name, Into a corner, the dark re3t of the woLd, And safe space where as yet no fear had reached; ’Twas there they looked about them, breathed again. And felt indeed at home, as we might say, The current o’ common things, the daily life, This had their due contempt; no Name pursued Man from the mountain-top where fires abide, MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM.” To his particular mouse-hole at its foot Where he ate, drank, digested, lived in short: Such was man’s vulgar business, far too small To be worth thunder: “ small,” folk kept on, “ small,” With much complacency in those great days! A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass— What was so despicable as mere grass, Except perhaps the life o’ the worm or fly Which fed there? These were “ small ” and men were great. Well, sir, the old way’s altered somewhat since. And the world wears another aspect now: Somebody turns our spyglass round, or else Puts a new lens in it: grass, worm, fly grow big: We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Conies God behind them. Talk of mountains now? We talk of mold that heaps the mountain, mites That throng the mold, and God that makes the mites. The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst, The simplest of creations just a sac That’s mouth, heart, legs, and belly at once, yet lives And feels, and could do neither, we conclude, If simplified still further one degree: The small becomes the dreadful and immense! Lightning, forsooth? No word more upon that? A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk, With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and there’s Your dollar’s worth of lightning! But the cyst— The life of the least of the little things? No, no! Preachers and teachers try another tack, Come near the truth this time: they put aside Thunder and lightning: “ That’s mistake ” they cry, “Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport, But do appreciable good, like tides, Changes o’ the wind, and other natural facts— ‘ Good ’ meaning good to man, his body or soul. Mediate, immediate, all things minister To man,—that’s settled: be our future text ‘ We are His children! ’ ” So, they now harangue About the intention, the contrivance, all That keeps up an incessant play of love,— See the Bridgewater book. Amen to it? Well, sir, I put this question: I’m a child? I lose no time, but take you at your word: How shall I act a child’s part properly? Your sainted mother, sir,—used you to live With such a thought as this a-worrying you? “ She has it in her power to throttle me, Or stab or poison: she may turn me out. MR SLUDGE , “ THE MEDIUMS 272 Or lock me in,—nor stop at this to-day, But cut me off to-morrow from the estate I look for ”—(long may you enjoy it, sir !) “ In brief, she may uncliild the child I am.” You never had such crotchets? Nor have I! Who, frank confessing childsliip from the first, Can not both fear and take my ease at once, So, don’t fear,—know what might be, well enough, But know too, childlike, that it will not be, At least in my case, mine, the son and heir O’ the kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style. But do you fancy I stop short at this? Wonder if suit and service, son and heir Needs must expect, I dare pretend to find? If, looking for signs proper to such an one, I straight perceive them irresistible? Concede that homage is a son’s plain right, And, never mind the nods and raps and winks, ’Tis the pure obvious supernatural Steps forward, does its duty: why, of course! I have presentiments; my dreams come true: I fancy a friend stands wdiistling all in white Blithe as a bob’link, and he’s dead I learn. I take dislike to a dog my favorite long, And sell him: he goes mad next week, and snaps. I guess that stranger will turn up to-day I have not seen these three years: there’s his knock. I wager “ sixty peaches on that tree! ”— That I pick up a dollar in my walk, That your wife’s brother’s cousin’s name was George- And win on all points. Oh! you wince at this? You’d fain distinguish between gift and gift, Washington’s oracle and Sludge’s itch O’ the elbow when at whist he ought to trump? With Sludge it’s too absurd? Fine, draw the line Somewhere ; but, sir, your somewhere is not mine! Bless us, I’m turning poet ! It’s time to end. How you have drawn me out, sir! All I ask Is—am I heir or not heir? If I’m he, Then, sir, remember, that same personage (To judge by what we'read i’ the newspaper! Requires, beside one nobleman in gold To carry up and down his coronet, Another servant, probably a duke, To hold egg-nogg in readiness: why want Attendance, sir, when helps in his father’s house Abound, I’d like to know? Enough of talk! My fault is that I tell too plain a truth. Why, which of those who say they disbelieve, Your clever people, but has dreamed his dream. MR. SLUDGE, “THE MEDIUM .” Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his fact He can’t explain (lie’ll tell you smilingly), Which he’s too much of a philosopher To count as supernatural, indeed, So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it: Bidding you still be on your guard, you know, Because one fact don’t make a system stand, Nor prove this an occasional escape Of spirit beneath the matter : that’s the way! Just so wild Indians picked up, piece by piece, The fact in California, the fine gold That underlay the gravel—hoarded these, But never made a system stand, nor dug! So wise men hold out in each hollowed palm A handful of experience, sparkling fact They can’t explain; and since their rest of life Is all explainable, what proof is this? Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold, And fling away the dirty rest of life, And add this grain to the grain each fool has found O’ the million other such philosophers,— Till I see gold, all gold and only gold, Truth questionless though unexplainable, And the miraculous proved the commonplace! The other fools believed in mud, no doubt— Failed to know gold they saw: was that so strange? Are all men born to play Bach’s fiddle-fugues, “ Time ” with the foil in carte, jump their own height, Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five, Make the red hazard with the cue, clip nails While swimming, in five minutes row a mile, Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm, Do sums of fifty figures in their head, And so on, by the scores of instances? The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts, His fellows strive and fail to see, may rank With these, and share the advantage. Ay, but share The drawback! Think it over by yourself: I have not heart, sir, and the fire’s gone gray. Defect somewhere compensates for success, _ Every one knows that. Oh, we’re equals, sir! The big-legged fellow has a little arm And a less'brain, though big legs win the race: Do you suppose I ’scape the common lot? Say, I was born with flesh so sensitive, Soul so alert, that, practice helping both, I guess what’s going on outside the veil, Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-time In the islands where his kind are, so must fall To capering by himself some shiny night, 274 MR. SLUDGE, “TEE MEDIUM As if your back-yard were a plot of spice— Thus am I ’ware o’ the spirit-world: while you, Blind as a beetle that way,—for amends, Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir! Ride that hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours, Laugh when it lightens, play with the great dog, Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear, Never brag, never bluster, never blush,— In short, you’ve pluck, when I’m a coward—there! I know it, I can’t help it,—folly or no, I’m paralyzed, my hand’s no more a hand, Nor my head, a head, in danger: you can smile, And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift’s not mine. Would you swap for mine? No! but you’d add my gift To yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times, Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch, Keep cool when threatened, did not mind so much Being dressed gayly, making strangers stare, Eating nice things; when I’d amuse myself, I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain, I’m—now the President, now, Jenny Lind, Now, Emerson, now, the Benicia Boy— With all the civilized world a-wondering And worshiping. I know it is folly and worse; I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul: But I can’t cure myself,—despond, despair, And then, hey, presto, there’s a turn o’ the wheel, Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends; Sludge knows and sees and hears a hundred things You all are blind to,—I’ve my taste of truth, Likewise my touch of falsehood,—vice no doubt, But you’ve your vices also: I’m content. What sir? You won’t shake hands? “ Because I cheat! ” “ You’ve found me out in cheating! ” That’s enough To make an apostle swear! Why, when I cheat, Mean to cheat, do cheat, and cun caught in the act, Are you, or rather, am I sure o' the fact f (There’s verse again, but I’m inspired somehow.) Well then I’m not sure! I may be, perhaps, Free as a babe from cheating: how it began, My gift,—no matter; what ’tis got to be In the end now, that’s the question; answer that! Had I seen, perhaps, what hand was holding mine, Leading me whither, I had died of fright, So, I was made believe I led myself. If I should la} 7 a six-incli plank from roof To roof, you would not cross the street, one step, Even at your mother’s summons; but being shrewd, If I paste paper on each side the plank, And swear ’tis solid pavement, why, you’ll cross Humming a tune the while, in ignorance MR. SLUDGE , “THE MEDIUMS Beacon Street stretches a hundred feet below: I walked thus, took the paper-cheat for stone. Some impulse made me set a thing o’ the move Which, started once, ran really by itself; Beer flows thus, suck the siphon; toss the kite, It takes the wind and floats of its own force. Don’t let truth’s lump rot stagnant for the lack Of a timely helpful lie to leaven it! Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen, She’ll lay a real one, laudably deceived, Daily for weeks to come. I’ve told my lie. And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine; All was not cheating, sir, I’m positive! I don’t know if I move your hand sometimes When the spontaneous writing spreads so far, If my knee lifts the table all that height, Why the inkstand don’t fall off the desk a-tilt, Why the accordion plays a prettier waltz Than I can pick out on the piano-forte, Wh} T I speak so much more than I intend, Describe so many things I never saw. I tell you, sir, in one sense, I believe Nothing at all,—that everybody can, Will, and does cheat: but in another sense I’m ready to believe in my very self— That every cheat’s inspired, and every lie Quick with a germ of truth. You ask perhaps Why I should condescend to trick at all If I know a way without it? This is why! There’s a strange, secret, sweet self-sacrifice In any desecration of one’s soul To a worthy end:—isn’t it Herodotus (I wish I could read Latin!) who describes The single gift o’ the land’s virginity, Demanded in those old Egyptian rites, (I’ve but a hazy notion—help me, sir!) For one purpose in the world, one day in a life, One hour in a day—thereafter, purity, And a veil thrown o’er the past for evermore! Well now, they understood a many things Down by Nile city, or wherever it was! I’ve always vowed, after the minute’s lie, * And the end’s gain,—truth should be mine henceforth. This goes to the root o’ the matter, sir,—this plain Plump fact: accept it, and unlock with it The wards of many a puzzle! Or, finally, Why should I set so fine a gloss on Hiings? Wliat need I care? 1 cheat in self-defense, And there’s my answer to a world of cheats! MR. SLUDGE, “ THE MEDIUM.” 276 Cheat? To be sure, sir! Wliat’s the world worth else? Who takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars? Don’t it want trimming, turning, furbishing up And polishing over? Your so-styled great men, Do they accept one truth as truth is found, Or try their skill at tinkering? Wliat’s your world? Here are you born, who are, I’ll say at once, Of the luckiest whether as to head or heart, Body and soul, or all that helps the same. Well, now, look back: what faculty of yours Came to its full, had ample justice done By growing when rain fell, biding its time, Solidifying growth when earth was dead, Spiring up, broadening wide, in seasons due? Never! You shot up and frost nipped you off, Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout; One faculty thwarted its fellow: at the end, All you boast is, “ I had proved a topping tree In other climes ”—yet this was the right clime Had you foreknown the seasons. Young, you’ve force Wasted like well streams: old,—oh, then indeed, Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipes Through which you’d play off wondrous waterw T ork ; Only, no water left to feed their play. Young,—you’ve a hope, an aim, a love; it’s tossed And crossed and lost: you struggle on, some spark Shut in your heart against the puffs around, Through cold and pain: these in due time subside, Now then for age’s triumph, the hoarded light You mean to loose on the altered face of things,— Up with in on the tripod! It’s extinct. Spend your life’s remnant asking—which was best, Light smothered up that never peeped forth once, Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine? Well, accept this too,—seek the fruit of it Not in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth, But knowledge, useful for a second chance, Another life,—you’ve lost this world, you’ve gained Its knowledge for the next.— What knowledge, sir, Except that you know nothing? Nay, you doubt Whether ’tvvere better have been made man or brute, If aught is true, if good aqd evil clash. No foul, no fair, no inside, no outside, There’s your world! Give it me! I slap it brisk With harlequin’s pasteboard scepter: what’s it now? Changed like a rock-fiat, rough with rusty weed, At first wash-over o’ the returning wave! All the dry, dead, impracticable stuff Starts into life and light again; this world MR. SLUDGE, '‘ THE MEDIUMS Pervaded by the influx from the next. I cheat, and wliats the happy consequence? You And full justice straightway dealt you out. Each want supplied, eaeli ignorance set at ease, Each folly fooled. No life-long labor now At the price of worse than nothing! No mere film Holding you chained in iron, as it seems, Against the outstretch of your very arms And legs i’ the sunshine moralist forbid! What would you have? Just speak and, there, you see! You’re supplemented, made a whole at last: Bacon advises, Shakespeare writes you songs, And Mary Queen of Scots embraces you. Thus it goes on, not quite like life perhaps, But so near, that the very difference piques, Shows that e’en better than this best will be— This passing entertainment in a hut Whose bare walls take your taste—since, one stage more And you arrive at the palace: all half real, And you, to suit it, less than real beside, In a dream, lethargic kind of death in life, That helps the interchange of natures, flesh Transfused by souls, and such souls! Oh, ’tis choice! And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin, Seems nigh on bursting,—if you nearly see The real world through the false,—what do you see? Is the old so ruined? You find you’re in a flock O’ the youthful, earnest, passionate—genius, beauty, Rank and wealth also, if you care for these, And all deposed their natural rights, hail you (That’s me, sir) as their mate and yoke fellow. Participate in Sludgehood—nay, grow mine, I veritably possess them—banish doubt, And reticence and modesty alike! Why, here’s the Golden Age, old Paradise, Or new Eutopia! Here is life indeed, And the world well won now, yours for the first time! And all this might be, may be, and with good help Of a little lying shall be: so, Sludge lies! Why, lie’s at worst your poet who sing how Greeks That never were, in Troy which never was, Did this or the other impossible great thing! He’s Lowell—it’s a world, you smile and say, Of his own invention—wondrous Longfellow, Surprising Hawthorne! Sludge does more than they, Ami acts the books they write: the more his praise 1 But why do I mount to poets? Take plain prose— Dealers in common sense, set these at work, What can they do without their helpful lies? Each states the law and fact and face o’ the thing MR. SLUDGE, “ T1IE MEDIUM” l 27S Just as he’d have them, finds what he thinks fit, Is blind to what missuits him, just records What makes his ease out, quite ignores the rest. It’s a History of the World, the Lizard Age, The Early Indians, the Old Country War, Jerome Napoleon, whatsoever you please, All as the author wants it. Such a scribe You pay and praise for putting life in stones, Fire into fog, making the past your world. There’s plenty of “ How did you contrive to grasp The thread which led you through this labyrinth? 4 How build such solid fabric out of air? How on so slight foundation found this tale, Biography, narrative? ” or, in other words, “ How many lies did it require to make The portly truth you here present us with?”— “ Oh!” quoth the penman, purring at your praise, “ ’Tis fancy all; no particle of fact: I was poor and threadbare when I wrote that book ‘ Bliss in the Golden City.’ I, at Thebes? We writers paint out of our heads, you see! ” —“ Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you, The more creativeness and godlike craft! ” But I, do I present you with my piece, It’s “ What, Sludge? When my sainted mother spoke The verses Lady Jane Grey last composed About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven Where she and Queen Elizabeth keep house,— You made the raps? ’Twas your invention that? Cur, slave, and devil! ”—eight fingers and two thumbs Stuck in my throat? Well, if the marks seem gone, ’Tis because stifiish cock-tail, taken in time, Is better for a bruise then arnica. There, sir! I bear no malice; ’tisn’t in me. I know I acted wrongly: still, I’ve tried What I could say in my excuse,—to show The Devil’s not all devil ... I don’t pretend, An angel, much less such a gentleman As you, sir! And I’ve lost you, lost myself, Lost all, 1-1-1- . . . No—are you in earnest, sir? Oh, yours, sir, is an angel’s part! I know What prejudice prompts, and what's the common course Men take to soothe their ruffled self-conceit: Only 3 *ou rise superior to it all! No, sir, it don’t hurt much; it’s speaking long That makes me choke a little: the marks will go! What? Twenty Y-notes more, and outfit too, And not a word to Greeley? One—one kiss O’ the hand that saves me! You’ll not let me speak TIIE BOY AND TUB ANGEL. 279 I well know, and I’ve lost the right, too true! But I must say, sir, if She hears (she does) Your sainted . . . Well, sir,—be it so! That’s, I think, My bed-room candle. Good-niglit. Bl-l-less you, sir! R-r-r, you brute-beast and blackguard! Cowardly scampi I only wish I dared burn down the house And spoil your sniggering! Oh! what, you’re the man? You’re satisfied at last? You’ve found out Sludge? We’ll see that presently: my turn, sir, next! I too can tell my story: brute,—do you hear?— You throttled your sainted mother, that old hag, In just such a fit of passion: no, it was . . . To get this house of hers, and many a note Like these . . . I’ll pocket them, however . . . five, Ten, fifteen . . . ay, you gave her throat the twist. Or else } r ou poisoned her! Confound the cuss! Where was my head? I ought to have prophesied He’ll die in a year and join her: that’s the way. 1 don’t know where my head is: what had I done? IIow did it all go? I said he poisoned her, And hoped he have grace given him to repent, Whereon he picked this quarrel, bullied me, And called me cheat: I thrashed him,—who could help? lie howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees To cut and run and save him from disgrace: I do so, and once oif, he slanders me. An end of him. Begin elsewhere anew! Boston’s a hole, the herring-pond is wide, Y-notes are something, liberty still more. Beside, is he the only fool in the world? THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. Morning, evening, noon, and night, “ Praise God!” sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned. Hard as he labored, long and well: O'er his work the boy’s curls fell. But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, “ Praise God! ” Then back again his curls he threw', And cheerful turned to work anew. Said Blaise, the listening monk, “ Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son, “ As w'ell as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope’s great way. “ This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter’s dome.” Said Theocrite, “ Would God that 1 Might praise him, that great way, and die!” Night passed, day shone; And Theocrite w r as gone. With God a day endures alway: A thousand years are but a day. God said in heaven, “ Nor day nor night 1 Now' brings the voice of my delight," A DEATH IN THE DESERT. ‘280 Then Gabriel, like a rainbow’s birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth: Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well; And morning,evening,noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite. “ Vainly I left my angel-sphere, Vain was thy dream for many a year. “ Thy voice’s praise seemed weak: it dropped — Creation’s chorus stopped! “ Go back and praise again The early way, while 1 remain. And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling’s hue; The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay; And ever o’er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content. “ With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation’s pausing strain. “ Back to the cell and poor employ: Resume the craftsman and the boy! ” Theocrite grew- old at home: A new Pope dwelt in Peter’s dome. (He did God’s will, to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.”) God said, “A praise is in mine ear; There is no doubt in it, no fear! “ So sing old worlds, and so New w r orlds that from my footstool go, “ Clearer loves sound other ways; I miss my little human praise.” Then forth sprang Gabriel’s wings, oil fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell. ’Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome. And paused above Saint Peter’s dome. In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery, With his holy vestments diglit, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite: And all his past career Came back upon him clear, Since when, a boy, he plied his trade* Till on his life the sickness weighed; And in his cell, wdien death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer: And rising from tike sickness drear He grew a priest, and now stood here. To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned. “ I bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell, And set thee here; I did not well. One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side. A DEATH IN THE DESERT. [Supposed of Pamphylax the Antio¬ chene: It is a parchment, of my rolls the fifth, Hath three skins glued together, is all Greek, And goetli from Epsilon down to Mu: Lies second in the surnamed Chosen Chest. Stained and conserved with juice of terebinth, Covered with cloth of hair, and let¬ tered Xi, From Xanthus, my wife’s uncle, now at peace: Mu and Epsilon stand for my own name, I may not write it, but I make a cross , To show I wait His coming, with the rest, And leave off here: beginneth Pam¬ phylax;'] I said, “If one should wet his lips with wine, And slip the broadest plantain leaf we find, Or else the lappet of a linen rcbe, Into the water-vessel, lay it right, And cool his forehead just above his eyes, A DEATH ID THE DESERT. 281 Tlie while a brother, kneeling either side, Should chafe each hand and try to make it warm,— He is not so far gone but he might speak.” This did not happen in the outer cave, Nor in the secret chamber of the rock, Where, sixty days since the decree out, We had him, bedded on a camel-skin, And waited for his dying all the while; But in the midmost grotto: since noon’s light The last of what might happen on his face. I at the head, and Xanthus at the feet, With Valens and the Boy, had lifted ]iim, And brought him from the chamber in the depths, And laid him in the light where we might see: For certain smiles began about his mouth, And his lids moved, presageful of the end. Beyond, and half-w T ay up the mouth o’ the cave, The Bactrian convert, having his desire, Kept watch and made pretense to graze a goat That gave us milk, on rags of various herb, Plantain and quitch, the rocks’ shade keeps alive: So that if any thief or soldier passed (Because the persecution was aware), Yielding the goat up promptly with his life, Such man might pass on, joyful at a prize, Nor care to pry into the cool o’ the cave. Ouside was all noon and the burning blue. “ Here is wine,” answered Xanthus— dropped a drop; I stooped and placed the lap of cloth aright, Then chafed his right hand, and the Boy his left: But Valens had bethought him, and produced And broke a ball of nard, and made perfume. Only, he did—not so much wake, as —turn And smile a little, as a sleeper does If any dear one call him, touch his face— And smiles and loves, but will not be disturbed. Then Xanthus said a prayer, but still he slept: It is the Xanthus that escaped to Rome, Was burned, and could not vrite the chronicle. Then the Boj^ sprang up from his knees, and ran, Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought, And fetched the seventh plate of graven lead Out of the secret chamber, found a place, Pressing with finger on the deeper dints, And spoke, as ’twere his mouth pro¬ claiming first “ I am the Resurrection and the Life.” Whereat he opened his eyes wide at once, And sat up of himself,and looked at us; And thenceforth nobody pronounced a word: Only,outside, the Bactrian cried his cry Like the lone desert-bird that wears the ruff, As signal we were safe, from time to time. First he said, “If a friend declared to me, This my son Valens, this my other son, Were James and Peter,—nay, declared as well 282 A DEATH IN TlIE DESERT. This lad was very Jolm,—I could ! believe! Could, for a moment, doubtlessly be¬ lieve: So is myself withdrawn into my depths, The soul retreated from the perished brain Whence it was wont to feel and use the world Through these dull members, done with long ago. Yet I myself remain; I feel myself: And there is nothing lost. Let be, a while! ” [This was the doctrine he was wont to teach, How divers persons witness in each man, Three souls which make up one soul: first, to wit, A soul of each and all the bodily parts, Seated therein, which works, and is what Does, And has the use of earth, and ends the man Downward: but, tending upward for advice, Grows into, and again is grown into By the next soul, which, seated in the brain, Usetli the first with its collected use, And feeleth, thinketh, willeth,—is what Knows; Which, duly tending upward in its turn, Grows into, and again is grown into By the last soul, that uses both the first, Subsisting whether they assist or no, And, constituting man’s self, is what Is— And leans upon the former, makes it Play, As that played off the first: and, tending up. Holds, is upheld by, God, and ends the man Upward in that dread point of inter¬ course, | Nor needs a place, for it returns to Him. What Does, what Knows, what Is; three souls, one man. I give the glossa of Theotypas.] And then, “ A stick, once fire from end to end; Now, ashes save the tip that holds a spark! Yet, blow the spark, it runs back, spreads itself A little where the fire was: thus I urge The soul that served me, till it task once more What ashes of my brain have kept their shape, And these make effort on the last o’ the flesh, Trying to taste again the truth of things ”— (He smiled)—“their very superficial truth; As that ye are my sons, that is long Since James and Peter had release by death, And I am only he, your brother John, Who saw and heard, and could re¬ member all. Remember all! It is not much to say. What if the truth broke on me from above As once and ofttimes? Such might hap again: Doubtlessly He might stand in pres¬ ence here, With head wool-white, eyes flame, and feet like brass, The sword and the seven stars, as I have seen— I who now shudder only and surmise ‘ How did your brother bear that sight and live? ’ “ If I live yet, it is for good, more love Through me to men: be naught but ashes here That keep a while my semblance, who was John,— Still, when they scatter, there is left on earth - No one alive who knew (consider this!) A DEATH IN TilE DESERT. 283 -—Saw with his eyes and handled with his hands That which was from the first, the Word of Life. ITow will it be when none more saitli ‘ 1 saw ’ ? “ Such ever was love’s way: to rise, it stoops Since I. whom Christ’s mouth taught, was bidden teach, I went, for many years, about the world, Saying, ‘ It was so; so I heard and saw,’ Speaking as the case asked: and men believed. Afterward came the message to myself In Patinos isle; I was not bidden teach, But simply listen, take a book and write, Nor set down other than the given word, With nothing left to my arbitrament To choose or change: I wrote, and men believed. Then, for my time grew brief, no mes¬ sage more, No call to write again, I found a way, And, reasoning from my knowledge, merely taught Men should, for love’s sake, in love’s strength, believe; Or I would pen a letter to a friend And urge the same as friend, nor less nor more: Friends said I reasoned rightly, and believed, But at the last, why, I seemed left alive Like a sea-jelly weak on Patinos strand, To tell dry sea-beacli gazers how I fared When there was mid-sea, and the mighty things; Left to repeat, ‘ I saw, I heard, I knew,’ And go all over the old ground again, With Antichrist already in the world, And many Antichrists, who answered prompt 1 Am I not Jaspar as thyself art John? Nay, young, whereas through age thou mayest forget: Wherefore, explain, or how shall we believe? I never thought to call down tire on such, Or, as in wonderful and early days, Pick up the scorpion, tread the serpent dumb; But patient stated much of the Lord’s life Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it work: Since much that at the first, in deed and word, Lay simply and sufficiently exposed, Had grown (or else my soul was grown to match, Fed through such years, familiar with such light, Guarded and guided still to see and speak) Of new significance and fresh result; What first were guessed as points, I now knew stars, And named them in the Gospel 1 have writ. For men said, ‘ It is getting long ago ’: ‘ Where is the promise of His coming? ’ —asked These young ones in their strength, as loth to wait, Of me who, when their sires were born, was old. I, for I loved them, answered, joy¬ fully, Since I was there, and helpful in my age; And, in the main, I think such men believed. Finally, thus endeavoring, I fell sick, Ye brought me here, and 1 supposed the end, And went to sleep with one thought that, at least, Though the whole earth should lie in wickedness, We had the truth, might leave the rest to God. Yet now 1 wake in such decrepitude As I had slidden down and fallen afar, A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 284 Past even the presence of my former self, Grasping the while for stay at facts which snap, Till I am found away from my own world, Feeling for foothold through a blank profound, Along with unborn people in strange lands, Who say—I hear said or conceive they say— ‘ Was John at all, and did he say he saw? Assure us, ere we ask what he might see!’ ft “ And how shall I assure them? Can they share —They, who have flesh, a veil of yopth and strength About each spirit, that needs must bide its time, Living and learning still as years assist Which wear the thickness thin, and let man see— With me who hardly am withheld at all, But sliudderingly, scarce a shred be¬ tween, Lie bare to the universal prick of light? Is it for nothing we grow old and weak, We whom God loves? When pain ends, gain ends too. To me, that story—ay, that Life and Death Of which I wrote ‘ it was ’—to me, it is; —Is, here and now: I apprehend naught else. Is not God now i’ the world his power first made? Is not his love at issue still with sin, Visibly when a wrong is done on earth ? Love, wrong and pain, what see I else around? Yea, and the Resurrection and Uprise To the right hand of the throne—what is it beside. When such truth, breaking bounds, o’erfloods my soul, And, as I saw the sin and death, even so See I the need yet transiency of both, The good and glory consummated thence? I saw the Power; I see the Love, once weak, Resume the Power: and in this word ‘ I see/ Lo, there is recognized the Spirit of both That moving o’er the spirit of man, unblinds His eye and bids him look. These are, I see; But ye, the children, his beloved ones too, Ye need,—as I should use an optic glass I wondered at erewliile, somewhere i’ the world, It had been given a crafty smith to make; A tube, he turned on objects brought too close, Lying confusedly insubordinate For the unassisted eye to master once: Look through his tube, at distance now they lay, Become succinct, distinct, so small, so clear! Just thus, ye needs must apprehend what truth I see, reduced to plain historic fact, Diminished into clearness, proved a point And far aw r ay: ye would withdraw your sense From out eternity, strain it upon time, Then stand before that fact, that Life and Death, Stay there at. gaze, till it dispart, dis¬ pread, As though a star should open out, all sides, Grow the world on you, as it is my world. “ For life, with all its yields of joy and woe, A DEATH IN T1IE DESERT 2 88 And hope and fear,—believe the aged friend,— Is just our chance o’ the prize of learn¬ ing love, How love might be, hath been indeed, and is; And that we hold thenceforth to the uppermost Such prize despite the envy of the world, And, having gained truth, keep truth: that is all. But see the double way wherein we are led, IIow the soul learns diversely from the flesh! With flesh, that hath so little time to stay, And yields mere basement for the soul’s emprise, Expect prompt teaching. Helpful was the light, And warmth was cherishing and food was choice To every man’s flesh, thousand years ago. As now to yours and mine the body sprang At once to the height, and stayed: but the soul,—no! Since sages who, this noontide, medi¬ tate In Rome or Athens, may descry some point Of the eternal power, hid yestereve: And, as thereby the power’s whole mass extends, go much extends the ether floating o’er The love that tops the might, the Christ in God. Then, as new lessons shall be learned in these Till earth’s work stop and useless time run out, So duly, daily, needs provision be For keeping the soul’s prowess pos¬ sible, Building new barriers as the old de¬ cay, Saving us from evasion of life’s proof, Putting the question ever, ‘ Hoes God Jove. And will ye hold that truth against the world? ’ Ye know there needs no second proof with good Gained for our flesh from any earthly source: We might go freezing,—ages, give us tire, Thereafter we judge fire at its full worth, And guard it safe through every chance, ye know! That fable of Prometheus and his theft, How mortals gained Jove’s fiery flower, grows old (I have been used to hear the pagans own) And out of mind; but fire, howe’er its birth, Here is it, precious to the sophist now Who laughs the myth of JEschylus to scorn, As precious to those satyrs of his play, Who touched it in gay wonder at the thing. While were it so with the soul,—this gift of truth Once grasped, were this our soul’s gain safe, and sure To prosper as the body’s gain is wont,— Why, man’s probation would conclude his earth Crumble; for he both reasons and de¬ cides, Weighs first, then chooses : will he give up fire For gold or purple once lie knows its worth? Could lie give Christ up were His worth as plain? Therefore, I say, to test man, the proofs shift, Nor may he grasp that fact like other fact, And straightway in his life acknowl¬ edge it, As, say, the indubitable bliss of fire. Sigh ye, 4 It had been easier once than now ? To give you answer I am left alive; 236 A DEATH IN THE DESERT Look at me wlio was present from the first! Ye know what things I saw; then came a test, My first, befitting me who so had seen: ‘Forsake the Christ thousawest trans¬ figured, Him Who trod the sea and brought the dead to life? What should wring this from thee?’ —ye laugh and ask. What wrung it? Even a torchlight and a noise, The sudden Roman faces, violent hands, And fear of what the Jews might do! Just that, And it is written, ‘ I forsook and fled There was my trial, and it ended thus. Ay, but my soul had gained its truth, could grow: Another year or two, — wliat little child. What tender woman that had seen no least Of all my sights, but barely heard them told, Who did not clasp the cross with a light laugh, Or wrap the burning robe round, thanking God? Well, was truth safe forever, then? Not so. Already had begun the silent work Whereby truth, deadened of its abso¬ lute blaze, Might need love’s eye to pierce the o’erstretched doubt. Teachers were busy, whispering ‘ All is true As the aged ones report; but youth can reach Where age gropes dimly, weak with stir and strain, And the full doctrine slumbers till to¬ day.’ Thus, what the Roman’s lowered spear w r as found, A bar to me who touched and handled truth, Now proved the glozing of some new shrewd tongue, This Ebion, this Cerintlius or their mates, Till imminent was the outcry ‘ Save our Christ! ’ Whereon I stated much of the Lord's life Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it work. Such work done, as it will be, what comes next? What do I hear say, or conceive men say, ‘ Was John at all, and did he say he saw? Assure us, ere we ask what he might see! ’ “ Is this indeed a burthen for late days, And may I help to bear it with you all, Using my weakness which becomes your strength? For if a babe were born inside this grot, Grew to a boy here, heard us praise the sun, Yet had but yon sole glimmer in light’s place,— One loving him and wishful he should learn, Would much rejoice himself was blind¬ ed first Month by month here, so made to un¬ derstand IIow eyes, born darkling, apprehend amiss: I think I could explain to such a child There was more glow r outside than gleams he caught, Ay, nor need urge ‘ I saw it, so I be¬ lieve ! ’ It is a heavy burthen you shall bear In latter days, new lands, or old grown strange, Left without me, which must be veiy soon. What is the doubt, my brothers ? Quick with it! I see you stand conversing, each new face, Either in fields, of yellow summei eves, On islets yet unnamed amid the sea: A DEATH IN TIIE DESERT. 287 Or pace for shelter ’neath a portico Out of the crowd in some enormous town Where now the larks sing in a solitude; Or muse upon blank heaps of stone and sand Idly conjectured to be Ephesus: And no one asks his fellow any more < Where is the promise of His coming? ’ but ‘ Was He revealed in any of His lives, As Power, as Love, as Influencing Soul?’ “ Quick, for time presses, tell the whole mind out, And let us ask and answer and be saved! My book speaks on, because it cannot pass; One listens quietly, nor scoffs but pleads ‘ Here is a tale of things done ages since: What truth was ever told the second day? Wonders, that would prove doctrine, go for naught. Remains the doctrine, love; well, we must love, And what we love most, power and love in one, Let us acknowledge on the record here, Accepting these in Christ: must Christ then be? Has He been? Did not we ourselves, make Him? Cur mind receives but what it holds, no more. First of the love, then ; we acknowl¬ edge Christ— A proof we comprehend His love, a proof We had such love Already in ourselves, Knew first what eke we should not recognize. Tis mere projection from man’s in¬ most mind, And, what he loves, thus falls re¬ flected back, Becomes accounted somewhat out of j him; 1 He throws it up in air, it drops down earth’s, With shape, name, story added, man’s old way. How prove you Christ came otherwise at least? Next try the power: He made and rules the world; Certes there is a world once made, now ruled, Unless things have been ever as we see. Our sires declared a charioteer’s yoked steeds Brought the sun up the east and down the west, Which only of itself now rises, sets, As if a hand impelled it and a will,— Thus they long thought, they who had will and hands: But the new question's whisper is dis¬ tinct, Wherefore must all force needs be like ourselves? We have the hands, the will; what made and drives The sun is force, is law, is named, not known, While will and love we do know; marks of these, Eye-witnesses attest, so books do clare— As *hat, to punish or reward our race, The sun at undue times arose or set Or else stood still: what do not men affirm? But earth requires as urgently reward Or punishment to-day as years ago, And none expects the sun will inter¬ pose: Therefore it was mere passion and mis¬ take, Or erring zeal for right, which changed the truth. Go back, far, farther, to the birth of things; Ever the will, the intelligence, the love, Man’s!—which he gives, supposing he but finds, As late he gave head, body, hands, and feet, ^’o help these in what forms he called his gods. 288 A DEATH IN THE DESERT. First, Jove’s brow, Juno’s eyes were swept away, But Jove’s wrath, Juno’s pride con¬ tinued long; At last, will, power, and love discarded these, So law in turn discards power, love, and will. What provetli God is otherwise at least? All else, projection from the mind of man! ’ Nay, do not give me wine, for I am strong, But place my gospel where I put my hands. “I say that man was made to grow, not stop, That help, he needed once, and needs, no more, Having grown but an inch by, is with¬ drawn: For he hath new needs, and new helps to these. This imports solely, man should mount on each New height in view; the help where¬ by he mounts, The ladder-rung his foot has left, may fall, Since all things suffer change save God the Truth. Man apprehends Him newly at each stage Whereat earth’s ladder drops, its ser¬ vice done; And nothing shall prove twice what once was proved. You stick a garden-plot with ordered twigs To show inside lie germs of herbs un¬ born, And check the careless step would spoil their birth; But when herbs wave, the guardian twigs may go, Since should ye doubt of virtues, ques¬ tion kinds, It is no longer for old twigs ye look, Which proved once underneath lay store of seed. But to the herb’s self, by what light ye boast, For what fruit’s signs are. This book’s fruit is plain, Nor miracles need prove it any more. Doth the fruit show? Then miracles bade ’ware At first of root and stem, saved both till now From trampling ox, rough boar, and wanton goat. What? Was man made a wheel work to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No! —grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne’er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same. This might be pagan teaching: now hear mine. “I say, that as the babe, you feed a while, Becomes a boy and fit to feed himself, So, minds at first must be spoon-fed with truth: When they can eat, babe’s nurture is withdrawn. I fed the babe whether it would or no: I bid the boy or feed himself or starve. I cried once, ‘ That ye may believe in Christ, Behold this blind man shall receive his sight! ’ I cry now, ‘ Urgest thou, for I am sh rewd, And smile at stories how John's word could cure — Repeat that miracle and take my faith V I say, that miracle was duly wrought When, save for it, no faith was possible. Whether the change came from our minds which see Of shows o’ the world so much as and no more Than God wills for His purpose,-- (what do I See now, suppose you there where you see rock Round us?)—I know not; such was tliq effect, A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 2s3 Bo faith grew, making void more mir¬ acles Because too much: they would compel, not help. I say, the acknowledgment of God in Christ Accepted by thy reason, solves for thee All questions in the earth and out of it, And has so far advanced thee to be wise. Wouldst thou unprove this to reprove the proved? In life’s mere minute, with power to use that proof, Leave knowledge and revert to how it sprung? Thou hast it; use it and forthwith, or die! For I say, this is death and the sole death, When a man’s loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest; A lamp’s death when, replete with oil, it chokes; A stomach’s when, surcharged with food, it starves, With ignorance was surety of a cure. When man, appalled at nature, ques¬ tioned first ‘ What if there lurk a might behind this might? ’ He needed satisfaction God could give. And did give, as ye have the written word: But when he finds might still redouble might, Yet asks, ‘ Since all is might, what use of will? ” — Will, the one source of might,—he being man. With a man’s will and a man’s might, to teach In little how the two combine in large,— That man has turned round on him¬ self and stands: Which in the course of nature is, to die. “ And when man questioned, ‘ What if there he love Behind the will and might, as real as they?’— He needed satisfaction God could give. And did give, as ye have the written word: But when, beholding that love every¬ where, And since ourselves can love and would be loved, We ourselves make the love, and Christ was not,’— How shall ye help this man who knows himself, That he must love and would be loved again, Yet owning his own love that provetli Christ, Rejecteth Christ through very need of Him? The lamp o’erswims with oil, the stomach flags Loaded with nurture, and thae man’s soul dies. “ If he rejoin, ‘But this was all the while A trick; the fault was, first of all, in thee, Thy story of the places, names and dates, Where, when, and how the ultimate truth had rise. —Thy prior truth, at last discovered none. Whence now the second suffers de¬ triment. What good of giving knowledge if, because O’ the manner of the gift, its profit fail? And why refuse what modicum of help Had stopped the after-doubt, impossi¬ ble I’ the face of truth—truth absolute, uniform? Why must 1 hit of this and miss of that, Distinguish just as I be weak or strong. And not ask of thee and have answer prompt Was this once, was it not once?—then and now 290 A in: AT 11 IN T1IE DESERT. And evermore, plain truth from man to man. Is John’s procedure just the heathen bard’s? Pet question of the famous play again How for the epliemerals’ sake. Jove’s tire was filched, And carried in a can, and brought to earth: The fact is in the fable, cry the wise, Mortals obtained the boon, so much is fact, Though fire be spirit and produced on earth. As with the Titan’s, so now with thy tale: Why breed in us perplexity, mistake, Nor tell the whole truth in the proper words?’ ‘‘ I answer, Have ye yet to argue out The very primal thesis, plainest law, —Man is not God but God’s end to serve. A master to obey, a course to take, Somewhat to cast off, somewhat to be¬ come? Grant this, then man must pass from old to new, From vain to real, from mistake to fact From what once seemed good, to what now proves best: How could man have progression otherwise? Before the point was mooted ‘ What is God?’ No savage man inquired ‘ What is myself? ’ Much less replied, ‘ First, last, and best of things.’ Man takes that title now if he believes Might can exist with neither will nor love, In God’s case—what he names now Nature’s Law— While in himself he recognizes love No less than might and will: and rightly takes. Since if man prove the sole existent thing Where these combine, whatever their degree, However weak the might or will or love, So they be found there, put in evi¬ dence,— He is as surely higher in the scale Than any might with neither love nor will. As life, apparent in the poorest midge (When the faint dust-speck flits, ye guess its wing), Is marvelous beyond dead Atlas’ self— Given to the nobler midge for resting- place! Thus, man proves best and highest— God, in tine, And thus the victory leads but to de¬ feat, The gain to loss, best rise to the worst fall, His life becomes impossible, which is death. “ But if, appealing thence, he cower, He is mere man, and in humility Neither may know God nor mistake himself: I point to the immediate consequence And say, by such confession straight he falls Into man’s place, a thing nor God nor beast, Made to know that he can know and not more: Lower than God who knows all and can all, Higher then beasts which know and can so far As each beast’s limit, perfect to an end, Nor conscious that they know, nor craving more; While man knows partly but conceives beside, Creeps ever on from fancies to the fact. And in this striving, the converting air Into a solid he may grasp and use, Finds progress, man’s distinctive mark alone. Not God’s, and not the beasts’: God is, they are, Man partly is and wholly hopes to be. Such progress could no more attend his soul A DEATH IX THE DESERT. 291 Were a!l it struggles after found at first And guesses changed to knowledge absolute, Than motion wait his body, were all else Than it the solid earth on every side, Where now though space he moves from rest to rest. Man, therefore, thus conditioned, must expect He could not, what he knows now, know at first ; What he considers that he know today, Come but to-morrow, he will find mis- known; Getting increase of knowledge, since he learns, Becausehe lives, which is to be a man, Set to instruct himself by his past self: First, like the brute, obliged by facts to learn, Next as man may, obliged by his own mind, Bent, habit, nature, knowledge turned to law. God’s gift was that man should con¬ ceive of truth, And yearn to gain it, catching at mis¬ take As midway help till he reach fact in¬ deed. The statuary ere he mold a shape Boasts a like gift the shape’s idea, and next The aspiration to produce the same: So, taking clay, he calls his shape thereout, Cries ever ‘Now I have the thing I see: * Yet all the while goes changing what was wrought, From falsehood like the truth, to truth itself. How were it had he cried ‘ I see no face, No breast, no feet i’ the ineffectual clay ’ ? Rather commend him that he clapped his hands, And laughed * It is my shaj>e and lives again! ’ Enjoyed the falsehood, touched it on to truth, Until yourselves applaud the flesh indeed In what is still flesh-imitating clay. Right in you, right in him, such way be man’s! God only makes the live shape at a jet. Will ye renounce this pact of crea- tureship? The pattern on the Mount subsists no more, Seemed a while, then returned to nothingness; But copies, Moses strove to make thereby, Serve still and are replaced as time requires: By these, make newest vessels, reach the type! If ye demur, this judgment on your head, Never to reach the ultimate, angels’ law, Indulging every instinct of the soul There where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing? “Such is the burthen of the latest time. I have survived to hear it with my ears, Answer it with my lips: does this suffice? For if there be a further woe than such, Wherein my brothers struggling need a hand, So long as any pulse is left in mine, May I be absent even longer yet, Plucking the blind ones back from the abyss, Though I should tarry a new hun¬ dred years! ” But he was dead: ’twas about noon, the day Somewhat declining: we five buried him That eve, and then, dividing, went five ways, And I, disguised, returned to Ephesus. By this, the cave’s mouth must be filled with sand. 292 FEARS AND SCRUPLES. Valens is lost, I know not of his trace; The Bactrian was but a wild childish man, And could not write nor speak, but only loved: So, lest the memory of this go quite, Seeing that I to-morrow fight the beasts, I tell the same to Phcebas, whom believe! For many look again to find that face, Beloved John’s to whom 1 ministered, Somewhere in life about the world; they err: Either mistaking what was darkly spoke At ending of his book, as he relates. Or misconceiving somewhat of this speech Scattered from mouth to mouth, as I suppose. Believe ye will not see him any more About the world with his divine re¬ gard! For all was as I say, and now the man Lies as he lay once, breast to breast with God. [Cerinthusread and mused; one added this— “ If Christ, as thou affirmest, be of men Mere man, the first and best but nothing more,— Account Him, for reward of what He was, Now and forever, wretchedest of all. For see: Himself conceived of life as love, Conceived of love as what must enter in, Fill up, make one with His each soul He loved: Thus much for man’s joy, all men’s joy for Him. Well, lie is gone, thou sayest, to fit reward, But by this time are many souls set free, And very many still retained alive: Nay, should His coming be delayed a while, Say, ten years longer (twelve years, some compute) See if, for every finger of thy hands, There be not found, that day the world shall end, Hundreds of souls, each holding by Christ’s word That He will grow incorporate with all, With me as Pamphylax, with him as John, Groom for each bride! Can a mere man do this? Yet Christ saith, this He lived and died to do. Call Christ, then, the illimitable God, Or lost!” But ’twas Cerinthus that is lost.] FEARS AND SCRUPLES. Here’s my case. Of old I used to love him, This same unseen friend, before I knew: Dream there was none like him. none above him,— Wake to hope and trust my dream was true. n. Loved I not his letters full of beauty? Not his actions famous far and wide? Absent, he would know I vowed him duty: Present, he would find me at his side. in. Pleasant fancy! for I had but letters, Only knew of actions by hearsay: lie himself was busied with my bet¬ ters; What of that? My turn must come some day. IY. “Some day” proving—no dayl Here’s the puzzle. Passed and passed my turn is. Why complain? ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES. 295 He’s so busied! If I could but muzzle People’s foolish mouth that give me pain! v. “Letters?” (hear them!) “You a judge of writing? Ask the experts! How they shake the head O’er these characters, your friend’s inditing— Call them forgery from A to Z! VI. “ Actions? Where’s your certain proof ” (they bother) “ He, of all you find so great and good, He, he only, claims this, that, the other Action—claimed by men, a multi¬ tude?” VII. I can simply wish I might refute you, Wish my friend would,—by a word, a wink,— Bid me stop that foolish mouth,—you brute you! He keeps absent,—why, I cannot think. VTIT. Never mind! Though foolishness may flout me, One thing’s sure enough: ’tis neither frost, No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me Thanks for truth—though false¬ hood, gained—though lost. IX. All my days, I’ll go the softlier, sad- lier, For that dream’s sake! How for¬ get the thrill Through and through me as I thought “ The gladlier Lives my friend because I love him still!” x. Ah, but there’s a menace some one utters 1 “ What and if your friend at home play tricks? Peep and hide-and-seek behind the sh utters? Mean your eyes should pierce through solid bricks? XI. “What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy Lay on you the blame that bricks— conceal? Say ‘ At least I saw ichodid not see me, Docs see now, and presently shall feel f ’ XII. “Why, that makes your friend a monster!” say you: Had his house no window? At first nod, Would you not have hailed him? ” Hush, I pray you! What if this friend happen to be— God? ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES. I am a goddess of the ambrosial courts, And save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed By none whose temples whiten this the world. Through heaven I roll my lucid moon along; I shed in hell o’er my pale people peace; On earth I, caring for the creatures, guard Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox- bitcli sleek, And every feathered mother’s callow brood, And all that love green haunts and loneliness. Of men, the chaste adore me, hanging crowns Of poppies red to blackness, bell and stem, Upon my image at Athenai here; And this dead"Youth, Asclepios benels above, 294 ARTEMIS I’ROLOGIZES. Was dearest to me. lie, my buskined step To follow through the wild-wood leafy ways, And chase the panting stag, or swift with darts Stop the swift ounce, or lay the leop¬ ard low, Neglected homage to another god: Whence Aphrodite, by no midnight smoke Of tapers lulled, in jealousy de¬ spatched A noisome lust that, as the gadbee stings, Possessed his stepdame Phaidra for himself The son of Theseus her great absent spouse. Hippolutos exclaiming in his rage Against the fury of the Queen, she judged Life insupportable; and, pricked at heart An Amazonian stranger’s race should dare To scorn her, perished by the murder¬ ous cord: Yet, ere she perished, blasted in a scroll The fame of him her swerving made not swerve. And Theseus read, returning, and be¬ lieved, And exiled, in the blindness of his wrath, The man without a crime who, last as first, Loyal, divulged not to his sire the truth. Now Theseus from Poseidon had ob¬ tained That of his wishes should be granted three, And one he imprecated straight— Alive May ne’er Hippolutos reach other lands! ” Poseidon heard, ai ai! And scarce the prince Had stepped into the fixed boots of the car -4- ' That give the feet a stay against the strength t Of the Ilenetian horses, ahd around His body filing the rein, and urged their speed Along the rocks and shingles of the shore, | When from the gaping wave a monstei flung His obscene body in the coursers’ path. These, mad with terror, as the sea-bull sprawled Wallowing about their feet, lost care of him That reared them; and the master- chariot-pole Snapping beneath their plunges like a reed, Hippolutos, whose feet were tram¬ meled fast, Was yet dragged forward by the cir¬ cling rein Which either hand directed; nor they quenched The frenzy of their flight before each trace. Wheel-spoke and splinter of the woe¬ ful car, Each boulder-stone, sharp stub, and spiny shell, Huge fish-bone wrecked and wreathed amid the sands On that detested beach, was bright with blood And morsels of his flesh: then fell the steeds Head foremost, crashing in their mooned fronts. Shivering with sweat, each white eye horror-fixed. His people, who had witnessed all afar, Bore back the ruins of Hippolutos. But when his sire, too swoln with pride, rejoiced (Indomitable as a man foredoomed) That vast Poseidon had fulfilled his prayer, I, in a flood of glory visible, Stood o’er my dying votary, and, deed By deed, revealed, as all took place, the truth. ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES. 295 Then Theseus Uxy the woeful lest of men, And worthily; bat ere the death-veils hid His face, the murdered prince full par¬ don breathed To his rash sire. Whereat Athenai Avails. So I, who ne’er forsake my votaries, Lest to the cross-way none the honey- cake Should tender, nor pour out the dog’s hot life; Lest at my fane the priests disconso¬ late Should dress my image with some faded poor Few crowns, made favors of, nor dare object Such slackness to my worshipers who turn Elsewhere the trusting heart and loaded hand, As they had climbed Oluinpos to re¬ port Of Artemis and nowhere found her throne— I interposed: and, this eventful night— (While round the funeral pyre the populace Stood with fierce light on their black robes which bound Each sobbing head, while yet their hair they clipped O’er the dead body of their withered prince, And, in his palace, Theseus prostrated On the cold hearth, his brow cold as the slab ’Twas bruised on, groaned away the heavy grief— As the pyre fell, and down the cross logs crashed Sending a crowd of sparkles through the night, And the gay fire, elate with mastery, Towered like a serpent o’er the clotted jars Of wine, dissolving oils and frankin¬ cense, And splendid gums like gold),—my potency Conveyed the perished man to my re¬ treat In the thrice-venerable forest here. And this white-bearded sage who squeezes now The berried plant, is Plioibos’ son of fame, Asclepios, whom my radiant brother taught The doctrine of each herb and flower and root, To know their secret’st virtue and express The saving soul of all: who so has soothed With lavers the torn brow and mur¬ dered cheeks, Composed the hair and brought its gloss again, And called the red bloom to the pale skin back, And laid the strips and jagged ends of flesh Even once more, and slackened the sinew’s knot Of every tortured limb—that now he lies As if mere sleep possessed him under¬ neath These interwoven oaks and pines. Oh cheer, Divine presenter of the healing rod, Thy snake, with ardent throat and lulling eye, Twines his lithe spires around! I say. much cheer! Proceed thou with thy wisest pharma cies! And ye, white crowd of woodland sister-nymphs, Ply, as the sage directs, these buds and leaves That strew' the turf around the twain 1 While I Await, in fitting silence, the event. pheidippides. £90 PHEIDIPPIDES. XaipeTE viKupEV. Fibst I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! Gods of my birthplace, demons and heroes, honor to all! Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise —Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear! Also, ye of the how and the buskin, praised be your peer, Now, henceforth, and forever,—O latest to whom I upraise Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock! Present to help, potent to save, Pan—patron I call! Arclions of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! See, ’tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks! Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, “ Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! Persia has come, we are here, where is She? ” Your command I obeyed, Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a tire runs through, Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burn Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. Into their midst I broke: breath served but for “ Persia has come! Persia bids Athens proffer slaves’-tribute, water and earth; Razed to the ground is Eretria—but Athens, shall Athens sink, Drop into dust and die—the flower of Hellas utterly die, Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by? Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o’er destruction’s brink? How,—when? No care for my limbs!—there’s lightning in all and some— Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth! ” O my Athens—Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond? Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, Malice,—each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood Quivering,—the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood: “ Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them ‘ Ye must!’ ” No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last! “ Has Persia come,—does Athens ask aid,—may Sparta befriend? Nowise precipitate judgment—too weighty the issue at stake! Count we no lime lost time which lags through respect to the Gods! Ponder that precept of old, ‘No warfare, whatever the odds In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take Full-circle her state in the sky! ’ Already she rounds to it fast: Athens must wait, patient as we—who judgment suspend.” Athens,—except for that sparkle,—thy name, I had moldered to ash! That sent a blaze through my blood: off, off and away was I back, piieidippippp m —Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile! Yet “ O Gods of my land! ” I cried, as each hillock and plain. Wood and stream, I knew, I named rushing past them again, “ Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile? Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! “ Oak and olive and bay,—I bid you cease to inwreathe Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian’s foot. You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! Kather I hail thee, Parnes,—trust to tliy wild waste tract! Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! Wliat matter if slacked My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave No deity deigns to drape with verdure,—at least I can breathe. Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute! ” Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes’ ridge; Gully and gap, I clambered and cleared till, sudden, bar Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: “ Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse? Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge Better!”—when—ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are!' There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he—majestical Pan! Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof: All the great God was good in the eyes grave-kindly—the curl Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal’s awe, As, under the human trunk, the goat-thiglis grand I saw, “ Halt, Pheidippides! ”—halt I did, my brain of a whirl: “ Hither to me! Why pale in my presence? ” he gracious began: “ How is it,—Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? “ Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old? Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Put Pan to the test! Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, ‘The Goat-God saitk: When Persia—so much as strews not the soil—is cast in the sea, Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, Goat-tliigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!* “ Say Pan saith: ‘ Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!”' (Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear —Fennel, whatever it bode—I grasped it a-tremble with dew.) ** While, as for thee ...” But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitheHo— Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor’s edge! Pan for Athens, Pan for me! myself have a guerdon rare! Then spoke Miltiades. “ And thee, best runner of Greece, Whose limbs did duty indeed; —wdiat gift is promised thyself f T1IE PATRIOT. 298 Tell it as straightway,—Athens the mother demands of her son!” Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but lifting at length Ilis eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength Into the utterance—“ Pan spoke thus: ‘ For what thou hast done Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth he allowed thee release From the racer’s toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf! * “ I am hold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,— Pound—Pan helping us—Persia to dust, and, under the deep. Whelm jier away forever: and then,—no Athens to save,— Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,— Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep Close to my knees,—recount how the God was awful yet kind. Promised their sire reward to the full—rewarding him—sol ” Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: So, when Persia was dust, all cried “ To Akropolis! Run, Plieidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! ‘ Athens is saved, thank Pan/ go shout! ” He Hung down his shield, Ran like tire once more: and the space ’twixt the Fennel-tield And Athens was stubble again, a field which a tire runs through, Till in he broke: “ Rejoice, we conquer!” Like wine through clay, Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss! So, to this day, when friend meet friend, the word of salute Is still “ Rejoice! ”—his word which brought rejoicing indeed. So is Plieidippides happy forever,—the noble strong man Who could race like a God, bear the face of a God, whom a God loved so well He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, So to an end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute: “ Athens is saved! ”—Plieidippides dies in the shout for his meed. THE PATRIOT. AN OLD STORY. I. It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and * u'ay, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day. ii. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, “ Good folk, mere noise repels— But give me your sun from yonder skies!” They had answered “And afterward, what else? ” nr. Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Naught man could do, have I left un¬ done: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. POPULARITY. f 2<)0 IV. There’s nobody on the liouse-tops now— Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles’Gate—or,better yet, 3y the very scaffold’s foot, 1 trow. Y. I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, (Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds. VI. Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. “Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?”—God might question; now instead, ’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. POPULARITY. i. Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you’ll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw T you, Knew you, and named a star! IT. My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extend That loving hand of Ilis which leads you, Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless He needs you, Just saves your light to spend? hi. Ilis clenched hand shall unclose at last, 1 know, and let out all the beauty: My poet holds the future fast, Accepts the coming ages’ duty. Their present for this past. IV. That day, the earth’s feast-master’s brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising; “ Others give best at first, but Thou Forever set’s! our table praising, Keep’st the good wine till now! ” v. Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder: I’ll say—a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the old, with ocean-plun der, A netful, brought to land. VI. Who has not heard how Tyrian shells Enclosed the blue, that dve of dyes Whereof one drop worked miracles, And colored like Astarte’s eyes Raw silk the merchant sells? VII. And each by-stander of them all Could criticise, and quote tradition IIow depths of blue sublimed soma pall —To get which, pricked a king’s ambition; Worth sceptre, crown, and ball, vm. Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh, The sea has only just o’er-whis pered! Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh, As if they still the water’s lisp heard Through foam the rock-weeds thresh IX. Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar house. That, when gold-robed he took tin throne In that abyss of blue, the Spouse Might swear his presence shone. PIS G AII-SIGIIT3. soo x. Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the blue-bell’s womb What time, with ardors manifold, The bee goes singing to her groom, Drunken and overbold. XI. Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof! Till cunning come to pound and squeeze And clarify,—refine to proof The liquor filtered by degrees. While the world stands aloof. XII. And there’s the extract, flashed and fine, And priced and salable at last! And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes, and JNTokes combine To paint the future from the past. Put blue into their line. XIII. Ilobbs hints blue,—straight he turtle eats: Nobbs prints blue,—claret crowns his cup: Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,— Both gorge. Who fished the murex up? What porridge had John Keats? PISGAH-SIGIITS. 1. i. Over the ball of it, Peering and prying. How I see all of it, Life there, outlying! Roughness and smoothness, Shine and defilement, Grace and uncouthness; One reconcilement. ii. Orbed as appointed, Sister with brother Joins, ne’er disjointed One from the other. All’s lend-and-borrow; Good, see, wants evil, Joy demands sorrow, Angel weds devil! nr. “ Which things must —why be? ’* Vain our endeavor! So shall tilings aye be As they were ever. “ Such things should so be! ” Sage our desistence! Rough-smooth let globe be. Mixed—man’s existence! IV. Man—wise and foolish. Lover and scorner, Docile and mulish— Keep each his corner! Honey yet gall of it! There’s the life lying. And I see all of it, Only, I am dying! PISGAH-SIGHTS. 2. i. Could I but live again, Twice my life over, Would I once strive again? Would not I cover Quietly all of it— Greed and ambition—■ So from the pall of it, Pass to fruition? ii. “ Soft ” I'd say, “ Soul mine! Threescore and ten years, Let the blind mole mine Digging out deniers! Let the dazed hawk soar, Claim the sun’s rights tool Turf ’tis thy walk’s o’er, Foliage thy flight’s to.” hi. Only a learner. Quick one or slow one. AT THE “MERMAID." 301 Just a discerner, I would teach no one. I am earth’s native: No re-arranging it! I be creative, Chopping and changing it? IV. March, men, my fellows! Those who, above me (Distance so mellows), Fancy you love me: Those who, below me (Distance makes great so), Free to forego me, Fancy you hate so! v. Praising, reviling, Worst head and best head, Past me defiling, Never arrested, Wanters, abounders, March, in gay mixture. Men, my surrounders! I am the fixture. VI. So shall I fear thee, Mightiness yonder! Mock-sun—more near thee, What is to wonder? So shall I love thee, Down in the dark,—lest Glowworm I prove thee, Star that now sparkiest! PISGAH-SIGIITS. 3. i. Good, to forgive; Best, to forget! Living we fret; Dying, we live, Fretless and free, Soul, clap thy opinion! Earth have dominion, Body, o’er thee! ii. Wander at will, Day after day,— Wander away, Wandering still—- Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-tiight no more. hi. Waft of soul’s w r ing! What lies above? Sunshine and Love? Skyblue and Spring! Body hides—where? Ferns of all feather. Mosses and heather. Yours be the care! AT THE “ MERMAID.” The figure that thou here eec^t . . . Tut! Was it for gentle fchakspeare put? B. Jonson. {Adapted.) I. I—“ Next Poet? ” No, my hearties, I nor am nor fain would be! Choose your chiefs and pick your parties, Not one soul revolt to me! I, forsooth, sow song-sedition? I, a schism in verse provoke? I, blown up by bard’s ambition, Burst — your bubble-king ? Y ou joke. ii. Come, be grave! The sherris man¬ tling Still about each mouth, mayhap, Breeds you insight—just a scantling— Brings me truth out—just a scrap. Look and tell me! Written, spoken, Here’s my life long work: and where —Where’s your warrant or my token I’m the dead king’s son and heir? hi. Here’s my work; does work discover What was rest from work—my life? Did 1 live man’s hater, lover? Leave the world at peace, at strife? Call earth ugliness or beauty? See things there in large or small? 302 AT THE “MERMAID Use to pay its Lord my duty? Use to own a lord at all? IY. Blank of such a record, truly, Here’s the work I hand, this scroll, Yours to take or leave; as duly, Mine remains the unproffered soul. So much, no whit more, my debtors— How should one like me lay claim To the largess elders, betters Sell you cheap their souls for— fame? Y. Which of you did I enable Once to slip inside my breast There to catalogue and label What I like least, what love best, Hope and fear, believe and doubt of, Seek and shun, respect—deride? Who has right to make a rout of Rarities he found inside? VI. Rarities or, as he’d rather, Rubbish such as stocks his own: Need and greed (oh strange!) the Father Fashioned not for him alone! Whence—the comfort set a-strutting. Whence—the outcry “ Haste, be¬ hold ! Bard’s breast open wide, past shutting, Shows what brass we took for gold!” VII. Friends, I doubt not he’d display you Brass—myself call oreichalch,— Furnish much amusement; pray you Therefore, be content I balk Him and you, and bar my portal! Here’s my work outside; opine What’s inside me mean and mortal! Take your pleasure, leave me mine! VIII. Which is—not to buy your laurel As last king did, nothing loth. Tale adorned and pointed moral Gained him praise and pity both. Out rushed sighs and groans by dozens. Forth by scores oaths, curses flew: Proving you were cater-cousins, Kith and kindred, king and you! IX. Whereas do I ne’er so little (Thanks to slierris) leave ajar Bosom’s gate—no jot nor tittle Grow we nearer than we are. Sinning, sorrowing, despairing, Body-ruined, spirit-wrecked,— Should I give my woes an airing,— Where’s one plague that claims respect? x. Have you found your life distasteful? My life did and does smack sweet, Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete.' Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I’ll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again. XI. What, like you, he proved—your Pilgrim— This our world a wilderness, Earth still gray and heaven still grim, Not a hand there his might press, Not a heart his own might throb to, Men all rogues and women—say, Dolls which boys’ heads duck and boh to, Grown folk drop or throw away? XII. My experience being other, How should I contribute verse Worthy of your king and brother? Balaam-like I bless, not curse. I find earth not gray but rosy, Heaven not grim but fair of hue, Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. Do I stand and stare? All’s blue. XIII. Doubtless I am pushed and shoved by Rogues and fools enough: the more Good luck mine, 1 love, am loved by Some few hpnest to the core, Scan the near high, scan the far low! HOUSE. 303 “But the low come close”: what then ? Simpletons? My match is Marlowe, Sciolists? My mate is Ben. XIV. Womankind—“ the cat-like nature, False and tickle, vain and weak ”— Scarcely this sad nomenclature Suits inv tongue, if I must speak. Does the sex invite, repulse so, Tempt, betray, by tits and starts? So becalm but to convulse so, Decking heads and breaking hearts? xv. Well may you blaspheme at fortune! I “threw Venus” (Ben, expound!) Never did I need importune Her, of all the Olympian round. Blessings on my benefactress! Cursings suit—for aught I know— Those who twitched her by the back tress, Tugged and thought to turn her—so! xvr. Therefore, since no leg to stand on Thus I’m left with,—joy or grief Be the issue,—I abandon Hope or care you name me Chief! Chief and king and Lord’s anointed 1?—who never once have wished, Death before the day appointed: Lived and liked, not poohed and pished! xvir. “ Ah, but so I shall not enter, Scroll in hand, the common heart— Stopped at surface: since at center Song should reach Welt-xchmerz, world-smart! ” “ Enter in the heart? ” Its shelly Cuirass guard mine, fore and aft! Such song “ enters in the belly And is cast out in the draught.” XVIII. Back then to our sherris-brewage! “ Kingship ” quotha? 1 shall wait— Waive the present time: some new age . , . But let fools anticipate! Meanwhile greet me—“ friend, good fellow, Gentle Will,” my merry men! As for making Envy yellow With “Next Poet”—(Manners, Ben!) HOUSE. i. Shall I sonnet-sing you about my¬ self? Do I live in a house you would like to see? Is it scant of gear, has it store or pelf? “ Unlock my heart with a sonnet- key?” ii. Invite the world, as my betters have done? “ Take notice: this building remains on view, Its suites of reception every one, Its private apartment and bedroom too; hi. “ For a ticket, apply to the Publisher.” No: thanking the public I must de¬ cline. A peep through my window, if folks prefer; But, please you, no foot over thresh¬ old of mine! IV. I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk In a foreign land where an earth¬ quake chanced And a house stood gaping, naught to balk Man’s eye, wherever he gazed or glanced: v. The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, The inside gaped: exposed to day, 304 shop: Right and wrong and common and queer. Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay. VI. The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt! “ Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth! What a parcel of musty old books about! He smoked,—no wonder he lost his* health! VII. “ I doubt if he bathed before he dressed. A brazier?—the pagan, he burned perfumes! You see it is proved what the neigh¬ bors guessed: His wife and himself had separate rooms.” VIII. Friends, the goodman of the house at least Kept house to himself till an earth¬ quake came: ’Tis the fall of its frontage permits you feast On the inside arrangement you praise or blame. IX. Outside should suffice for evidence: And whoso desires to penetrate Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense— No optics like yours, at any rate! x. “ Hoity toity! A street to explore, Your house the exception! ‘ With this same key Shakespeare unlocked his heart,’ once more! ” Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he! SHOP. i. So, friend, your shop was all your house 1 Its front, astonishing the street Invited view from man and mouse To what diversity of treat Behind its glass—the single sheet! ii. What gimcracks, genuine Japanese: Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog, Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese; Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog: Queer names, too, such a catalogue! in. I thought “And he who owns the wealth Which blocks the window’s vasti- tude, —Ah, could I peep at him by stealth Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude On house itself, what scenes were viewed! IV. “ If wide and showy thus the shop, What must the habitation prove? The true house with no namea-top— The mansion, distant one remove, Once get him off his traffic-groove! v. “Pictures he likes, or books perhaps; And as for buying most and best, Commend me to these city chaps! Or else lie’s social, takes his rest On Sundays, with a Lord for guest. VI. “ Some suburb-palace, parked about And gated grandly, built last year: The four-mile walk to keep off gout; Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer: But then he takes the rail, that’s clear. VII. “Or, stop! I wager, taste selects Some out o’ the way, some all-un¬ known Retreat: the neighborhood suspects Little that he who rambles lone Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne I” SHOP. 305 VIII. Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence Fit to receive and entertain,— Nor Hampstead villa’s kind defense From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,— Nor country-box was soul’s domain! IX. Nowise! At back of all that spread Of merchandise, woe’s me, 1 find A hole i’ the wall where, heels by head, The owner couched, his ware be¬ hind, —In cupboard suited to his mind, x. For, why? He saw no use of life But, while he drove a roaring trade, To chuckle “ Customers are rife! ” To chafe “ So much hard cash out¬ laid Yet zero in my profits made! “ This novelty costs pains, but—takes? Cumbers my counter! Stock no more! This article, no such great shakes, Fizzes like wild fire? Underscore The cheap thing—thousands to the fore!” XII. ’Twas lodging best to live most nigh (Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be) Receipt of Custom; ear and eye Wanted no outwork!: “ Hear and see The bustle in the shop! " quoth he. XIII. Mv fancy of a merchant-prince Was different. Through his wares w r e groped Our darkling way to—not to mince The matter—no black den where moped The master if we interloped! XIV. Shop was shop only: household stuff? What did he want with comforts there? “ Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, So goods on sale show rich and rare ‘ Sell and send home,” be shop’s af¬ fair! ” xv. What might he deal in? Gems, sup¬ pose! Since somehow business must be done At cost of trouble,—see, he throws You choice of jewels, every one Good, better, best, star, moon, and sun! XVI. Which lies within your power of purse? This ruby that would tip aright Solomon’s sceptre? Oh, your nurse Wants simply coral, the delight Of teething baby,—stuff to bite! XVII. Howe’er your choice fell, straight you took Your purchase, prompt your money rang On counter,—scarce the man forsook His study of the “Times,” just swang Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang,— XVIII. Then off made buyer with a prize, Then seller to his “ Times ” returned, And so did day wear, wear, till eyes Brightened apace, for rest was earned: He locked door long ere candle burned. XIX. And whither went he? Ask himself, Not me! To change of scene, I think, Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf ’ i f ^ Chaffer was scarce Ins meat and drink, Nor all his music— money-chink. 306 A TALE. xx. Because a man has shop to mind In time and place, since tlesli must live, Needs spirit lack all life behind. All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, All loves except wliat trade can give? XXI. I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute! XXII. But—shop each day and all day long! Friend, your good angel slept, your star Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong! From where these sorts of treasures are, There should our hearts be—Christ, how far! A TALE. i. What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time —Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. ii. Anyhow there’s no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. hi. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that’s beinnu. iv. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, —Judges able, 1 should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears! v. None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune Till the judges, weighed coldly Each note’s worth, seemed, late oi soon, Sure to smile “ In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!” vi. When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed ? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,—who had guessed Such ill luck in store?—it happened One of those same seven strings snapped. VII. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What “ cicada”? Pooh!) —Some mad thing that left its thicket Fore mere love of music—flew I With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. VIII. So that when (Ah joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger,_ What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? IX. Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand’s intending, Promptly, perfectly,—indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet. x. Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent A TALE. 307 c< Take the prize—a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F-sliarp!” XI. Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music’s son Finds his Lotte’s power too spent For aiding soul-development. XII. No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom’s yearning: (Sir, I hope you understand!) —Said “ Some record there must be Of this cricket’s help to me! ” XIII. So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, She crowns. XIV. That’s the tale: its application? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that’s—Oli, All so learned and so wise, And deserving of a prize! xv. If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue’s built, Tell the gazer “ ’Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lib Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness’ place i - the scale she chirped 1 XVI. “ For as victory was Highest, While I sang and played,— With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,—one string that madfc ‘ Love ’ sound soft was snapt in twain. Never to be heard again,— XVII. “ Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duty uttered ‘Love, Love, Love,’ whene’er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone.” XVIII. But you don’t know music! Where¬ fore Keep on casting pearls To a—poet? All I care for Is—to tell him that a girl’s “ Love ” comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!'