UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LO5 ^^ AHGELE5 NOT TO BE TAKEN FROM THE ROOM SELECTIONS THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BROWNING. FROM THE SIXTH LONDON EDITION. (FIRST AND SECOND SERIES.) NEW YORK: THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., COPYRIGHT, 1886, 3v THOMAS V. CROWELL & CO. PRESS OF BERWICK & SMITH, BOSTON, MASS. DEDICATED TO ALFRED TENNYSON. IN POETRY ILLUSTRIOUS AND CONSUMMATE; IN FRIENDSHIP NOBLE AND SINCERE. TN the present selection from ray poetry, there is an attempt to escape from the embarrassment of appearing to pronounce upon what myself may consider the best of it. I adopt another principle; an 10 YOUTH AND ART. in. Why did not I put a power My business was song, song, song : I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and Of thanks in a look, or sing it? twittered, J * " Kate Brown's on the boards ere XI. " " long. I did look, sharp as a lynx And Gfisi's existence embittered ! " (And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx Tripped up stairs, she and her IV. ankles. I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster : XII. You wanted a piece ot marble, I needed a music-master. But I think I gave you as good ! "That foreign fellow, who can know V. How she pays, in a playful mood, We studied hard in our styles, For his tuning her that piano ? " Chipped each at a crust like Hin- doos, For air, looked out on the tiles. XIII. For fun, watched each other's win- dows. Could you say so, and never say, " Suppose we join hands and fof tunes, VI. And I fetch her from over the way, You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse nay, a bit of beard Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?" too ; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth With fingers the clay adhered to. xrv. No, no ; you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over : vn. And I soon managed to find You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover. Weak points in the flower-fence fa- cing, Was forced to put up a blind And be safe in my corset-lacing. XV. But you meet the Prince at the "Board, vni. I'm queen myself at bals-part, I've married a rich old lord, No harm ! It was not my fault And you're dubbed knight and an If you never turned your eye's tail R.A. up As I shook upon E in alt. , XVI. Or ran the chromatic scale up ; Each life's unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: IX. We have not sighed deep, laughed For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare free, Starved, feasted, despaired, been happy. AYith bulrush and watercresses. t\ n xvn. ^ (* And nobody calls you a dunce, X. And people suppose me clever: Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling >'t ? This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever. V V TV /r- "-LUff-l a' . i ^LLP' THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 11 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 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 ! 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 face, 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 a.id 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 coun- try. in. 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 (When I was happy and young, not old!) I 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; 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 a while he eyed The row of crests and shields and banners Of all achievements after all manners, And " Ay," said the Duke with a surly pride. The more was his comfort when he 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, What he called stink, and they, per- fume : Thev 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 ! 12 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. Had they stuck on his fist a rough- foot merlin ! (Hark, the wind's on the heath at its game ! Oh for a noble falcon-lanner To flap each broad wing like a ban- ner, And turn in the wind, and dance like flame !) 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 Was 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. v. And he came back the pertest little ape That ever 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, This Duke would fain know he was, without being it; 'Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it, Nor 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; With blood for bone, all speed, no strength ; They should have set him on red Berold With the red eve slow consuming in fire, And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire 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 I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes Fit for the chase of urox or bufiie Irr winter-time when you need to muftie. 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, Made 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 >n- dead The Flight of the Duchess. Page 13. THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 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, (With her eyes, do you understand ?) Because I patted her horse while I led it; -ind Max, who rode on her other hand, Said, no bird flew past but she in- quired What its true name was, uor ever seemed tired If 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 portcul- lis ; And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, The lady's face stopped its play, As if her first hair had grown gray; For such things must begin some one day. VII. In a day or two she 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 he." So, smiling as at first went she. VIII. She was active, stirring, all fire Could not rest, could not tire 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, This 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 young Duke and the old dame Would 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 contriv- ing A wheel-work image as if it were living, 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. So, the little lady grew silent ami thin, Paling and ever paling, As the way is with a hid^ chagrin : And the Duke perceived that she was ailing, 14 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. And said in his heart, " 'Tis done to spite me, "But I shall find in my power to right me ! " Don't swear, friend ! The old one, many a year, Is in hell; and the Duke's self . . . you shall hear. Well, early in autumn, at first winter- warning, When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, A drinking-hole 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 were the pleas- ures in season, And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, He should do the Middle Age no trea- son In resolving on a hunting-party. Always 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, How taught old painters in their pic- tures ? We must revert to the proper chan- nels, Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions : Here was food for our various ambi- tions, As on each case, exactly stated To encourage your dog, now, the prop- erest chirrup, 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 " ohs '" And "ahs" 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 Venerers, 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 ! Now you must know that when the first dizziness Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack- boots subsided, The Duke put this question, " The Duke's part provided, Had not the Duchess some share in the business?" For 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 towelling, Let her preside at the disembowel- ling." Now, 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 eyes, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 15 And clipped her wings, and tied her bewc, 'Would it cause you any great sur- priss If, wlien you decided to give her an airing, You found she needed a little pre- paring ? I say, should you be such a cur- mudgeon, If she clang to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon ? Yet when the Duke to his lady signi- fied, Just a day before, as he judged most dignified, In w)iat 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 fat : gue even he could not dissipate, And duiy 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 r And much wrong now that used to be right, So, thanking him, declined the hunt- ing, 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 pink eye-balled, No wonder if the Duke was nettled ! And when she persisted neverthe- less, Well, I suppose here's the time to confess That there ran half round our lady's chamber A balcony noue 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 was your servant ; And if she had the habit to peep through the casement, How could I keep at any vast dis- tance ? And so, as I say, on the lady's per- sistence, The Duke, dumb stricken with amazement, Stood for a while in a sultry smother. And then, with a smile that partook of the awful, Turned her over to his yellow mother To learn what was decorous aud law- 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 aud the folly o/ youth, at once, Its decent regard and its fitting rela- tion In brief, rny friends, set all the devilr 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) & face Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Sa- ladin, 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 ! However, at sunrise our company mustered ; And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, And there 'neath his bonnet the prick' er blustered, With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel ; 16 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 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 un- easily, 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. 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. But with us, I believe they rise out of the 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 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 inw r ards, 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, clear, Where 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 white daughters : 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 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 Jacynth was used to impor- tune To let that same witch tell us our for- tune, The oldest gypsy then above ground ; Aiid, sure as the autumn season came round, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 17 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 eyes, or rather eye- holes, Of no use now but to gather brine, And began a kind of level whine Such as they used to sing to their viols When their ditties they go grinding Up and down with nobody 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 doz- en fine pebbles), Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end, And so she awaited her annual sti- pend. But this rime the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe A word in reply ; and in vain she felt With twitching fingers 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, Thau 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 fit 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 hip 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- Then clapping heel to his horse, the 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. 18 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. And what makes me confident what's to be told you Had all along been of this crone's devising, Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you, There was a novelty quick as surpris- ing : 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 wholly altered, And the face looked quite of another nature, 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 Jacynth at the entry Of the lady's chamber standing sen- try ; I told the command and produced my companion, And Jacynth 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 balcony watched the weather. And now, what took place at the very first of all, I cannot tell, as I never could learn it: Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall On that little head of hers and burn it f she knew how she came to drop so soundly Asleep of a sudden, and there con-: tinue The whole time, sleeping as pro- foundly As one of the boars my father would pin you 'Twixt the eyes where life holds gar- rison, Jacynth forgive me the comparison! But w'here 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 cur- tain, And there lay Jacynth 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, Till-: FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 19 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, 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 tliou saidst and what thou didst, Our long and terrible journey through, And all thou art readr to say and do In the trials that remain : I 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 Each 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 rlee, Circling over the midnight sea. And on that round young cheek oi 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 anoat 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 its 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 With the thrill of the great deliver- ance, Into our arms for evermore ; And thou shalt know, those arms once curled About thee, what we knew before, How love is the only good in the world . Henceforth be loved as heart can love. Or brain devise, or hand approve ! 20 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 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, 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 thy 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 thou 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 shalt 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 Where 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 sun- beam, Touches the flesh 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 syllable With those clever clerkly fingers, All I've forgotten as well as what lingers In this old brain of mine that's but ill able To give you even this 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! But to return from this excursion, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 21 Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, The peace most deep and the charm completest, There came, shall I say, a snap And the chartn 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 centred 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 to 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 teach- ers. I preceded her ; the crone Followed silent and alone ; I spoke to her, but she merely jab- bered In the old style ; both her eyes had slunk Back to their pits ; her stature shrunk ; In short, the soul in its body sunk Likr...;i blade sent home to its scab- bard. We descended, I preceding ; Crossed the court with nobody heed- 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 palfry 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 either, And knew the poor devil so much beneath her Would have been only too 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 Be- rold'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, re- fused 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 With a look that placed a crown on me, And she felt in her bosom, mark, her bosom And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, Dropped me . . .ah! had it been a purse Of silver, my friend, or gold that's worse, 22 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. Why, you see, as soon as I found my- self So understood, that a true heart so may 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 wear, each for the other's sake, This, see, which at my breast I wear, Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudg- ment), And ever shall till the Day of Judg- 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. XVI. 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- humor, 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 adorn- ing. 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 in- quisitive, 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 Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness (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 Just the object to make you shudder. You're my friend What a "thing friendship is, world without end ! How it gives the heart and soul a stir- up As if somebody broached you a glori- ous runlet, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 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 mon- arch of fluids ; Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs, Gives yonr life's hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubts "Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees Age is not all made of stark sloth 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, through 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 with ; Could 1 pay in a lump I should pre- fer it, But there's no mine to blow 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 hic- cup. And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrovvn with a b 1 ue 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. One needs but little tackle to travel in ; So, just one stout cloak shall I indue : And for a staff, what beats the iave 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 ! 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 (Come all the way from the north- parts with sperm oil), I hope to get safely out of the tur- moil And arrive one day at the land of the fypsies, nd my lady, or hear the last news of her From some old thief and son of Luci- fer, His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, Sunburned all over like an JElhiop. And when my Cotnar begins to oper- ate 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 ? " 24 SONG FROM "P1PPA PASSES.' And when that's told me, what's remaining ? This world's too hard for my explain- ing. The same wise judge of matters equine Who still preferred some slim four- year-old To the big-boned stock of mighty Be- rold, 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, I shall find out some snug cor- ner 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 laymen) To a world where will be no further throwing Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen ! SONG FROM " PTPPA PASSES.' THE year's at the spring, And day's at the morn ; Morning's at seven ; The hill-side'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 SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and 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. ii. Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing oui 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. in. 'Twas moonset at starting ; but, while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear ; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So, Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time ! " 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 gallop- ing 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 : 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 ! " Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer." Page 25. SONG FROM "PARACELSUS.' And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in gal- loping on. By Hasselt, Dirck 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, lil, and horrible heave of And sunk tai the flank, As down on her haunches she shud- dered and sank. So, we were left 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 brittle bright stubble like chaff ; Till over by Dalheni a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is iu sight ! " 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 whole 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. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer ; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland gal- loped and stood. And all 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 last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by com- mon consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. SONG FROM "PARACELSUS." HEAP cassia, sandal-buds, and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair : such balsam falls Down seaside mountain pedes- tals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island gain. And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-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, As when a queen, long dead, was young. 26 THROUGH THE METJDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR. THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR. [1842.] 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 were double-eyed, He, in whom our Tribes confide, Is descried, ways untried As I ride, as I ride. 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 ? 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 where he died, As I ride, as I ride. 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 ! 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 ! INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. You know, we French stormed Rat- isbon : A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out -thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he 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. 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 two. " 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 iip again like fire. The chief's eye flashed ; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes IN A GONDOLA. ' You're wounded ! " " Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said, Tin killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead. THE LOST LEADER. 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 his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die ! Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for us. Burns, SI elley. were with us, they \vatcli froc 1 their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks o 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 pur part the glim- mer of twilight, 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. He sings. I SEXD my heart up to 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, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. She s})eaks. 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 ! 28 IN A GONDOLA. Unless you call me, all the same, Familiarly by my pet name, "Which if the Three should hear you call, And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all. Ask of me, too, command me, blame Do, break down 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 practising 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 ! He sings. Past we glide, and past, and past ! What's that poor Agnese doing "Where they make the shutters fast ? Gray Zanobi's just a-wooing To his couch the purchased bride : Past we glide ! Pat we glide, and past, and past ! "Why's the Pucci Palace flaring Like a beacon to the blast ? Guests by hundreds, not one caring If the dear host's neck were wried : Past we glide ! She sings. The moth's kiss, first ! Kiss me as if you made believe You 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 vants me, and wide ope I burst. 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. He sings. What are we two ? I am a Jew, And carry thee, farther 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 vision forever ! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! n. Say again, what we are ? 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 flesh, but I intend They shall deepen to the end, Broader, into burning gold, Till 'iotli wings crescent-wise infold IN A GONDOLA. 29 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 ! Rescue me thou, the only real ! And scare away this mad ideal That came, nor motions to depart ! Thanks ! Now, stay ever as thou art! Still he muses. 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 stylet through my back ; I reel ; And .* . . is it thou Tfeel ? ir. 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 thy 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 chcice in what I wear. He 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 the same child's playing-face ? No two windows look one way O'er the 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, un- rolled, Fell down you like a gorgeous snake The Roman girls were wont, of old, When Rome there was, 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 ! 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 gether These objects, and, while day lasts, weave Around them such a magic tether That dumb they look : your harp, believe, 30 A LOVERS' QUARREL. 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, wheresoe'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 harp- 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-thee- 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. fthe speaks. 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 ! 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! Be you the bashful gallant, I will be The lady with the colder breast than snow. Now bow you, as becomes, nor tcuch my hand More 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 Onlv 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 LOVERS' QUARREL. 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 Jt A LOVERS' QUARREL. 31 Runnels, which rillets swell, Must be dancing down the dell, With a foaming head On the beryl bed Paven smooth as a hermit's cell : Each with a tale to tell, Could my love but attend as well. 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 ! 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 church daws ! 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. 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 ! vn. 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 ! Then we would up and pace, For a change, about the place, Each with arm o'er neck : 'T is our quarter-deck, We are seamen in woeful case. Help in the ocean-space ! Or, if no help, we'll embrace. 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. 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 two s Half the bill of f pots that span ;lie young male swan. Dearest, three months ago When the mesmerizer Snow With his hand's first sweep Put the earth to sleep 'Twas 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 ! xiit. Not from the heart beneath 'Twas a bubble born of breath, Neither sneer nor vaunt, Nor reproach nor taunt. See a word, how it severeth ! Oh, power of life and death In the tongue, as the Preacher saith I 32 EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES. Woman, and will you cast For a word, quite off at last Me, your osvn, your You, Since, as truth is true, I was You all the happy past Me do you leave aghast With the memories We amassed ? Love, if you knew the light That your soul casts in my sight, Ho\v 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 white! 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 Ear, when a straw is heard Scratch the brain's coat of curd ! Foul be the world or fair More 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 ! 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 knows : Heaps of the guelder-rose ! I must bear with it, I suppose. Could but November come, Were the noisy birds struck dumb At the warning slash Of his driver's-lash I would laugh like the valiant Thumb Facing the castle glum And the giant's fee-faw-fum ! 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 un- nipped, Oh, the world's hangings ripped, We were both in a bare-walled crypt ! 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 ! " 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, I shall have her for evermore ! EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES. SEE, 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, plat* o'er plate, Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date ! So, the year's done with ! (Love me forever .') All March begun with, April's endeavor ; The Last Ride together. Page 33. THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 33 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 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. My mistress bent that brow of hers ; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right ! The blood replenished 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 ? Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 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-shine too. Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh 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. Fail I alone, in words and deeds ? Why, all men strive and who suc- ceeds ? 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. VI. 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 34 MESMERISM. 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 them 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 ^ joy! For me, I ride. 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. ' 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. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best ? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. And yet she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first dis- cerned. 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 Ride, ride together, forever ride ? MESMERISM. 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 ? 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 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 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 ! 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 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 MESMERISM. 35 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 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 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 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 Command her soul to advance And inform the shape Which has made escape And before my countenance Answers me glance for glance 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 Steadfast and still the same On my object bent, 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 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 : Till the house called hers, not mine, With a growing weight Seems to suffocate If she break not its leaden line And escape from its close confine. Out of 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 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 Swifter and still more swift, As the crowding peace Doth to joy increase In the wide blind eyes uplift Through the darkness and the drift! 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. For, there ! have I drawn or no Life to that lip ? Do my fingers dip In a flame which again they throw On the cheek that breaks aglow ? Ha ! was the hair so first ? What, unfilleted, Made alive, and spread Through the void with a rich outburst Chestnut gold-interspersed ? BY THE FIRESIDE. 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 ! " " 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. 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. First, I will pray. Do Thou That ownest the soul, Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now ! I admonish me while I may, Not to squander guilt, Since require Thou wilt At my hand its price one day ! What the price is, who can say ? BY THE FIRESIDE. How well I know what I mean to do "When the long dark autumn even- ings come ; And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? "With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life's November too ! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O'er a great wise book, as beseem- eth 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 ! 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 ! " 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. 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. 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 ! 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 of 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 ! BY THE FIRESIDE. 37 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 ! 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. 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, 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, By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undi- vulged Last evening nay, in to-day's first dew Yon sudden coral nipple bulged, Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crew Of toad-stools peep indulged. A.nd 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 water is stopped in a stagnant pond Danced over by the midge. 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 ! 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 To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts, Or climb from the hemp-dresser's low shed, Leave the grange where the wood- man stores his nuts, Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread Their gear on the rock's bare juts. It has some pretension too, this front, With its bit of fresco half-moon- wise Set over the porch, Art's early wont : 'Tis John in the Desert, I surmise, But has borne the weather's brunt 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. And all day long a bird sings there, And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times ; 88 BY THE FIRESIDE. The place is silent and aware ; It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, But that is its own affair. XXI. My perfect wife, my Leonor, O heart, iny 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 ? xxn. For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them ; Youth, flowery all the way, there stops Not the y ; age threatens and they con- temn, Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops, One inch from our life's safe hem ! xxm. With me, youth led . . . I will speak now, No longer watch you as you sit Reading by firelight, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Mutely my heart knows how When, if I think but deep enough, You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme ; And you, too, find without rebuff Response your soul seeks many a time, Piercing its fine flesh-stuff. XXV. My own, confirm me ! If I tread This path back, 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 con- duct ! At first, 'twas something our two souls Should mix as mists do ; each is * sucked In each now : on, the new stream rolls, Whatever rocks obstruct. XXVII. Think, when our one soul under- stauds 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 ? 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! But wlio 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 brown pair Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings Strained to a bell : 'gainst noonday glare You count the streaks and rings. 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. ,d~rM '. . c f^rrbx 9r XE BY THE FIRESIDE 39 ]P XXXIII. XXXIX. Hither we walked then, side by side, Oh, the little more, and how much it Ann in arm and cheek to cheek, is! And still I questioned or replied, And the little less, and what world* While my heart, convulsed to really away ! J speak, How a sound shall quicken content Lay choking in its pride. to bliss, Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, XXXIV. Silent the crumbling bridge we cross, And life be a proof of this ! And pity and praise the chapel XL. sweet, And care about the fresco's loss, Had she willed it, still had stood the And wish for our souls a like re- screen So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love treat, it in 1 her * And wonder at the moss. I could fix her face with a guard be- tween, XXXV. And find her soul as when friends Stoop and kneel on the settle under, Look through the window's grated confer, Friends lovers that might have been. square : Nothing to see ! For fear of plunder, The cross is down and the altar XLI. bare, For my heart had a touch of the wood- As if thieves don't fear thunder. land time, Wanting to sleep now over its best. Shake the whole tree in the summer- XXXVI. prime, We stoop and look in through the But bring to the last leaf no such grate, test! See the little porch and rustic door, " Hold the last fast ! " runs the Read duly the dead builder's date ; rhyme. Then cross the bridge that we crossed before, XLII. Take the path again but wait ! For a chance to make your little much, XXXVII. Oh moment one and infinite ! The water slips o'er stock and To gain a lover and lose a friend, Venture the tree and a myriad such, When nothing you mar but the year can mend : stone ; The West is tender, hardly bright : But a last leaf fear to touch ! How gray at once is the evening XLIII. grown One star, its chrysolite ! Yet should it unfasten itself and fall Eddying down till it find your face At some slight wind best chance of XXXVIII. We two stood there with never a third, But each by each, as each knew all! Be your heart henceforth its dwell- ing-place You trembled to forestall ! T well : The sights we saw and the sounds we XLIV. *\ heard, Worth how well, those dark gray The lights and the shades made up eyes, a spell That hair so dark and dear, how Till the trouble grew and stirred. worth J l J ^H 1 fc j ) 1 \^ *) f 40 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. That a man should strive and agonize, And taste a veriest hell on earth And each of the Many helps to recruit The life of the race by a general For the hope of such a prize ! plan ; Each living his own, to boot. J l> XLV. J \i You might have turned and tried a man, LI. Set him a space to weary and wear, I am named and known by that mo* And prove which suited more your ment's feat ; plan, There took my station and degree ; His best of hope or his worst de- So grew my own small life com- spair. plete, Yet end as he began. As nature obtained her best of me -- One born to love you, sweet ! XLVI. But you spared me this, like the heart /ou are, tm. filled my empty heart at a And to watch you sink by the fireside word. now If two lives join , there is oft a scar, They are one and one, with a shad- Back again, as you mutely sit Musing by fire-light, that great brow owy third; And the spirit-small hand propping One near one is too far. it, Yonder, my heart knows how ! XLVII. A moment after, and hands unseen LI1I. Were hanging the night around us fast; So, earth has gained by one man the But we knew that a bar was broken between more, And the gain of earth must be Life and life: we were mixed at last In spite of the mortal screen. heaven's gain too ; And the whole is well worth think- ing o er When autumn conies : which I XLVIH. mean to do The forests had done it ; there they One day, as I said before. stood; We caught for a moment the pow- ers at play : They had mingled us so, for once and good, Their work was done we might ANY WIFE TO ANY HUS- go or stay, They relapsed to their ancient mood. BAXD. i. XLIX. How the world is made for each of us ! Mr love, this is the bitterest, that How all we perceive and know in it Tends to some moment's product thou Who art all truth, and who dost love me now thus, When a soul declares itself to wit, By its fruit, the thing it does ! As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say Shouldst love so truly, and couldst t 1 (* love me still *) (" L. A whole long life through, had but Be hate that fruit, or love that fruit, love its will, It forwards the general deed of Would death, that leads me from man, thee, brook delay. v l> J V. ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 41 I have but to 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 ? When cry for the old comfort and find none ? Never, I know ! Thy soul is in thy face. in. Oh, I should fade 'tis willed so ! Might I save, Gladly I would, whatever beauty gave Joy to thy sense, for that was pre- cious too. It is not to be granted. But the soul Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole ; Vainly the flesh fades ; soul makes all things new. 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 Kemember whence it sprang, nor be afraid While that burns on, though all the rest grow dark. v. 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 by ! 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 ! 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 ! Pass a festive day, Thou dost not throw its relic-flower away, Nor bid its music's loitering echc speed. 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. 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, 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. " So, what if in the dusk of life that's left, I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft, Look from my path when, mimick- ing the same, The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone ? 42 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. Where was it till the sunset ? where anon It will be at the sunrise ! What's to blame?" 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 a beam? Is the remainder of the way so long, Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong ? Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream. Ah, but the fresher faces ! " Is it true," Thou'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 ? " 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 : The painted form takes nothing she possessed, Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest, A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide?" So must I see, from where I sit and watch, My own self sell myself, my hand attach 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 ! Love so, then, if thou wilt ! Give all thou canst Away to the new faces disen- tranced, (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 ! 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 mugt come Back to the heart's place here I keep for thee ! XVII. Only, \vhy should it be with stain at all? Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal, Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow ? Why need the other women know so much, And talk together, " Such the look and such The smile he used to love with, then 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 ! IN A YEAR. 43 XIX. Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'er Within iny 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 ! And yet thou art the nobler of us two : What dare I dream of, that thou canst 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. 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 ! What did I fear ? Thy love shall hold me fast Until the little minute's sleep is past And I wake saved. And yet it will not be ! IN A YEAR. NEVER any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive : Bitterly we re-embrace, ' Single still. 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. 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 his cheek the color sprung, Then he heard. Sitting by my side, At my feet, So he breathed but air I breathed, Satisfied ! I, too, at love's brim Touched the sweet : I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. " Speak, I love thee best ! " He exclaimed : " Let thy love my own foretell ! " I confessed : " Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine ! " 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. That was all I meant, To be just, And the passion I had raised, To content. 44 SONG FROM "JAMES LEE: 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 rny debt ! Gave more life and more, Till all gone, He should smile " She never seemed Mine before. " What, she felt the while, Must I think ? Love's so different with us men ! " He should smile : " Dying for my sake White and pink ! Can't we touch these bubbles then But they break ? " Dear, the pang is brief, Do thy part, Have thy pleasure ! How perplexed Grows belief ! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart : Crumble it, and what comes next ? Is it God ? SONG FROM "JAMES LEE." OH, 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. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true ; 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 tliroes ! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above ! A WOMAN'S LAST WORD- LET'S contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep : All be as before, Love, Only sleep ! What so wild as words are ? I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough ! in. 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 \Vhere the apple reddens, Never pry Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I. Be a god, and hold me With a charm ! Be a man, and fold me With thine arm I Teach me, only teach, Love i As I ought I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought Meeting at Night. - WOMEN AND ROSES. 45 Meet, if them require it, Both demands, Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands. That shall be to-morrow, Not to-night : I must bury sorrow Out of sight : Must a little weep, Love, (Foolish me !) And so fall asleep, Love, Loved by thee. MEETING AT NIGHT. THE gray sea and the long black land ; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 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 ! PARTING AT MORNING. ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the moun- tain's rim : A.nd straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me. WOMEN AND ROSES. i. I DREAM of a red-rose tree. And which of its roses three Is the dearest rose to me ? Hound 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. Dear rose, thy term is reached, Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached : Bees pass it unimpeached. Stay, then, stoop, since I cannot climb, You, great shapes of the antique time, How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you, Break iny heart at your feet to please you? Oh, to possess and be possessed ! Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast ! Once but of love, the poesy, the pas- sion, Drink but once and die ! In vain, the same fashion, They circle their rose on my rose-tree Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed ; Thy cup is ruby-rimmed, Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed. Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth The bee sucked in by the hyacinth, So will I bury me while burning, Quench like him at a plunge my yearning, MISCONCEPTIONS. 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 their rose on my rose-tree. Dear rose without a thorn, Thy bud's the babe unborn : First streak cf a new morn. vni. Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear ! What is far conquers what is near. Roses will bloom nor want behold- ers, 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. MISCONCEPTIOXS. FHIS is a spray the 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 fly- ing feet hung to, So to be singled out, built in, and sung to! 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. THAT fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, And the blue eye Dear and dewy, And that infantine fresh air of hers 1 To think men cannot take you, Sweet ; And infold you, Ay, and hold you, And so keep you what they make you, Sweet ! You like us for a glance, you know For a word's sake Or a sword's sake : All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know. 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. v. 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 ! But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet, Though we prayed you, Paid you, brayed you In a mortar for you could not, Sweet ! vn. So, we leave the sweet face fondly there : Be its beauty Its sole duty ! Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there ! vm. And while the face lies quiet there, Who shall wonder That I ponder A conclusion ? I will try it there. A LIGHT WOMAN. 47 As, why must one, for the love fore- gone, Scout mere liking ? Thunder-striking Earth, the heaveu, we looked above for, gone ! "Why, with beauty, needs there money be, Love with liking ? Crush the fly-king In his gauze, because no honey-bee ? May not liking be so simple-sweet, If love grew there 'Twould undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet ? Is the creature too imperfect, say ? Would you mend it, And so end it ? Since not all addition perfects aye ! Or is it of its kind, perhaps, Just perfection Whence, rejection Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps ? Shall we burn up, tread that face at once Into tinder, And so hinder Sparks from kindling all the place at once? xv. Or else kiss away one's soul on her ? Your love fancies ! A sick man sees Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her ! Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose, Plucks a mould-flower - For his gold flower, Uses fine things that efface the rose : XVII. Rosy rubies make its cup more rose, Precious metals Ape the petals, Last, some old king locks it up, mo- rose ! XVIII. Then how grace a rose ? I know a way ! Leave it, rather. Must you gather ? Smell, kiss, wear it at last, throw away! A LIGHT WOMAN. 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 ? My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improve- ment yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose, And over him drew her net. 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 ! And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said, An eagle's the game her pride pre- fers, Though she snaps at a wren instead : So, I gave her eyes my own eyes t take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed. 48 LOVE IN A LIFE. 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 ! 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. 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 ! " And she, she lies in my hand as taine As a pear late basking over a wall ; 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. 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 ! One likes to show the truth for th truth ; That the woman was light is very true : But suppose she says, Never mind that youth ! t What wrong have I done to you? 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 1 LOVE IN A LIFE. ROOM after room, I 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. 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 ! THE LABORATORY. 49 LIFE IN A LOVE. ESCA.PS me? Never Beloved ! AVhile I am I, and 70:1 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 scares succeed. But what if I fail of my purpose here? It 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, No sooner the old hope goes to ground Than a new one, straight to the self- same mark, I shape me Ever Removed ! THE LABORATORY. ANCIEN REGIME. 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 ? 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. 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. 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? 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 ! 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 insnared him : this never will free The soul from those masculine eyes, say, " No ! " To that pulse's magnificent come and go. 50 GOLD HAIR. For only last night, as they whispered, I brought My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought Could I keep them one-half minute fixed, she would fall Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all ! 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 He is sure to remember her dying face ! XI. Is it done? Take my mask' off ! Nay, be not morose ; 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 fill, You may kiss me, old man, on my 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 PORNIC. 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. 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. 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. 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 I meant to do ! " And Love sighed, " Fancy my loss I ' v. So, when she died, it was scarce more strange Than that, when some delicate evening dies, And you follow its spent sun's pallid range, There's a shoot of color startles the skies "With sudden, violent change, That, while the breath was nearly to seek, As they put the little cross to her lips, She changed ; a spot came out on hei cheek, A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse. And she broke forth, " I must speak ! " 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 ! " GOLD HAIR. 51 The passion 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, 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 I' the gold, it reached her gown. 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. 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. And in after-time would your fresh tear fall, Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, As they told you of gold both robe and pall, How she prayed them leave it alone a while, So it never was touched at all. 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 summed in one Sentence survivors passed : 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. 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. '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 jewelled rose, Things sanctity saves from taint ; 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 O cor Humamtm, pectora caeca, 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 ! Here was a case for the priest : he heard, Marked, inwardly digested, laid GOLD HAIR. Finger on nose, smiled, " A little bird Chirps in my ear : " then, " Bring a spade, Dig deeper ! " he gave the word. And lo, whan they came to the coffin- 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 (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 ! She 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, " Talk not of God, my heart is stone ! Nor lover nor friend be gold for bothl Gold I lack ; and, my all, my own, It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth If they let my hair alone ! " 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 will ; But I keep earth's too, I hope." 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 bury strangers in, The hideous Potter's Field. XXVII. 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, we may ! " And the altar therewith was built. Why I deliver this horrible verse ? As the text of a sermon, which now I preach. Evil or good may be better or worse In the human heart, but the mix- ture 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 : XXX. I still, to suppose it true, for my 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. " Ages ago, a lady there. At the farthest window facing the East." Page 53. THE STATUE AND THE BUST. THE STATUE AND THE BUST. THERE'S a palace in Florence, the world knows well, a statue watches it from the square, And this story of both do our towns- men tell. A-ges ago, a lady there, At the farthest window facing the East Asked, " Who rides by with the royal air?" The bridesmaids' prattle around her 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 line, like a swordless sheath. Gay he rode, with a friend as gay, Till he threw his head back "Who is she ? " " A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day." Hair in heaps l?.y heavily Over a pale brow spirit-pure Carved like the heart of the coal- black tree, Crisped like 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, 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. Now, love so ordered for both theii 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 ! 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 square) Turned, in the midst of his multi- tude, 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 taker's blink. Calmly 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. THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 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. " Freely I choose too," said the bride " Your window and its world suffice," Replied the tongue, while the heart replied " 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 I count another ave-bell. " 'T is 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, 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 al- cove) 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 sc mean! " But, alas! my lady leaves the South; Each wind that comes from the Apen- 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 declj.ne." 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 brinff 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 wholly lost, beside, With its hope 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 be- 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. THE STATUE AND THE BUST. Be sure that each renewed the vow, No morrow's sun should arise and set And leave them then as it left them now. But next day passed, and next day yet, With still fresh 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 infalli- bly, 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 grate ! 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 ! 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 will 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." 56 THE STATUE AND THE BUST. But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine With flowers 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 escapes ! 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 he 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, Nights 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, Burn upward each to his point of bliss Since, the end of life being mani- 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 reply, to serve for a test, As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view ! Must a game be played for the sake of pelf? Where a button goes, 'twere an epi- gram To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. The true has no value beyond the sham : As well 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 princi- ple. Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will! The counter, our lovers staked, was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin : And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. Is, the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say. You of the virtue (we issue join) How strive you ? De. te, fabula .' LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. 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. 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 88 MASTER HUGHES OF SAKE-GOT HA. ^ X. XVI. Sure you said "Good, the mere One is incisive, corrosive ; notes ! Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepi- Still, could'st thou take my intent, tant : Know what procured me our Com- Three makes rejoinder, expansive, pany's votes explosive ; A master were lauded and sciolists Four overbears them all, strident shent, and strepitant : Parted the sheep from the goats ! " Five . . . O Danaides, O Sieve ! XI. XVII. "Well then, speak up, never flinch ! Quick, ere my candle's a snuff Burnt, do you see? to its uttermost Now, they ply axes and crowbars ; Now, they prick pins at a tissue Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's inch "Worked on the bone of a lie. To I believe in you, but that's not what issue ? enough : Give my conviction a clinch ! Where is our gain at the Two-bars ? XVIII. XII. First you deliver your phrase Nothing propound, that I see, Est fur/a, volritur rota. On we drift : where looms the dim port ? Fit in itself for much blame or much One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contrib praise Answered no less, where no answer needs be : Off start the Two on their ways. ute their quota ; Something is gained, if cne caught but the import : Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha ! XIII. XIX. Straight must a Third interpose, "Volunteer needlessly help ; In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in What with affirming, denying, Holding, risposting, subjoining, All's like . . . it's like . . . for an in his nose, So the cry's open, the kennel's stance I'm trying . . . There ! See our roof, its gilt mould. a-yelp, Argument's hot to the close. ing and groining Under those spider-webs lying ! XIV. One dissertates, he is candid ; Two must discept, has distin- guished ; XX. So your fugue broadens and thickens, Greatens and deepens and length- Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did ' ens, Till we exclaim " But where's Four protests ; Five makes a dart at the thing wished : Back to One, goes the case bandied. music, the dickens ? Blot ye the gold, while your spider- web strengthens Blacked to the stoutest of tickens ? " XV. One says his say with a difference ; More of expounding, explaining ! All now is wrangle, abuse, and vocif- XXI. I for man's effort am zealous : Prove me such censure unfounded ! t 1 f erance ; Seems it surprising a lover grows 1 I Now there's a truce, all's subdued, jealous self-restraining : Hopes 'twas for something, his or- Five, though, stands out all the stiff er gan-pipes sounded. hence. Tiring three boys at the bellows ? V (> *J ^~j 1 t 1 s < ~* a 1 ^ ABT VOGLER. 89 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 ending 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. So we o'ershroud stars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland ; Nothings grow something which quietly 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 pcend (Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena ! Say the word, straight I unstop the full-organ, Blare out the mode 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 ! Down it dips, gone like a rocket. What, you want, do you, to come una- wares, Sweeping the church up for first morning-prayers , And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat- riddled stairs ? Do I carry the moon in my pocket ? ABT VOGLER. (AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRU- MENT OF HIS INVENTION.) WOULD that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, Bidding ir.y organ obey, c'alling 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, 90 ABT VOGLER. 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 ineffable Name, And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved ! 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 well, Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. A.nd 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 higher 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. 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. v. Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, Presences 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. All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, All through my soul that praised as its wish lie wed 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 : ABT VOGLER. 91 But here is the linger 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 I vm. 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 Whose voice has 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 th^t 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 fulness cf the days ? Have we withered or agonized ? Why else was t.he pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence { Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be pri?^ ? 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. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. 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 Borne and May ? For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized rne many times (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path), for rhymes To catch at and let go. Help me to hold it ! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brick- work's cleft, Some o!d tomb's ruin: yonder weed Took up the floating weft, 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 ! The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere ! Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air Rome's ghost since her decease. 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 ! 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 ? 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 ? I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set m$ heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, your part, my part In life, for good and ill. 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. Already how am I so far Out of that minute ? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onwaid, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star ? 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 ' 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. THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 93 Hark, those two in the hazel cop- pice A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, Making love, say, The happier they ! Draw yourself up from the light of flic 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 cicala 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 edge. 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 bare-footed brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, And says there's news to-day, the king 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 With 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. 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 ? EVELYN HOPE. 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. 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 Alter 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 ? Guerciuo drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend !) that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently, with his 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) vni. 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. BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead ! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; She 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. 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. nr. Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew APPARENT FAILURE. 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 ? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own gera- nium's red And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead. VI. I 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: Andlwantand find you, Evelyn Hope ! What is the issue ? let us see ! vn. 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, andr emember, and understand. MEMORABILIA. AH ! did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you. And did you speak to him again ? How strange it seems, and new ! ii. But you were living before that, And also you are living after ; And the memory I started at My starting moves your laughter ! in. I crossed a moor, with a name ol 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." Paris Newspaper. I. 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 : 96 PROSPICE. Walking the heat and headache off, I took the Seine-side, you surmise, Thought of the Congress, Gortscha- koff, Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies, So sauntered till what met my eyes? Only the Doric little Morgue ! The dead-house where you show your drowned : Petrarch's Vaucluse 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 cheeks were chalked : juet them ! No Briton's to be balked ! First catne the silent gazers ; next, A screen of glass, we're thankful for ; Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text, 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. 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. How did it happen, my poor boy? You wanted to be Buonaparte And have the Tuileries for toy, And could not, so it broke you? heart ? You, old one by his side, I judge, Were, red as blood, a socialist, A leveller ! Does the Empire grudge You've gained what no Republic missed ? Be quiet, and unclinch your fist ! And this why, he was red in vain, Or black, poor fellow that is blue ! What fancy was it, turned your brain ? Oh, 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 ! 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 end 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 : "CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME.' 97 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 forbore, And bade me creep past. No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like uiy 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 ray soul ! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest ! "CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." (See Edgar's song in " LEAR.") MY first thought was, he 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. n. What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, insnare All travellers 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- tare, If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract 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. 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. 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 : 98 " CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TO WER CAME: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. vrr. 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 ? So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his high- way Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Bed leer to see tLe plain catch its estray. For mark ! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, 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. 80, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature ; noth- ing throve : For flowers as well expect a ce- dar 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. 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 the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prison- ers free." If there pushed any ragged thistle- stalk 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 Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. XIII. 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 put past service from the Devil's stud ! 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 grotesquenesa 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 h fights, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came " Page 99, Stanza xxi. " CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TO WER CAME. I asked one draught of earlier, hap- pier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards the soldier's art : One taste of the old time sets all to rights. Not it ! I fancied Cuthbert's redden- ing 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, That way lie used. Alas, one night's disgrace ! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. Giles then, the soul of honor there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good but the scene shifts faugh ! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment ? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst ! xvur. 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 hpwlet or a bat ? I asked : wnen something on the dis- mal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. 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. 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 : The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, d& terred no whit. 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 or 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 The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What 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. And more than that a furlong on why, there ! What bad use was that engine for. that wheel, 100 " CHJLDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." 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 una- ware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. 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 finds inirth, 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 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. A.nd 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. xxvm. 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 was no clearer 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 this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As wlien a trap shuts you're in- side the den Burningly it came or me all at once, This was the place ! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in born in fight ; While to the left, a tall scalped moun- tain . . . Dunce, Dotard, a-dpzing at The very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight ! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat 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 shipraaii thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the tim- bers start. Not see ? because of night perhaps ? why, day Came back again for that ! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft : The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, " Now stab and end the creature to the heft ! " XXXIII. Not hear? when noise was every- where ! 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 For one more picture ! in a sheet of tlame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew " Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came." A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IX 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 its 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 thorpe 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 bare 1 , and sage, Give ! " So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page : Learned, we found him. 102 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. 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 1 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 fire 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 ! " He 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-hydroptic 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 throV on God (He loves the burthen) God's task to make the heavenly pe- riod Perfect the earthen ? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant ? He 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 mil- lion, Misses an unit. That, has the world here should he need the next, Let the world mind him ! This, throws himself on God, and un perplexed Seeking shall find him. So, 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 He settled Hoti's business let it be! Properly based Oun Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, Dead from the waist down. CLEON. 103 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 mete- ors 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" CLKON the poet (from the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps " Greece "), To Protus in his Tyranny : much health ! 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 Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee ; 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 such an act Of love for him whose song gives life its joy, Thy recognition of the iise 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 to cheer the architect, Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake : Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope Of some eventual rest a-top of it, Whence, all the tumult of the build- ing hushed, Thou first of men mightst look out to the East : The vulgar saw thy tower, thou saw- est the sun. For this, I promise on thy festival To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, Making this slave narrate thy for- tunes, 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 dost enumerate. That epos on thy hundred plates of gold CLEON. 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 the sun-god on the phare, Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine ; The Poecile, 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, I have combined the moods, Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine ; Thus much the people know and rec- ognize, Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not ! We of these latter days, 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 effacement 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 trape- zoid He did not overlay them, superim- pose 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 forms 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 all the single men, In such a synthesis the labor ends. Now mark me ! those divine men of old rime Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point 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 ; Not knowing air's more hiddea 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? CLEON. 105 Long since, I imaged, wrote the fic- tion out, That ho 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, I say, The worth both absolute and relative Of all his children from the birth of time, His 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 everywhere ! This is a dream : but no dream, let us hope, That years and days, the summers and the springs, Follow each other with uuwaning 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 Homer, no Nor 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 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 1 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 ! And next, of what thou followest on to ask. This being with me, as I declare, O king ! My works in all these varicolored 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 closeth 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, " I 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 106 CLEON. Shall use its robed and sceptred 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 go on 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 by 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 nre 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 it- self, And so be happy." Man might live at Hrst The animal life : but is there nothing more? In due time, let him critically learn How he lives ; and, the more he 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, hadst more reasona- bly said : "Let progress end at once, man make no step Beyond the natural man, the better beast, Using his senses, not the sense of sense ! " In man there's failure, only since he left The lower and inconscious forms of life. We called it an advance, the render- ing 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 fit to yield subsistence to; A tower that crowns a country. But alas, The soul 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, CLEON. 107 Inviting us ; and still the soul craves all, And still the flesh 're plies, "Take no jot more Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad ! 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, Hepair 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 arti fleer 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 he 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, ve could not thank our lord, As hearts beat on tc doing : 'tis not so Malice it is not. Is it carelessness ? Still, no. If care where J s the sign ? I ask, And get no answer, and ascree in sum, king ! with thy profound discour- agement, Who seest the wider but to sijch the more. Most progress is most failure : thou sayest well. The last point now. Thou dost ex- cept a case Holding joy not impossible to one With artist-gifts to such a man as 1 Who leave behind me living works indeed ; 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 ? Methinks I'm older that I bowed my- self The many years of pain that taught me art ! Indeed, to know is something, and to prove How all this beauty might be en- joyed, is more : But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too. Yon 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, thou art king ! "But," sayest thou (and I marvel, I repeat, To find thee tripping on a mere word) "what Thou writest, paintest, stays ; that does not dio. Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, And ^Escliylus, because we read his plays ! " 108 JNSTANS TYRANNUS. 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 hand 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 his life so over- much, Shall sleep in my urn. It is so hor- rible, 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, We burst there, as the worm into the y, 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 Paulus ; we have heard his fame Indeed, if Christus be not one with him I 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 tis ? Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king, In stooping to inquire of such an one, As if his answer could impose at all ! He \vriteth, doth he? well, and he may write. Oh, the Jew findeth 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. INSTAXS TYRAXNUS. OF the million or two, more or less, I rule and possess, One man, for some cause undefined, Was least to my mind. I struck him, he grovelled of course For, what was his force ? I pinned him to earth with my weight And persistence of hate ; And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, As his lot might be worse. "Were the object less mean would he stand At the swing of my hand ! For obscurity helps him, and blots The hole where he squats." AN EPISTLE. 109 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. Had he kith now or kin, were 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. 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, 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 unearth Toad or rat, 'tis well worth ! " So, I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the man. Round his creep-hole, with' never a break, Ban my fires for his sake ; Over-head, did my thunder combine With my under-ground mine : Till I looked from my labor content To enjoy the event When sudden . . . how think ye. the end? Did I say " without friend " ? Say rather, from marge to blue marge The whole sky grew his 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 ! Do 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 MEDI- CAL EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN. KARSHISH, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, The not-incurious in God's handi- work (This man's-flesh he hath admirably made, Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, To coop up and keep down on earth a space 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 (uuder God) 110 AN EPISTLE. To baffle it by deftly stopping such : The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home Sends greeting (health and knowl- edge, 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 cometh, 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, I reach Jerusalem, 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 iny 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- canth Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained, Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the por- phyry, In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp- disease Confounds me, crossing so with lep- rosy : Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end. Yet stay ! my Syrian blinketh grate- fully, Protesteth his devotion is my price Suppose I write 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 ! For, be it this town's barrenness, or 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 ! "A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear." Page no. AN EPISTLE. Ill '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 well 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 wall 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 Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart That henceforth she will read or these or none. And first the man's own firm con- viction 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. " 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 flesh, 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 penetrate 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 I 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 yeais 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 facul- ty- 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. 112 AN EPISTLE. Discourse to him of prodigious arma- ments Assembled to besiege his city now, And of the passing of a inule with gourds 'Tis one ! 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 He caught prodigious import, whole results ; And so will turn to us the by-standers In ever the same stupor (note this point), 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 " he 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 grown 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 a mine 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 meagre 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 perplext 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 earneth him the daily bread ; And studiously the humbler for thr.t 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 re- store his being To equilibrium, body loosening soul Divorced even now by premature full growth : He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live So long as God please, and just how God please. He even seeketh not to please God more (Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. Hence, I perceive not he affects t preach AN EPISTLE. The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, Make proselytes as madrnen 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, whv, still the old "Be it as God please" re-assureth him. I probed the sore as thy disciple should : "How, beast," said I, "this stolid carelessness Sufficeth 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 ? " He 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 inan 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 de- sign, And 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, the Naz- arene Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, Conferring with the frankness that befits ? Alas ! it grieveth me, the learned leech Perished in a tumult many years ago, Accused, our learning's fate, of wizardry, 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 on what he says ? Perhaps not : though in writing to a leech 'Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) This man so cured regards the curer, then, As God forgive me ! who but God himself, Creator and sustainer of the world, That came and dwelt in flesh on it a while ! '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 saith but why all this of what he saith ? Why write of trivial matters, things of price 114 CALIBAN UPON SET E BOS. Calling at every moment for remark ? I noticed on the margin of a pool Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort, Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange ! Thy pardon for this long and tedious case, "Which, now that I review it, needs must seein 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 town 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 ! Thou hast no power nor may'st 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 saith He said so : it is strange. CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS; OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND. "Thou thoughtest 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 clinched 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 flower 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 weave 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 daui 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 winter- time. Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep In confidence he drudges at their task : CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 115 And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos ! 'Thinketh, He dvvelleth i' the cold o' the moon. 'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, But not the stars ; the stars came otherwise ; 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. 'Thinketh, 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 where she lived, And thaw herself within the luke- warm brine O' the lazy sea, her stream thrusts far amid, A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave ; Only, she ever sickened, found re- pulse At the other kind of water, not her life (Green-dense and dim-delicious, 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 bad- ger brown, He hath 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 word when she finds her prize, But will not eat the ants ; the ants themselves That build a wall of seeds 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 : He would not make what He mislikes or slights, An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains ; But did, in envy, listlessness, or sport, Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, 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 perceived, 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 ; Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. Put case, unable to be what 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 hi foes of- fence, 116 CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. There, and I will that he begin to live, Fly to yon 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 be- come 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 yon- der 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 envieth that, so helped, such things do more Than He who made them ! What consoles 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 cold and ill at ease ? Aba, that is a question ! Ask, for that, What knows, the something over Setebos That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, Worsted, drove off and did to noth- ing, perchance. There may be something quiet o'er His head, Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, Since both derive from weakness in some way. I joy because the quails come ; would not joy Could I bring quails here when I have a mind : This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. 117 But never spends much thought nor care that way. It may look up, work up, the worse for those It works on ! 'Careth but for Sete- bos The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, Who, making Himself feared through what He does, Looks up, first, and perceives he can- not soar To what is quiet and hath happy lift* ; Next looks down here, and out of very spite Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, These good things to match those, as hips do grapes. 'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle : Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, Wrote thereon, he knows what, pro- digious words ; Has peeled a wand and called it by a name ; Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe The eyed skin of a supple ocelot ; And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, A fc ur-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, And saith she is Miranda and my wife ; 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge ; Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge In a hole o' the rock, and calls him Caliban ; A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, Taketh his mirth with make-believes : so He. His dam held that the Quiet made all things Which Setebos vexed only : 'holds not so. Who made them weak, meant weak- ness He might vex. Had He meant other, while His hand was in, Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, Like an ore's armor ? Ay, so spoil His sport ! He is the One now : only He doth all. 'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. Ay, himself loves what does him good ; but why ? 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, But, had he eyes, would want no help, would hate Or love, just as it liked him : He hath eyes. Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, By no means, for the love of what is worked'. 'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world When all goes right, in this safe sum- mer-time, And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, Than trying what to do with wit and strength. 'Falls to make something : 'piled yon pile of turfs, And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake ; 'Shall some day knock it down again : so He. 118 CALIBAN UPON SET E BOS. 'Saith He is terrible : watch His feats in proof ! One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. He hath a spite against me, that I know, Just as He favors Prosper, who knows why? So it is, all the same, as well I find. 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm With stone and stake to stop she- tortoises Crawling to lay their eggs here : well, one wave, Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, And licked the whole labor flat : so much for spite. 'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) "Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade : Often they scatter sparkles : there is force ! 'Dug up a newt He may have envied once And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone Please Him and hinder this ? What Prosper does ? Aha, if he would tell me how ! Not He! There is the sport : discover how or die! All need not die, for of the things o' the isle Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees ; Those at His mercy, why, they please Him most When . . . when . . . well, never try the same way twice ! Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth. "Sou must not know His ways, and play Him off, Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like him- self : 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence : 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, Curls up into a ball, pretending death For fright at my approach : the two ways please. But what would move my choler more than this, That either creature counted on its life To-morrow and next day and all days to come, Saying forsooth in the inmost of its heart, " Because he did so yesterday with me, And otherwise with such another brute, So must he do henceforth and al- ways." Ay? 'Would teach the reasoning couple what " must " means : 'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord ? So He. 'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, And w 5 shall have to live in fear of Him So long as He lives, keeps His strength : no change, If He have done His best, make no new world To please Him jr.ore, so leave off watching this, If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day, or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow butterflies : else, here are we, And there is He, and nowhere help at all. 'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. His dam held different, that after death He both plagued enemies and feasted friends : Idly ! He doth His worst in this our life, Giving just respite lest we die through pain, Saving last pain for worst, with which, an end. Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire Is, not to seem too h^ppy. 'Sees himself, Yonder two flies ; wi"h purple films and pink, Bask on the pouipion~bell abo^e : kill- both. SAUL. 119 -"Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball On head and tail as if to save their Jives : Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. Even so, 'would have Him miscon- ceive, suppose This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, And always, above all else, envies Him; "Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, And never speaks his mind save housed as now : Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, O'erheard this speech, and asked, " What chucklest at ? " 'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, Or push rny tame beast for the ore to taste : While myself lit a fire, and made a song And sung it, " What I hate, be conse- crate To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate For Thee ; what see for envy in poor me?" Hoping the while, since evils some- times mend, Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch And conquer Setebos, or likelier He Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. [What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once ! Crickets stop hissing ; not a bird or, yes, There scuds His raven that hath told Him all ! It was fool's play, this prattling ! Ha ! The wind Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, And fast invading fires begin ! White blaze A tree's head snaps and there, there, there, there, there, His thunder follows ! Fool to gibe at Him ! Lo ! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos ! 'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip. Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape !] SAUL. SAID Abner, " At last thou art come ! Ere I tell, ere thpu speak, Kiss my cheek, wish me well ! " Then I wished it, and did kiss hi cheek. And he, " Since the King, O my friend ! for thy countenance sent, Neither drunken nor eaten have we ; nor until from his tent Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife, And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon lifs. 120 SAUL. " Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved ! God's child with his dew On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat Were now raging to torture the desert ! " in. Then I, as was meet, Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped ; 1 pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped ; Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid But spoke, " Here is David, thy servant ! " And no voice replied. At the first I saw naught but the blackness ; but soon I descried A something more black than the blackness the vast, the upright Main prop which sustains the pavilion : and slow into sight Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-roof, showed Saul. IV. He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side ; He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs And waiting his change, the king serpent all heavily hangs, Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come With the spring-time, so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. v. Then I tuned my harp, took off the lilies we twine round its chords Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide those sunbeams like swords ! And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. They are white, and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed ; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star Into eve and the blue far above us, so blue and so far ! Then the tupe, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate To fly after the player ; then, what makes the crickets elate Till for boldness they fight one another : and then, what has weight To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house There are none such as -he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse ! God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, To give sign, we and they are bis children, one family here. Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand And grow one in the sense of this world's life. And then, the last song When the dead man is praised on his journey " Bear, bear him along With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets ! Are balm seeds not here To console ns ? The land has none left such as he on the bier. C-4- SAUL. Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother ! " - - And then, the glad chant Of the marriage, first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. And then, the great march Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch Naught can break ; who shall harm them, our friends? Then, the chorus intoned As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. But I stopped here : for here in the darkness Saul groaned. VIII. And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart ; And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered : and sparkles 'gan dart From the jewels that woke in his turban at once with a start All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. So the head : but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, As I sang, IX. " Oh, our manhood 's prime vigor ! No spirit feels waste, Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping from rock up to rock, The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine, And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. How good is man's life, the mere living ! how fit to employ All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy ! Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward ? Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung The low song of the nearly departed, and hear her faint tongue Joining in while it could to the witness, ' Let one more attest, I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best 1 ' Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, but tht rest. And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true : And the friends of thy boyhood that boyhood of wonder and hope, Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope, Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch ; a people is thine ; And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine ! On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets the gold go) High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them, all Brought to blaze on the head of one creature King Saul ' " x. And lo, with that leap of my spirit, heart, hand, harp, and voice, Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice Saul's fame in the light it was made for as when, dare I say, The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot " Saul ! " cried I, and stopped, And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, 122 SAUL. And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone A year's snow bound about for a breastplate, leaves grasp of the sheet ? Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest all hail, there they are ! Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest For their food in the ardors of summer. One long shudder thrilled All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. \Vhat was gone, what remained ? All to traverse 'txvixt hope and despair. Death was past, life not come : so he waited. A while his right hand Held the brow, helped the eyes, left too vacant, forthwith to remand To their place what new objects should enter : 'twas Saul as before. I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean a sun's slow decline Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and intwine Base with base to knit strength more intensely : so, arm folded arm O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. XI. What spell or what charm (For, a while there was trouble within me), what next should I urge To sustain him where song had restored him ? Song filled to the verge His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty : beyond, on what fields, Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by ? He saith, " It is good ; " still he drinks not : he lets me praise life, Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. XII. Then fancies grew rife Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep Fed in silence above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep ; And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky. And I laughed " Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks ; Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know ! Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these old trains Of vague thought came again ; I grew surer ; so, once more the string Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus xm. "Yea, my King," I began " thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute : In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, how its stem trembled first Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler ; then safely outburst SAUL. 123 The fan-branches all round ; and thou mindest when these too, in turn Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect : yet more was to learn, E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight, When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow ? or care for the plight Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them ? Not so ! stem and branch Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall stanch Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! the spirit be thine ! By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy More indeed, than at first when, inconscious, the life of a boy. Crush that life, and behold its wine running ! Each deed thou hast done Dies, revives, goes to work in the world : until e'en as the sun Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface, Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace The results of his past summer-prime, so, each ray of thy will, Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give forth A like cheer to their sons : who in turn, fill the South and the North With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past ! But the license of age has its limit : thou diest at last. As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, So with man so his power and his beauty forever take flight. No ! Again a long draught of my soul-wine ! Look forth o'er the years ! Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual ; begin with the seer's ! Is Saul dead ? In the depth of the vale make his tomb bid arise A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies, Let it mark where the great First King slumbers : whose fame would ye know ? Up above see the rock's naked face, where the. record shall go In great characters cut by the scribe, Such was Saul, so he did; With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid, For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there ! Which fault to amend, In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend (See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, the statesman's great word Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's a-wave With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave : So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part In thy being ! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art ! " And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou who didst grant me, that day, And, before :t, not seldom hast granted thy help to essay. Carry on aud complete an adventure, my shield and my sword In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word, Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavor And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever On the new stretch of heaven above me till, mighty to save, Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance God's throne from man's grave ! Let me tell out my tale to its ending my voice to my heart Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part, As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep ! And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep, For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 124 SAUL. I say then, my song While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever more strong, Made a proffer of good to console him he slowly resumed His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes Of his turban, and see the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now his loins as of yore, And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. He is Saul, ye remember in glory, ere error had bent The broad brow from the daily communion ; and still, though much spent Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose, To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. So sank he along by the tent-prop, still, stayed by the pile Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there a while, And sat out my singing one arm round the tent-prop, to raise His bent head, and the other hung slack till I touched on the praise I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there ; And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots which please To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know If the best I could do had brought solace : he spoke not, but slow Lifted ip the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow : through my hair The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power- 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 would 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 ! " Then the truth came upon me. No harp more no song more ! outbroke " I have gone the whole round 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 jiidgeship 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 and 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 feet. Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. SAUL. 125 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 ! But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake (lull's own speed in the one way 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 flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal ? 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 insphering 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 Tins 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-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. " I believe it ! : Tis 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 Sabaoth : / will ? tlie mere atoms despise me ! Why am I not loth To look that, even that in the face too V 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 I See the King I would help him, but cannot, the wishes fall through. Oould 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 I love? So wouldst thou so wilt thou 1 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 I seek In the Godhead ! I s>e.k and I find it.- O Saul, it shall be A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to me, Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever : a Hand like this hand Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See the Christ stand I " 126 RABBI BEN EZRA. 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 pairit 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. GROW 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 ! " Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, " Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recaft ! " Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, " Nor Jove, nor Mars ; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all ! " 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. 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 ? Rejoice we are allied To That which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive ! A spark disturbs our clod : Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! RABBI BEN EZRA. 127 Be our joys three-parts pain ! Strive, and hold cheap the strain : Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge the throe ! For thence, a paradox Which comforts while it mocks, Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me : A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 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, How far can that project thy soul on its lone w r ay ? 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 " How good to live and learn " ? 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 shalt do ! " For pleasant is this flesh ; Our soul, in its rose-mesh 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 (lid best ! " 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 siiiits, Let us cry " All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul ! " 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. v 7 xrv. 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. Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby ; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame : Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, being old. j xvi. 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." So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 128 RABBI BEN EZRA. " This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain : The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." 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. 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 ! 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. 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 ? 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. Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor ! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, " Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past gone, seize to-day ! " Fool ! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall ; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure : What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be : Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter and clay endure. XXVIII. He fixed thee mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest : EPILOGUE. 129 Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee, and turn thee forth suffi- ciently impressed. What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? What though, about thy riin, Skull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress ? 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? 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 Thy thirst : So, take and use Thy work, Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warp- ings 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. FIKST SPEAKER, as David. ON the first of the Feast of Feasts, The Dedication Day, When the Levites joined the priests At the altar in robod array, Gave signal to sound and say, 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, When the singers lift up their voice, And the trumpets made endeavor, Sounding, " In God rejoice ! " Saying, " In Him rejoice Whose mercy endureth forever I " 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, a* Renan. Gone now ! All gone across the dark so far, Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still, Dwindling into the distance, dies that star 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 ? Who 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 sidw The rims contracted as the rays retired ; The music, like a fountain's sicken- ing pulse, 130 EPILOGUE. 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 sceptre whose mere touch appals, Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the most On whose repugnant brow the crown next, falls ! THIRD SPEAKER. 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 ! Take the least man of all mankind, as I ; Look at his head and heart, find how and why He differs from his fellows utterly : Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas (They said of old) the instinctive water flees Toward some elected point of central rock, As though, for its sake only, roamed the flock Of waves about the waste : a while they mock With radiance caught for the occa- sion, hues Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues As only heaven could fitly interfuse, The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, king O' the current for a minute: then they wring Up by the roots and oversweep the thing, And hasten off, to play again else- where The same part, choose another peak as bare, They find and flatter, feast and fin- ish there. When you see what I tell you, na- ture dance About each man of us, retire, ad- vance, As though the pageant's end were to enhance APPARITIONS. His worth, and once t'le life, his nroduct. grained Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained, And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned, x. When yon acknowledge that one world could do All the diverse work, old yet ever new, Divide us, each from other, me from you, XI. Why ! where's the need 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. 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 ! 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. in. 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 ? 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. Wall upon wall are between us : life And song should away from heart to heart ! I prison-bird, with a ruddy strife At breast, and a lip whence storni- notes start 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. SUCH a starved bank of moss Till, that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across : Violets were born ! Sky what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud : Splendid, a star ! World how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out That was thy face ! 132 NATURAL MAGIC. NATURAL MAGIC. 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 Nautch 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'erfruited, o'erflowered ? Impossible ! Only I saw it ! 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. FLOWER I never fancied, jewel I profess you ! Bright I see and soft I feel the out- side of a flower. Save but glow inside and jewel, I should guess you, Dim to sight and rough to touch : the glory is the dower. Sou, 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. THE FLOWER'S NAME. HERE'S the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since : 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 feed 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 ! 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. v - i '' " Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais." Page 133, GARDEN FANCIES. 133 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 Spanisn 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 wres- tle, 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. 8IBKANDUS 8CHAFNABURGENSIS. 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 : Thia, that was a book in its time, Printed on paper and bound in leather, Last month in the white of a rnatm- prime Just when the birds sang all to- gether. Into the garden I brought it to read, And under the arbute and laurus- tine Read it, so help me grace in my need, From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count, As a curious traveller counts Stone henge ; Added up the mortal amount, And then proceeded to my revenge. in. Yonder 's a plum-tree with a crevice An owl would build in, were he but sage ; For a lap of moss, like a fine pont levis In a castle of the middle age, Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber ; When he'd be private, there might he spend Hours alone in his lady's chamber : Into this crevice I dropped om 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 Ch* blis ; Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. 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 .-irur. akimbo : So, I took pity, for learning's sake, And, de proftnxlis, accentibus hetin, Cantate ! quoth I, as I got a rake ; And up I fished his delectable trea- tise. J 1 P. I. 9 C 1_9 I U^ *) 134 JN THREE DAYS. i D ft VI. A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall Here you have it, dry in the sun, With all the binding all of a blister, cover you, Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to And great blue spots where the ink has run, be gay, And with E. on each side, and F. right u And reddish streaks that wink and over you, glister Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment O'er the page so beautifully yellow : Oh, well have the droppings played clay ! their tricks ! Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow ? Here's one stuck in his chapter six ! IN THREE DAYS. i. VII. So, I shall see her in three days How did he like it when the live And just one night, but nights are creatures short, Tickled and toused and browsed Then two long hours, and that is him all over, morn. And worm, slug, eft, with serious See how I come, unchanged, unworn ! features, Feel, where my life broke off from Came in, each one, for his right of thine, trover ? How fresh the splinters keep and -"When the water-beetle with great fine, blind deaf face Only a touch, and we combine ! Made of her eggs the stately de- posit, ii. And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface As tiled in the top of his black Too long, this time of year, the days ! But nights, at least the nights are snort;. wife's closet ? As night shows where her one moon is, VIII. A hand s-breadth of pure light and All that life and fun and romping, All that frisking and twisting and coupling, bliss, So life's night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her ! "What is "While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping, worth The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ? And clasps were cracking, and cov- ers suppling ! in. As if you had carried sour John O loaded curls ! release your store Knox Of warmth and scent, as once before To the playhouse at Paris, Vienna, or Munich, Fastened him into a front-row box, The tingling hair did, lights and darks Outbreaking into fairy sparks, When under curl and curl I pried And danced off the ballet with After the warmth and scent inside, trousers and tunic. Through lights and darks how mani- fold IX. The dark inspired, the light con- Come, old martyr ! "What, torment enough is it ? trolled, As early Art embrowns the gold ! T Back to my room shall you take your sweet self. Good-by, mother-beetle ; husband- IV. ft What great fear, should one say, ft eft, sufficit ! See the snug niche I have made on " Three days, That change the world, might change my shelf ! as well J l J m g V 4jjs-l s ~ t r-sL.Lp' RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI. 135 Your fortune ; and if joy delays, Be happy that no worse befell ! " What small fear, if another says. "Three days and one shortnight be- side May throw no shadow on your ways ; But years must teem with change untried, "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. ALL'S over, then : does truth sound bitter As one at first believes ? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves ! And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that to-day ; One day more bursts them open fully : You know the red turns gray. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest ? May I take your hand in mine ? Mere friends are we, well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign. Each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's en- deavor, Your voice, when you wish the snow- drops back, Though it stay in my soul forever, Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger ; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer ! ONE WAY OF LOVE. ALL June I bound 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. n. 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 F My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven ? 'Tis well ! Lose who may I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they! RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI. i. I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world ; and, vainly favored, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze 136 N UMPHOL EPTOS. By no change of its large calm front of snow. And, underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, He cannot have changes ever perceived, that At his approach ; and, in the lost endeavor 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. O Angel of the East ! one, one gold look Across the waters to this twilight nook, The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook ! Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed ? Go ! saying ever as thou dost pro- ceed, That I, French Rudel, choose for my device A sunflower outspread like a sacri- fice Before its idol. See ! These inex- pert And hurried fingers could 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, men feed Say, On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees On my flower's breast as on a plat- form broad : But, as the flower's concern is not for these But solely for the sun, so men ap- plaud In vain this Rudel, he not looking here But to the East the East ! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear ! NUMPHOLEPTOS. 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 hap- pier verge, And, where -an iridescence lurks, but urge The hesitating pallor on to prime Of dawn ! 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 disempas- sioned moon Which smiles me slow forgiveness J Such, the boon NUMPHOLEPTOS. 137 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 over- brim 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 word, 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 He drank at I Well, the quest shall be renewed. Fear nothing ! Though I linger, un- iralmed 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 Centuply-angled o'er a diadem ? You dwell there, hearted ; from your midmost home Rays forth through that fantastic world I roam Ever from centre 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 Whence 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, finds its fate, Merged in your blank pure soul, alike the source And tomb of that prismatic glow : divorce Absolute, all-conclusive ! Forth J. 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, a I used 138 NUMPHOLEPTOS. 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 where- of 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 "With fear, as exploration manifests What agency it was first tipped the crests Of unnamed wild-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 . . . No, not this last of times I leave you, mute, Submitted to my penance, so my foot May yet again 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 jewelled 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 arch-heretic 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 re- gard, The sad petrific smile ! O you less hard And hateful than mistaken and ob- tuse 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 whisper, 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 THE WORST OF IT. 139 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. 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 ! And this rich room obtains your praise Unqualified, so bright, so fair, 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 1 THE WORST OF IT. WOULD it were 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 ! 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 ! Yes, might I judge you, here were my heart, And a hundred its like, to treat as you 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 ? 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 de- serve your love : Should you forfeit heaven for a snapt gold ring And a promise broke, were it just or meet ? 140 THE WORST Or IT. And I to have tempted you ! I, who tried Your soul, no doubt, till it sank ! Unwise, I loved and was lowly, loved and aspired, Loved, grieving or glad, till I made you mad, A.nd you meant to have hated and despised "Whereas, you deceived me nor in- quired ! vn. She, ruined ? How ? 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? vm. Hardly ! That must be understood ! 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 no way How a blow should fall, such as falls on men, Nor prove too much for your woman- hood. 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. He stabs for the minute of trivial wrong, Nor the other hours are able to save, The happy, that lasted my whole lile 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. Witness beforehand ! Off I trip On a safe path gay through the flowers 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 ? How truth would have triumphed ! " you sigh too late. 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 de- spair : There's amends : 'tis a secret ; hope and pray ! 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'? rebuff. TOO LATE. 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, And strive and strain to be good again, And a place in the other world in- sure, All glass and gold, with God for its sun. XVII. Misery ! What shall I say or do ? I cannot advise, or, at least, per- suade. 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. xvm. 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. HERE 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 th& woman I loved Needs help in her grave and finds none near, Wants warmth from the heart which sends it so ! Did I speak once angrily, all the drear 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, W^at 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 mklcurrent, thwarting God! 142 TOO LATE. 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 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 ! " 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, like 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 ! " t 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 ! " What did the other do? You be i Look at us, Edith ! Here are we both! Give him his six whole years : I grudge None of the life with you, nay. I loathe Myself that I grudged his start in advance Of me who could overtake and pass. But, as if he loved vou ! No, not he, 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 ! " 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. TOO LATE. 143 And muttered of peace where he had no part : While, hid in the closet, laid on the shelf, 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 Of poets ! A poet he was ! I've guessed : He rhymed you his rubbish nobody read, Loved yon 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, I bleed these tears in the dark Till comfort come and the last be bled : He ? He is tagging your epitaph. 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 ! And 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. A.nd 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, beauty, and genius die, And jollily lived to his hundredth year. But I will live otherwise : none of such life ! 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. 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 pro- nounce : 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. 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 jux. My queen shall have high observance, planned Courtship made perfect, no least line BIFURCATION. Crossed without warrant. There you stand, "Warm too, and white too : would this wine 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 love from life-long exile conies at call. Duty and love, one broad way, 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, love ! ' said she : ' '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 where- on 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- bling-block But brought me to confusion. Where I fell, There I lay flat, if moss disguised tLii 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 as thunder. What a shade beneath her nose ! Snuff-taking, I suppose," Adds the cousin, while John's corns ail. A Likeness. Page 144. MAY AND DEATH, 145 Or else, there's no wife in the case, But the portrait's queen of the place, Alone mid the other spoils Of youth, tnasks, gloves, and foils, And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine, And the long whip, the tandem- lasher, And the cast from a fist (" 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 Chablais ") 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 e3'es 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 Vichy ! 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 has 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 lyrr>, And the National Portrait Gallery : Then I exhibit mv treasure. After we've turned over twenty, And the debt of wonder my crony 'owes Is paid to my Marc Antonios, He stops me " Fcstina lente! What's that sweet thing there, the etching?" How my waistcoat strings want stretching, How my cheeks grow red as toma- toes, How my heart leaps ! But hearts after leaps, ache. " By the by, you must take, for a keepsake, That other, you praised, of Volpato's." The fool ! would he try a flight far- ther and say He never saw, never before to-day, What was able to take his 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 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 thought, and %vorse, perhaps! There must be many a pair of friends Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm Moon-births and the long evening- ends. in. So, for their sake, be May still May ! Let their new time, as mine of old, Do all it did for me : I bid Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. x "l I r ' ' c 9 1 h* f 146 A FORGIVENESS. IV. One day, perhaps such song so knit Only, one little sight, one plant, Woods have in May, that starts up the nerve That work grew play and vanished. " I deserve ^1 cell Save a sole streak which, so to speak, Haply my heaven an hour before the ** ^ Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves be- tween, time ! " I laughed, as silverly the deckhouse- chime V. Surprised me passing through the pos- That, they might spare ; a certain wood tern gate Not the main entry where the Might miss the plant ; their loss menials wait were small : And wonder why the world's affairs But I, whene'er the leaf grows allow there, The master sudden leisure. That Its drop comes from my heart, that's all. was how I took the private garden-way for once. Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce A FORGIVEXESS. Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man. I AM indeed the personage you know. As for my wife, what happened My fancies in the natural order ran : long ago " A spy, perhaps a foe in ambus- You have a right to question me, as I cade, Am bound to answer. A thief, more like, a sweetheart of some maid (" Son, a fit reply ! " Who pitched on the alcove for tryst The monk half spoke, half ground perhaps." through his clinched teeth, At the confession-grate I knelt " Stand there ! " I bid. beneath.) "Whereat my man but wraps Thus then all happened, Father ! His face the closelier with uplifted Power and place arm I had as still I have. I ran life's Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in race, blind alarm With the whole world to see, as only This and that pedestal as, stretch strains and stoop, His strength some athlete whose pro- Now in, now out of sight, he thrids digious gains the group Of good appal him : happy to ex- Of statues, marble god and goddess cess, ranged Work freely done should balance Each side the pathway, till the gate's happiness Fully enjoyed ; and, since beneath exchanged For safety : one step thence, the my roof street, you know ! Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof Thus far I followed with my gaze I went forth every day, and all day Then, slow, long Near on admiringly, I breathed again, Worked for the world. Look, how And back to that last fancy of the f the laborer's song train 1 Chers him ! Thus sang my soul, "A danger risked for hope of just a at each sharp throe word Of laboring flesh and blood "She With which of all my nest may be loves me so ! " the bird V V> tj \ ^LL\ 6-+ 5 6 { 3 I_L_K A FORGIVENESS. 147 This poaclier coverts for her 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 hrood His proper tiedgeling ! " As I turned, there stood In 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 As now at joy's height, like a year in June Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose ; Or whether hungry for iny hate who knows? Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste Our tingling true relation, hate em- braced By hate one naked moment : any- how There stone-still stone-white 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 to 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 para- site, But do the passive marble no despite ! I love him as I hate you. Kill me ! Strike At one blow both infinitudes alike Out of existence hate and love ! W T hence love ? That's safe inside my heart, nor will 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 Hss. Kill me ! " We went in. Next day after this I felt as if the speech might come. spoke Easily, after all. " The lifted cloak Was screen sufficient : I concern my- self Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf Whate'er the ignoble kind may prowl and brave Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave Detected by my household's vigilance. Enough of such ! As for my love-ro- mance I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes And wake and wonder how the 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 moat 148 .4 FORGIVENESS. 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, he world had witnessed how stage- king and queen, Gallant and lady, but a minute since Enarming each the other, would evince Nr, sign of recognition as they took Ills 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 frenzy-tit Of sympathetic rapture every whit Earned as the curtain fell on her and me, Actors. Three whole years, noth- ing was 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, Out acting ended. She and I, at close Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows Of bending male and female loyalty, 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 . a ,nk A whisper in my ear, so low and yet So unmistakable ! " I half forget The chamber you repair to, and I want Occasion for one 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 ! " A FORGIVENESS. 149 " Follow me thither ! " I replied. We break The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, liy damp, Blind, disused, serpentining ways afar From where the habitable chambers are, Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone, Always in silence, till I reach the 'lone Chamber sepulchred for my very own Out 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 uncouth But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears ; Finally, this became in after-years My closet of intrenchment to with- stand 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 symbolled by a chain !) No sobner 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 Equalled 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 (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 from mine, though daily, smile to smile, We stood before the public, all the while Not once had 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 will 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 150 A FORGIVENESS. Of life and punishment the truth avowed May haply lengthen, let me push the shroud Away, that steals to muffle ere is just My 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 coquetting 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 off 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 While 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 in- tend 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-bunch ; his two eyes are ruby-specks Pure from the mine : seen this way, glassy blank, But turn "them, lo the inmost tire, 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 thing 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- warmtb never yet A FORGIVENESS. 151 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 n\ine. 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 rright in you seemed lost, I stung myself to teach you, to your cost, What you rejected could be prized beyond 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 well, 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 / learn who went Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind To bear upon your action : uncora- bined Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived Of every purer particle, survived At last in native simple hideousness, Utter contemptibility, nor less Nor more. Contemptibility exempt How could I, from its proper due contempt ? 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 em- blazoned 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 Eiches indeed ! Once, just this worth alone Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby Of good and praise would how re- wardingly ! 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 before, 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 despised 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 semblance, urged By causes you declare ; but love's self purged 152 CENCfAJA. A. way 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 pun- ishment Replace contempt's! First step to j which ascent Write down your own words I re- ] utter you ! / loved my husband and I hated who He was, I took vp as my first chance, mere Mud-ball to fliny and make love foid loith .' ' Here Lies paper! " "Would my blood for ink suffice! " " It may: this minion from a land of spice, Silk, feather every bird of jewelled 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 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 iny 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 liis brow The cloak then, Father as your grate helps now ! CEXCIAJA. Ogni cencio tuol entrare in bucato. Itai- ian 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, ' She must die; ' Subjoining ' Pardon ? Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother also yestereve. And he is fled: she shall not flee, ai least ! ' " CENCIAJA. 153 So, to the letter, sentence was ful- filled ? Shelley, may I condense verbosity That lies before ine, into some few words Of English, and illustrate your superb Achievement 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 : WLa lauds your poem lends an ear to me Relating how the penalty was paid By one Marchese dell' Oriolp, 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. "'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) II 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- bulf, Blinded by so exorbitant a lust Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits, Casting about to kill the lady thus. He first, to coyer his iniquity, Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then Authoritative lord, acquainting him Their mother was contamination wrought Like hell-flrb iu 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 faidily, 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 laud Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more: "It must behoove a son, things haply 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 154 CENCIAJA. 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. Witless here ! The present sinner, when he least ex- pects, Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basi- licate, Stumbles upon his death by vio- lence. A man of blood assaults the man of blood 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 impor- tant point His matricide fell out, of ah .-he 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 what 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 Paolo, all in vain " Make perquisition," quoth our Emi- nence, " Throughout his now deserted domi- cile ! Ransack the palace, roof, and floor, 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 brother- hood 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 out Eminence CENCIAJA. 155 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 de- cent death 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 moved whom morn would, purpling, make ann-inls ! 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-hatch 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 " Do 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 tittle 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 i-oiirm 1 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 Gov- ernor 156 CENC1AJA. Summon the Congregation and de- spatch. Summons made, sentence passed ac- cordingly Death by beheading. When his death-decree Was intimated to Onofrio, all 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 Rome to see, a concourse infi- nite ; 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 seal- ing lips Or, better, saying, " When I coun- selled him ' To do as miyht beseem a cavalier, ' What could I mean but, ' Hide our parent's shame As Christian ouyht, by aid of Holy Church! Bury it in a convent ay, beneath Enough dotation to prevent its ghost From troubling earth ! ' " Mere saying thus, 'tis plain. Not only were his life the recompense, But lie had manifestly proved him- self True Christian, and in lieu of pun- ishment 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. Pricked 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 To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young ; PORPHYRIA'S LOVER. 157 Whereon a fury entered him the tire He quenched with what could quench fire only blood. Nay, more : " there want not who affirm to boot, The unwise boy, a certain festal eye, 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-chamber. 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 ? PORPHYREA'S LOVER. THE 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. When glided in Porphyria ; straight She shut che 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 in. Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, un- tied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice re- plied, She put my arm about 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, 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. But passion sometimes would pre- vail, 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. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud : at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me ; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. 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 arouucl, IX. And strangled her. No pain felt she : I am quit.- sun- she felt no pain. As ;i shut bud that holds a '(. I warily oped her lids : again Laughed the blue eyes without * slain FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON BURIAL. 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 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, And I, its love, am gained instead ! Porphyria's love : she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now. And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word ! FILIPPO BALDESTUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. A Reminiscence of A.D. 1676. No, boy, we must not (so began My Uncle he'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 His chuckle at my piece of news, H!ow cleverly I aimed my stone) I fear we must not pelt the Jews ! n. 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 ! in. 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 suffer Jews in sight Go wholly unmolested ! Fact ! 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 110 blame In giving hogs a hoist to stye. 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- tence ! Which wickedness they perpetrate Because they think no Christians see They reckoned here, at any rate, Without their host : ha, ha, he, he ! For, what should join their plot of ground But a good Farmer's Christian field? The Jews had hedged their corner round With bramble-bush to keep con- cealed 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. FIL1PPO BALD1NUCCI ON BURIAL. 159 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 ! 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 ! Now, if it was amusing, judge ! 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 ! 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 ! At last, they will not brook not they ! 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 r,eif Pretending sorrow, as before ! Forthwith, a posse, if you please, Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That Almost go down 11)1011 their knees To get him lay the picture flat. 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 he 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 ou 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 ? xrv. " 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 w- fare And take your hatred : nothing worse Have we, once dead and safe, to bear ! So we refresh our souls, fulfil Our works, our daily tasks ; and thus Gather you grain earth's harvest still The wheat for you, the straw for us. XVI. " ' 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 160 FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON BURIAL. 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 ! i " At sight of just that simple flag, Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag 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! Beneath this prayer to courtesy, Kind, conscience there's a sum to pouch ! How many ducats down will buy Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch ! XIX. " Removal, not destruction, sirs ! Just turn your 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 ? "Yet grant it : since, what 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. " 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, Recipient of our Lady who, Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank ! Now, you're no boy I need instruct In technicalities of Art ! My nephew's childhood sure has 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, F1LIPPO BALDINUCCI ON BURIAL. 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 ! "Well, ere the week was half at end, Out came the object of this zeal, This fine alacrity to spend Hard money for mere dead men's weal ! How 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! 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 ! 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 ! And here's the convoy halting : right ! Oh, they are bent on howling psalms And growling prayers, when oppo- site ! 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 ? 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 I 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 ! " "Theft?" cries the Farmer, "Eat 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? " I guess you dared not stipulate For such a damned impertinence ! So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate And in at Ghetto ! Haste you hence 1 162 FIL1PPO BALDINUCCI ON BURIAL. 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. But next day see what happened, boy ! See why I bid you have a care How you pelt Jews ! The knaves em- ploy 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 ! 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 ! " xxxvnr. 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 scoff At sober, Christian grief the Jew ! " 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 inter- venes ! " 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 asked, thus taken unaware, No more than just the proper price ! XLII. " Done ! " cries the monster. " I dis- burse 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 ! " 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 ! FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON BURIAL. 163 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 ! XLV. " 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. tell's ! " XLVI. 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 XLVII. " 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 ! " 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. I see, let's issu* " For, don't 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 " Whereat if I presume to ask ' But, Eminence, though Titian's whisk 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!' LII. " Benignant smiles me pitv straight The Cardinal. ' 'Tis "Truth, we prize ! Art's the sole question in debate ! These subjects are so many lies. We treat them with a proper scorn When we turn lies called gods for- sooth To lies' fit use, now Christ is born. Drawing and coloring are Truth. " ' Think you I honor lies so much As scruple to parade the charms Of Leda Titian, every touch Because the thing within her arms 164 SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER. 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 ! ' " So ending, with some easy gibe. What power has logic ! I, at once, Acknowledged error in our tribe, So squeamish that, when friends ensconce 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 ! "No, sir ! Be sure that what's its style, Your picture ? shall possess un- grudged A place among my rank and file Of Ledas and what not be judged Just as a picture ! and (because I fear me much I scarce have bought A Titian) Master Buti's flaws Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought ! " So, with a scowl, it darkens door This bulk no 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 ! Was magic here ? Most like ! For, since, Somehow our city's faith grows still More and more lukewarm, and our 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 ! " 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 we 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 SPAN- ISH CLOISTER. GR-R-R there go, my heart's abhor- rence ! Water your damned flower-pots, do! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God's blood, would not mine kill you! What ? your myrtle-bush wants trim- ming? Oh, that rose has prior claims Needs its leaden vase filled brim- ming ? Hell dry you up with its flames ! At the meal we sit together : Salve tibi ! I 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, I doubt : What's the Latin name for "parsley "? What's the Greek name for Swine'? Snout ? Whew ! We'll have our platter bur- nished, Laid with care on our own shelf ! With a fire-new spoon we're fur nished, And a goblet for ourself, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps Marked with L. for our initial ! (He-he I There his lily snaps !) Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister. Page 164. THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. 165 IV. While brown Do- Saint, forsooth ! 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 !) 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. Oh, those melons ? If he's able We're to have a feast ! so nice ! One goes to the Abbot's table, All of ns get each a slice. How go on your flowers ? None double ? Not one fruit-sort can you spy ? Strange ! And I, top, at such trouble Keep them close-nipped on the sly ! 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 ? Or, my scrofulous French novel On gray paper with blunt type ! Simply glance at it, yon grovef Hand and foot in Belial's gripe : If I double down its pages At the woful sixteenth print, When he gathers his greengages, Ope a sieve and slip it in't ? Or, there's Satan ! one- might ven- ture Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave Such a flaw in the indenture As he'd miss till, past retrieve, Blasted lay that rose-acacia We're so proud of ! Hy, Zy, Hine . . . 'St, there's Vespers ! Plena yratid Ave, Viryo ! Gr-r-r you swine ! THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE. EOSA MUNDI J 8EU, FULCITE ME FLORIBUS. A CONCEIT OF MASTER GYSBRECHT, CANON-REGULAR OF SAINT JODOCUS-BY- THE-BAR, YPHES CITY. CANTUQUE, Vir- ffilillH. AND HATH OFTEN BEEN SUNO AT HOCK-TIDE AND FESTIVALS. GAVI- 8U8 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. PKEADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEO- DAET. THE Lord, we look to once for all, Is the Lord we should look at, all at once : He knows not to vary, saith Saint Paul, Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce. See him no other than as he is i 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 SINOETH. 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 wasp?' hive, 166 THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY And dipt of his wings in Paris sqxiare, They bring him now to be burned alive. [And wanteth there (/race of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who sinyeth "We bring John now to be burned alive. in. 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. CHORUS. We mean he should roast in the sight of all. IV. Good sappy bavins that kindle forth- with ; Billets that blaze substantial and slow ; Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith ; Larch-heart that chars to a chalk- white 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. Laus Deo who bids clap-to the torch. 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 are bound ? Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ. [Here one crosselh himself. Jesus Christ John had bought and sold, Jesus Christ John had eaten and drunk ; To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold. (Salyd reverentia.) 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, "Savs thou me ! " "Who maketh God's menace an idle word ? ' Saith, it no more means what it proclaims, Than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird? For she too prattles of ugly names. Saith, 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 saith. CHORUS. Oh, John shall yet find a rose, he saith. VIII. 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, HOLY-CROSS DAY. 167 Good Felix trembled, he could no less : John, snickering, crooked his wicked thumb. CHOKUS. What cometh to John of the wicked thumb ? IX. Ha, ha ! 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 out- start ; 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 called now, through the fire amain, On the Name, he had cursed with, all his life To the Person, he bought and sold again FO.T the Face, with his daily buffets rife Feature by feature It took its place ; And his voice, like a mad dog 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 help all poor souls lost in the dark! HOLY-CROSS DAY. ON WHICH THE JEWS WERE FORCE C TO YTTEND AN ANNUAL CHRIS TIAN SERMON IN ROME. f " Now was come about Holy-Cross Day ana now must my lord preach his first ser mon to the Jews : as it was of old cared fo in the merciful bowels of the Church, that o to speak, a crumb, at least, from her con- picuous table here in Rome, should be, hough but once yearly, cast to the famish- ng dogs, under-trampled and bespitten-upon >eneath the feet of the guests. And a mov- ng sight in truth, this, of so many of the oesotted blind restif and ready -to-perish He- >rews! now maternally brought nay (for le saith, ' Compel them to come in '), haled, as it were, by the head and hair, and against ,heir obstinate hearts, to partake of the icavenly grace. What awakening, what .triving with tears, what working of a yeasty sonscience! Nor was my lord wanting to limself on so apt an occasion ; witness the abundance of conversions which did inconti- nently reward him : though not to my lord be altogether the glory." Diary by the Via/top's Secretary, 1600.] What the Jews really said, on thus being driven to church, was rather to this effect : FEE, faw, fum ! bubble and squeak ! Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the week. Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, Stinking and savory, smug and gruff, Take the church-road, for the bell's due chime Gives us the summons 'tis sermon- time ! n. Barnabas ! Boh, here's Barnabas ! Job, that's you ? Up stumps Solomon bustling too ? Shame, man! greedy beyond your years To handsel 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 ! in Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie, Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve, Worms in a carcass, fleas in a sleeve- Hist ! square shoulders, settle your thumbs And buzz for the bishop here he comes. Bow, wow, wow a bone for the dog! I liken his Grace to an scorned hog. 168 HOLY CROSS DAY. 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 ? His cheek hath laps like a fresh- singed swine. 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 the gown with the angel and thingumbob ! What's he at, quotha? reading his text ! Now you've his curtsey and what comes next ? See to our converts you doomed black dozen 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, Got fortune and fortune gets you ; mind that ! Give your first groan compunction's at work ; And soft ! from a Jew you mount to a Turk. Lo, Micah, the selfsame beard on chiu He 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 : 1/jt somebody else play his serenades ! Groan all together now, whee hee hee ! It's a-work, it's a-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 in- deed Which gutted my purse, would throt- tle my creed : And it, overflows, when, to even the odd, Men I helped to their sins, help TCI to their God. 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. 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. " The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet, And again in his border see Israel set. AMPHIBIAN. 169 When Jndah beholds Jerusalem, The stranger-seed shall be joined to them : To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles cleave, So the Prophet saith 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 ! " God spoke, and gave us the word to 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, who at inid- 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 coining to take thine own, And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne "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, W'hose life laughs through and spits at their creed, Who maintain thee in word, and defy thee in deed ! 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 we dared ! Let defiance to them pay mistrust of thee, And Rome make amends for Calvary ! " By the torture, prolonged from age to age, 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 we f; night 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. THE fancy I had to-day, Fancy which turned a fear ! I swam far out in the bay, Since waves laughed warm clear. I lay and looked at the sun, The noon-sun looked at me : Between us two, no one Live creature, that I could see. and 170 AMPHIBIAN. Yes ! There came floating by Me, who lay floating too, Such a strange butterfly ! Creature as dear as new : Because the membraned wings So wonderful, so wide. So sun-suffused, were things Like soul and naught beside. A handbreadth over head ! All of the sea tny own, It owned the sky instead ; Both of us were alone. I never shall join its flight, For naught buoys flesh in air. If it touch the sea good-night ! Death sure and swift waits there. Can the insect feel the better For watching the uncouth play Of limbs that slip the fetter, Pretend as they were not clay ? Undoubtedly I rejoice That the air comports so well With a creature which had the choice Of the land once. Who can tell ? What if a certain soul Which early slipped its sheath, And has for its home the whole Of heaven, thus look beneath, 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 ? But sometimes when the weather Is blue, and warm waves tempt To free one's self of tether, And try a life exempt From worldly noise and dust, In the sphere which overbrims With passion and thought, why, just Unable to fly, one swims ! 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 ! " Emancipate through passion And thought, with sea for sky, We substitute, in a fashion, For heaven poetry : Which sea, to all intent, Gives flesh such noon-disport As a finer element Affords the spirit-sort. Whatever they are, we seem : Imagine the thing they know ; All deeds they do, we dream ; Can heaven be else but so ? And meantime, yonder streak Meets the horizon's verge ; That is the land, to seek If we tire or dread the surge ; 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. ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. No protesting, dearest ! Hardly kisses even I Don't we both know how it ends ? How the greenest leaf turns searest ? Bluest outbreak blankest heaven ? Lovers friends ? 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. What makes glad Life's Winter ? New buds, old blooms after. Sad the sighing " How suspect Beams would ere mid-autumn splin- ter, Kooftree scarce support a rafter, Walls lie wrecked ? " 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 ? 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' Ghosts ! O 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 ? 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 ! 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 ? 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 se- verely ; Though now alas ! Love's corpse lies quiet therefore, Only Love's ghost plays truant, And warns us have in wholesome awe Durable raansionry ; that's wherefore I weave but trellis-work, pursuant Life, to law. The solid, not the fragile, Tempts rain and hail and thunder. If oower stand firm at autumn's close, Beyond my hope, why, boughs were agile ; If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder Wreathing rose ! 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 ! 172 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 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 ! " 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 ! " 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 ! Ay, dead loves are the potent ! Like any cloud they used you, Mere semblance you, but sub- stance they ! Build we no mansion, weave 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 WIFE SPEAK8 AT THE WINDOW. AH, 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. 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 ? 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 THE FIRESIDB. 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. A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot O'er the sea ; Do sailors eye the casement mute Drenched and stark, From their bark JAMES LEE S WIFE And envy, gnash their teeth for hate O' the warm safe house and happy freight Thee and me ? God help you, sailors, at your need ! Spare the curse ! For some ships, safe in port indeed, Rot and rust, Run to dust, All through worms i' the wood, which crept, Gnawed our hearts out while we slept : That is worse. 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. 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 \yith its wants and its infinite wail ! Our fig-tree, that leaned for the salt- ness, has 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 the vines writhe in rows, each impaled on its stake ! My heart shrivels up and my spirit shrinks curled. 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 ; If a magpie alight now, it seems an event ; And they both will be gone at Novem- ber's rebuff. But but rv. why must cold spread ? wherefore 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 ! IV. ALONG 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 ? 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. A -\ i < ' M 1 1 h^ 174 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. in. Which will turn up next in a laughing Yes, earth yes, mere ignoble earth ! Now do I misstate, mistake ? eye, And why should you look be- Do I wrong your weakness and call yond?" , it worth ? J V Expect all harvest, dread no dearth, Seal my sense up for your sake ? rv. V. O Love, Love, no, Love ! not so, in- ON THE CLIFF. deed You were just weak earth, I knew : I. With much in you waste, with many I LEANED on the turf, a weed, And plenty of passions run to seed, But a little good grain too. I looked at a rock Left dry by the surf ; For the turf, to call it grass were to mock : y" Dead to the roots, so deep was done And such as you were, I took you for The work of the summer sun. mine : Did not you find me yours, To watch the olive and wait the n. And the rock lay flat vine, As an anvil's face : And wonder when rivers of oil and wine No iron like that ! Baked dry ; of a weed, of a shell, no Would flow, as the Book assures ? trace : Sunshine outside, but ice at the core, Death's altar by the lone shore. VI. Well, and if none of these good things came, in. On the turf, sprang gay What did the failure prove ? The man was my whole world, all With his films of blue, No cricket, I'll say, the same, But a warhorse, barded and chan- With his flowers to praise or his froned too, weeds to blame, The gift of a quixote-mage to hig And, either or both, to love. knight, Real fairy, with wings all right. VII. IV. Yet this turns now to a fault there ! On the rock, they scorch there ! Like a drop of fire That I do love, watch too long, From a brandished torch, And wait too well, and weary and Fall two red fans of a butterfly : wear ; And 'tis all an old story, and my de- No turf, no rock, in their ugly stead, See, wonderful blue and red ' spair Fit subject for some new song : V. Is it not so With the minds of men ? VIII. The level and low, t n r> " How the light, light love, he has The burnt and bare, in themselves ; ] " wings to fly but then At suspicion of a bond : With such a blue and red grace, not My wisdom has bidden your pleasure theirs, good-by, Love settling unawares ! el V 7rn-i * (- rW H_J V. " What, and is it really you again ? " At a terrace, somewhat near the stop- per, quoth I : " I again, what else did you ex- There watched for me, one June, pect ? " quoth She. A girl : I know, sir, it's improper, ~j (s My poor mind's out of tune. n. " Never mind, hie away from this old VI. house , 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." 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, vn. Make and rnend, or rap and rend, for 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, me ! Good-by ! God be their guard from disturbance at their glee, Till, crash, comes down the carcass in a heap ! " quoth I : " Nay, but there's a decency re- quired ! " quoth She. vin. in. Yet never catch her and me together, As she left the attic, there, " Ah, but if you knew how time has dragged, days, nights ! By the rim of the bottle labelled All the neighbor-talk with man and "Ether," maid such men ! And stole from stair to stair, All the fuss and trouble of street- sounds, window-sights : All the worry of flapping door and IX. echoing roof ; and then, And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, All the fancies . . . Who were they had leave, dared try We loved, sir used to meet : Darker arts that almost struck de- How sad and bad and mad it was spair in me ? But then, how it was sweet ! If you knew but how I dwelt down here ! "quoth I : " And was I so better off up there ? " quoth She. IV. THE HOUSEHOLDER. " Help and get it over ! Re-united to his icife i. (How draw up the paper lets the SAVAGE I was> sitting in my house, late, lone : parish-people kno.\v !) Lies M. or N., departed from this life, Dreary, weary with the long day's Day the this or that, month and year work : the so and so, Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a What i' the way of final flourish? stone : Prose, verse ? Try ! 1 Tongue-tied now, now blasphem- ing like a Turk ; Affliction sore, long time he bore, or, what is it to be ? When, in a moment, just a knock, Till God did please to grant him ease. call, cry, Do end ! " quoth I : Half a pang and all a rapture, there "I end with Love is all and again were we ! Death is naught ! " quoth She. J U J l _j s-\ s i L-s!_lJ-- x CAVALIER TUNES. 183 TRAY. SING me a hero ! Quench my thirst Of soul, ve 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-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second), : 'That eye wide ope as though Fate 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 I " ' 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 wlnl under : If he got drowned I should not won der Strong current, that against the wall '"Here he comes, holds in inout this time What may the thing be? Wei that's prime ! Now, did you ever ? Reason reigns In man alone, since all Tray's pain Have fished -the child's doll from the slime ! ' And so, atnid the laughter gay, 'rotted my hero off, old Tray, Mil somebody, prerogatived Vith reason, reasoned : ' Why he dived, His brain would show us, I should ''John, go and catch or, if seeds be, urchase that animal for me ! }y vivisection, at expense )f half-an-hour and eighteen pence, low brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see ! ' " CAVALIER TUXES. I. MARCHING ALONG. 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 hon- est folk droop, Marched them along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. God for King Charles! Pyrn and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries ! Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you're (Chorus) Marching along, tijty-score strong, Great - hearted gentlemen, sinr/iny this song. in. Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell. Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well ! 184 C 'AVAL IE It TUNES. England, good cheer ! Rupert i:; near ! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here (Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great - hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 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 we along, fifty-score strong, Great - hearted 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 ! 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, vi hell's despite now, Kina Charles ! To whom used my boy George quafi 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 u-ho'll do him right now ? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now ? Give a rouse : here's, ii hell's despite now, King Charles! III. BOOT AND SADDLE. I. BOOT, saddle, to horse, and away ! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, (Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! 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 .'" Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bav, Flouts Castle Braneepeth the Round' heads' array : Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, (Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away? " TV. Who ? My wife Gertrude ; that, hon- est and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrender- ing, " Nay ! I've better counsellors ; what coun- sel they ? (Chorus) Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! " After. Page i8v AFTER. 185 BEFORE. 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 ! n. 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? Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceive God the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve, " 'Tis but decent to profess one's self beneath her : Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either ! " 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. Let him pace at 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. 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 ? So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man ? et him bear one stroke more, for be sure he cai; t rle that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven, Jet him give his blood at last and get his heaven ! All or nothing, stake it ! Trusts he God or no ? Thus far and no farther ? farther ? be it so ! Sow, 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. Once more Will the wronger, at this last of all, Dare to say, " I 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, and at first Let the corpse do its worst ! How he lies in his rights of a man. Death has done all death can. And, absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds 186 HERVE RIEL. 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 offence, my disgrace ? 1 would we were boys as of old In the field, by the fold : His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn Were so easily borne ! I stand here now, he lies in his place : Cover the face ! HERVE RIEL. 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. r 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 signalled 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 ! " 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 : 1 Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the ' Formidable ' here with hei 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 ? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring ? Rather say ; While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 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 tlie beach ! France must undergo her fate. v. word ! ' But no such " Give the 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. And, " What mockery or malice have we here ? " cries Herve' Riel : " Are you mad , you Maloums ? 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, HERVE RIEL. 187 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 ine there's a way ! Only let me l^ad 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, Eight to Solidor 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 Eiel. 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 Herv<5 Kiel hollas " An- chor ! " sure as fate, Up the English come, too !ate ! VIII. So, the storm subsides to calm : They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched \\itl balm. " Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the' bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance A"\ they cannonade away ! Neath rampired Solidor pleasant rid- ing on the Ranee ! " Jow hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance ! )ut 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 Eiel ! " As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. 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 sun was near eclipse ! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name's not Damfreville." Then a beam of fun outbroke On The bearded mouth that spoke, As the 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 Eoads 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 wifi-. whou I call the Belle Aurore ! ' That he asked and that he got, nothing more. 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. 188 IN A BALCONY. 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 Kiel. So, for better and for worse, Herve' Kiel, accept my verse ! In my verse, Herve Kiel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore ! IN A BALCOXY. CONSTANCE and NORBERT. Nor. Now ! Con. Nor. Not now ! 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 ! 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 fulfil 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 souf! 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 So well, that now, my spirit turned his own, 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 stop to care for me By saving what I cease 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 shajl pray for this in vain ! Why must you ponder what it knows or thinks ? IN A BALCONY. 189 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, You 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 What 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 ! " 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, very 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 yon, then The' kiss, because you have a name at c'ourt. This hand and this, that yon 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 you 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. Ho\v 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 : 1'JO IN A BALCONY. 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 the bath, Chases and battles, the whole earth's display, Landscape and sea-piece, 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 Rubens 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 s 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 ; you lose her at the word : You do not even for amends gain me He will not understand ! O Norbert, Norbert ! 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 where the pictures glow : The good of life is precious to us both. She cannot love ; what do I want with rule ? /.V A BALCONY. 191 When first I saw your face a year ago I knew 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, obtain her ! " how was it to be ? 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 what other servants failed to do. Neither she sought nor I declared my end. Her good is hers, my recompense be mine, I therefore name you as that recompense. She dreamed that such a thing could never be ? Let her wake now. She thinks there was more cause In 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 very first, Were 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 I 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 way, the world's, His way who beats, and his who sells his wife ! What tempts you? their notorious happiness, That you are ashamed of ours ? The best you'll gain Will be the Queen grants all that you require, Concedes the cousin, rids herself of you 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-" 192 IN A BALCONY. One made to love you, let the world take note ! Have I done worthy work ? be love's the praise, Though hampered by restrictions, barred against By set forms, blinded by forced secrecies ! Set free nay 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 pretence 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 way. 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, while it prompted work, Suppressed itself erewhile. This eve's the time, This eve intense with 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 way, and let the second come ! My first is to possess myself 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 breaks open. No delay ! 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, IN A BALCONY. 19? 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 En 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 any thing. 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, To keep in proof how near her breath you came. Say, I'm so near I seem a piece of her Ask for me that way (oh, 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 yon have ruined both of UB, 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 you remain here ? Con. O best heart of mine, How I have loved you ! then, you take ray way ? iF" 72V A BALCONY. Are mine as you have been her minister, Work out my thought, give it effect for ine, 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 I Is it so ? Is it true or false ? One word ? 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 yon palm The hope of seeing Egypt from that plot. Con. Heaven ! Queen. But it was so, Constance, it was so ! 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 I " 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 1 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 flung 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 1 O Constance, how I love you t IN A BALCONY. 195 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 no%v, 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 ! He 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 time 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 haladinc'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, Then 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, no 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 I 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 196 IN A BALCONY. 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, 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. You did not hear . . . you thought he spoke Of love ? what if you should mistake ? Qiieen. No, no No mistake ! Ha, there shall be no mistake ! He had not dared to hint the love he felt You were my reflex (how I understood !) He said you were the ribbon I had worn, He kissed my hand, he looked into my eyes, 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 ho\r to keep what I have won ! Am I so old ? This hair was early gray ; But joy ere no\y 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 7.V A BALCONY. 197 Arid set her by their side to take the eye : I must have felt that good would come from you. t 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 Norberts. Speak the truth ! You know you never named his name to me You know, I cannot give him up ah God, Not 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 : put your cheek beside my cheek Ah, what a contrast does the moon behold ! But then I set my life upon one chance, The last chance and the best am / 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 conch ; But I'll pour floods of love and hide myself. How 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, well 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. How 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 these 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, 198 IN A BALCONY. Dissolve that hateful marriage, and be his, His own in the eyes alike of God and man. Con. You will do dare do ... pause on what you say I 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) 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 I Con. Let me consider ! It is all too strange. Queen. You, Constance, learn of me ; do you, like me ! 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 I 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 ? Your 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 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 G rows play, adversity a winning fight ! True I have lost so many years : what then 'i 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.'] IN A BALCONY. NORBEKT enters. Nor. Well ? we have but one minute and one word ! Con. lam yours, Norbert ! Nor. Yes, mine. Con. Not till now 1 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, any thing 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 The whole slow circle round you I must move, To be just you. I look to a long life To decompose this minute, prove its worth. 'Tis thn sparks' long succession one by one Shall show you, in the end, what fire 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 ? Nor. That's easy told. I count life just a stuff 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 200 IN A BALCONY. Or heaps up stone on atone, 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 fine 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 which 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 change 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 ways 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, This people, in our phrase, this mass of men, See how the mass lies passive to my hand And how 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-r^ork, Some vase shaped to the curl of the god's )ip. IN A BALCONY. 201 While rounded fair for lower men to see The Graces in a danoe 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 ? Vor Thus ! [As he embraces her, the QDEEN 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 ! What's a kiss ? Nor. Constance ? Con. Why, must I teach it you again ? You want a witness to your'dulness, sir ? What was I saying these ten minutes long ? Then I repeat, when some young, handsome man Like you has 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, I do hold that the merest gentleman Will not start rudely from the stalking-horse, Dismiss it with a " There, enough of you ! ' 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 : 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 I Con. 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 thara to their place When else they had wandered out into despair, And kept love constant toward its natural aim. 202 IN A BALCONY. Enough, my part is played ; you stoop half-way And ineet 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 Be all you cannot be except by her ! 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 : \vhere 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, Not very wise perhaps and somewhat bold, Yet suitable, the whole night's work being strange) May still be right : I may do well 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 justified 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. Hut 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 IN A BALCONY. 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 phrase 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 my brain : She may experiment therefore on my heart And I instruct her too by the result. But you, Sweet, you who know me, who so long 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, Not she I 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, I 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 I 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 God and standing 'neath his heaven, I would not dare insult a woman so, Were she the meanest woman in the world, And he, I cared to please, ten emperors 1 Con. Norbert f Nor, I love once as I live but one*. 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 204 IN A BALCONY. 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 . . . Nor. 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 I 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, 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 ov* 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 centre 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 do ! 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 finger 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 I ' And washed by the morning water-gold, Florence lay out on the mountain side." Page 201;. OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 205 OLD PICTURES IN FLOR- ENCE. i. THE inorn when first it thunders in March, The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say. As I leaned 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. ii. 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-ball. 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? in. Giotto, how, with that soul of yours, Could you play me false who loved you so ? Some slights if a certain heart en- dures Yet it feels, I would have your fel- lows know ! T' 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 winter after- noons, By a gift God grants me now and then, En 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 church's apsis, aisle or nave, Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch, Its face set full for the sun to shave. 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. For oh, this world 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 scone, Now that they see God face to face, 20G OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. And have all attained to be poets, I hope ? 'Tis their holiday now, in any case. Much they reck of your praise and you ! But the wronged great souls can they be quit Of a world where their 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. 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, Called Nature's Ape and the world's despair For his peerless painting ? (see Va- sari.) 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 their 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 gar- ble, Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken) And Limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble. 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 de- gree With your little power, by those statues' godhead, And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway, And your little grace, by their grace embodied, And your little date, by their forms that stay. XIII. You would fain be kinglier, say, than lam? Even so, you will not sit like The- seus. 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. So, testing your weakness by their strength, Your meagre charms by their rounded beauty, Measured by Art in your breadth and length, You learned to submit is a mor- tal's duty- OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 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. 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, per- fect of stature ? In both, of such lower types are we Precisely because of our wider nature ; For time, theirs ours, for eternity. To-day's brief passion limits their range ; 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 rough-hewn, no- wise 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 per- fection perishes. Things learned on earth, we shall practise in heaven : Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes. Thyself shalt 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 fin- ish. 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 laughter 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 the early painters, To cries of " Greek Art and what more wish you ? " Replied, " To become now self-ao quainters, And paint man, man, whatever the , issue ! Make 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 ? " Give these, I exhort you, their guer- don and glory For daring so much, before they well did it. The first of the new, in our race's story, Beats the last of the old ; 'tis no idle quiddit. The worthies began a revolution, Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge, Why, honor them now ! (ends my al- locution) Nor confer your degree when the folks leave college. There's a fancy some lean to and others 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 : 208 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. Where the strong and the weak, this world's congeries, Repeat in large what they practised in small, Through life after life in unlimited series ; Only the scale's to be changed, that's all. xxn. Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen By the means of "Evil that Good is 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 burn the rod, The uses of labor are surely done ; There remaineth a rest for the people of God : And I have had troubles enough, for one. xxm. But at any rate I have loved the sea- son Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy ; My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan, My painter who but Cimabue ? Nor" even was man of them all in- deed, From these to Ghiberti and Ghir- landajo, Could say-that he 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 Eng- land's thick clime ! " (I hope they prefer their inheritance Of a bucketful of Italian Quick- lime.) When they go at length, with such a shaking Of heads o'er the 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 pic- tures dree Such doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted ? Why is it they never remember me ? Not that I expect the great Bigordi, Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose ; Nor the wronged Lippino ; and not a word I Say of a scrap of Fra Angelico's : But are you too fine, 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 ? XX VII. Could not the ghost with the close red cap, My Pollajolo, the twice a crafts- man, 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. Margheritone 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 my conviction. The hoarding it doe* you but little honor. T. OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. 209 i[ XXIX. They pass ; for them the panels may None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge), thrill, Nor a civic guard, all plumes and The tempera grow alive and tin- glish : Their pictures are left to the mercies still lacquer, Hunting Radetzky's soul like a par- J tridge I Over Morello with squib and crack- Of dealers and stealers, Jews and er. the English, Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize, XXXIII. This time we'll shoot better game and Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno bag 'em hot : No mere display at the stone of At naked High Art, and in ecstasies Before some clay-cold vile Carlino ! Dante, But a kind of sober Witanagemot (Ex : " Casa Guidi," quod videos ante) XXX. Shall ponder, once Freedom restored No matter for these ! But Giotto, to Florence, you, How Art may return that departed Have you allowed, as the town- with her. tongues babble it Go, hated house, go each trace of the Oh, never ! it shall not be counted Loraine's, true And bring us the days of Orgagna That a certain precious little tablet hither ! Which Buonarroti eyed like a lover, XXXIV. Was buried so long in oblivion's womb How we shall prologuize, how we And, left for another than I to dis- cover, Turns up at last ! and to whom ? shall perorate, Utter fit things upon art and history, Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood to whom ? at zero rate, Make of the want of the age no mystery , XXXI. Contrast the fructuous and sterile I, that have haunted the dim San eras, Spirito, Show monarchy ever its uncouth (Or was it rather the Ognissanti ?) Patient on altar-step planting a weary cub licks Out of the bear's shape into Chimje- toe ! ra's, Nay, I shall have it yet I Detur While Pure Art's birth is still the amanti I republic's ! My Koh-i-noor or (if that's a plati- tude) XXXV. Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Then one shall propose in a speech Soft's eye ; (curt Tuscan, So, in anticipative gratitude, What if 1 take up my hope and prophesy ? Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an " issimo "), To end now our half-told tale of Cam- buscan, And turn the bell-tower's alt to XXXII. altisstmo : When the hour grows ripe, and a cer- And, fine as the beak of a young tain dotard beccaccia, If* Is pitched, no parcel that needs in- The Campanile, the Duomo's fit *\ p voicing, ally, To the worst side of the Mont St. Gothard, Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia, Completing Florence, a* Florence, We shall begin by way of rejoicing; Italy. ^1 1 G-+ i f. f a 1 ' U-" 210 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. Shall I be alive that morning the scaf- fold Is broken away, and the long-pent fire, Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled 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 space left here tempts to a word on the line about Apollo the snake- slayer, which my friend Professor Colvin condemns, believing that the God of the Belvedere grasps no bow, but the ^Egis, as described in the 15th Iliad. Surely the text represents that portentous object (Oovpiv, Seivrjv, d^rfti&acreLai', apurpfTri' /u.ap/xapoji') as " shaken violently " or " held immova- bly" by both hands, not a single one, and that the left hand : dAAa /u.dA' en-iercretW tj>ofleeiv TJpcoas "A^aious. and SO oil, rijr ap' 6 y ec X e <-ptvney, spends it, owns the worth of things, Giulio Romano's pictures, Dowland's lute ; Enjoys a show, respects the puppets too, Ami none more, had he seen its entry once, Than " Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal. Whv the,i hould 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 r Being just the goal he ran his race to reach) He would have run the whole race hark, forsootn. And left being Pandulph. to begin write plays ? Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth s Did Shakspeare live, he could but sit at home And get himself in dreams the Vatican, Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, And English books, none eoual to his own. Which I read; bound in gold (he never did). 220 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. Term's fall, Naples' bay, and Gothard'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, Shakspeare 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 house, 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 Hare success. But paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. Light one in me, I'll find it fooil 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 ? 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. WI:at can I gain on the denying side ? Ice uokes no conflagration. State the facts, Read the text right, emancipate the world The emancipated world enjoys itself With scarce a thank-yoti : Blougram told it first It could not owe a farthing, not to him More than Saint Paul ! 'twould press its pay, you thinkV Then add there's still that plaguy 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 tilings. BISHOP BLOU GRAM'S APOLOGY. " 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 lingers' ends, Doubts in the trivial work 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 fortli Whatever be the process to that end, And not historic knowledge, logic sound, And metaphysical acumen, sure ! " What 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 form a notion of me, we'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 lorn in Rome, This Blougram ; yet throughout the tales of him I see he figures as an Englishman." Well, the two things are reconcilable. But would I rather you discovered that Subjoining " Still, what matter thcmgli th e ; ^ Blougram concerns me naught, born here or there. Pure faith indeed you know not what you ask ! Naked belief in God the Omnipotent, ]_ 222 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. Omniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. It were the seeing him, no tiesh 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 eye 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 'neath 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, Say I let doubt occasion still more faith ! 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 traveller 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 life ! 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. BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. Will not that hurry us upon our knees, Knocking our breasts, "It can't he 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," he 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. 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, declassify 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 wttl 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 war And thrown into the balance, turns the scale- 224 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 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, iny best pledge To observe then, is that I observe these now, Shall do hereafter what I do meanwhile. Let us concede (gratuitously though) 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 traveller, bound from North to South, Scouts fur in Russia ; 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, through 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-upin 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 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. 225 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 Or shame, from just the fact that at the first Whoso 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 who 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 state 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 we may see, all we 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 wink, For fear, if once I drop the emphasis, Mankind may doubt there's any cloud at all. You take the simple life read}' 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? 226 BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY. I bid you ; but you are God's sheep, not mine : " Pastor est tui JJominus." 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-flock 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 those 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 ranch 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 ! You're shrewd and know that should you publish one The world would brand the lie my enemies first, Who'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. BISHOP BLOUGRAM 'S APOLOGY. 227 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 fire, 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 Blackwobd's Magazine, Believe you see' two points in Hamlet's soul Unseized by the Germans yet which view you'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 (Tlie card and pencil-scratch is quite enough) Which whether here, in Dublin or New York, Will get you, prompt as at ray 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 in pnrtibns Episcopus, nee non (the deuce knows what It's changed to by our novel hierarchy) With Gigadibs the literary man, Who played with spoons, explored his plate's design, 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 C 228 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 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, he'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 us 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 plough, And studied his last chapter of Saint John. MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." "Now, don't, sir ! Don't expose me ! Just this once ! 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 !) All, except this last accident, was truth This little kind of slip ! and even this, 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 1 Ch ch! Mr. Sludge, "The Medium." Page 228. MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 229 Well, sir, I hope you've done it now ! 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 shirt-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. 1 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 1 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 ! " 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 offence ! 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 da 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 I Else I'll swear 230 MS. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 'Tvvas all through those : you wanted yours again, So, picked a quarrel with rue, to get them back ! Tread on a worm, it turns, sir ! If I turn, Your fault ! "Tis you'll have forced roe ! 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's alight.) 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 keyholes, hears the company Talk grand of dollars, V-notes, and so forth, How hard they are to get, how good to hold, How much they buy, if, suddenly, in pops he " Pve 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, His 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 possibilities ? Would not you, prompt, investigate the case With cow-liide ? " 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 iad MR. SLUDGE, " THE MEDIUM: 231 With him, in a trice, you settle likelihoods, Nor doubt a moment how lie 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 ; How 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 nddle-diddle-dee : If he then break in with, " Sir, / 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 consitlerateness, " No haste ! Pause and collect yourself ! We understand ! That's the bad memory, or the natural shock, Or the unexplained phenomena !" 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," . . 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 I 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 (" Person ? " 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 put a " medium " ? " David's yours, You highly favored man ? Then, pity souls 232 MR. SLUDGE, ''THE MEDIUM." 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, 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. I'll prove, you push on David till he 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, who'd have thought it ! " But there's always one Looks wise, compassionately smiles, submits " Of your 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, And doubled besides ; once more, " He heard, we heard, 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 ? MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 233 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 filed fine, All's fit 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 1 You hold, if there's one half or a hundredth part Of a lie, that's his fault, his be the penalty ! I dare say ! You'd prove firmer in his place ? You'd find the courage, that first Hurry 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 And found you ready made. I've lived in clover These 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 arras between us, your first taste o' the foil From Sludge who could not fence, sir ! Sludge, your boy I I lied, sir, there ! I got up from my gorge On offal 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 <\ 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 hopers proud now, pleased, profuse O' the natural acknowledgment ? Of course ! So, off we push, 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, \ 234 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM: Concern themselves about his Sunday coat, See rings on his hand 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, a"> rank As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. 'Tis soon, " Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, feteh 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 incline To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts. You see, their world's much like a jail broke loose, While this of ours remains shut, bolted, barred, With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend, Serves as this window, whether thin or thick, Or stained or stainless ; he's the medium-pane Through which, to see us and be seen, 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, MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM.' 235 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, Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose ? Then, why your " medium " ? What's the difference ? Prove your Madeira red-ink and gamhoge, 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 sceptic, 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 hay-racks and won't munch Because- he spies a corn-bag : hang that truth, It spoils all dainties proffered in its place ! I've felt at times when, cockered, cossetted, And coddled by the aforesaid company, Bidden enjoy their bullying never fear, But o'er their shoulders spit at the flying 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 filth. Making dirt-pies, laughing free, speaking plain, And calling granny the gray old cat she is. I've felt a spite, I say, at you, at them, Huggings and humbug gnashed my teeth to mark A decent dog pass ! It's too bad, I say, Ruining a soul so ! 236 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 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 writing by the hand ? I own, I thought This would develop, 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 yo'ur 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 ! He 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 done with and my lot cast ; Cheat's my name : The fatal dash of brandy in your tea Has settled how you' 11 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 blown ; 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 At end o' your slipper, then put out the lights And . . . there, there, all you want you'll get, I hope I 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, what's your verdict, sir? You, hardest head in the United States, Did you detect a cheat here ? Wait ! Let's see ! Just an experiment first, for candor's sake ! I'll try and cheat you, Judge ! The table tilts : MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 237 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 mattei f Well, sir, if you fail, you can't take us in, There's little fear that Sludge wili ! " 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 Cresar : 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 V " Speak for yourself ! I'd like to know the man I ever saw Once, never mind where, how, 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, somevvhy ? 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 1 Do you, sir, though you see him twice a week ? " No," you reply, " what use retailing it? Why should I ?"" But, you see, one day you shoidd. 238 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM. 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 miisic 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 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, I 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. He 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 : 'tis the 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, MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 239 "Wanting their service. Sir, Sludge took in you How, I 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, Me,*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, 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 your 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 travellers, peasants at their work, And, full in front, quite unconcerned, why not? Three nymphs conversing with a cavalier, 240 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM" 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 it ! 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, 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 himself's the Thane, And thenceforth he may strut and fret his hour, Spout, sprawl, or spin his 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 torn-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 baflie 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 Rahab, nor a bad exchange ! Glory be on her, for the good she wrought, Breeding belief anew 'neath 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 MIL SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM.' 241 To prove we've souls, and hardly proved it then : Miss Stokes with her live coal, for you and me 1 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 ; Those farthest in the quagmire, don't suppose They strayed there with no warning, got no chance Of a filth-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 ou To the promised land ; join those who, Thursday next, Meant to meet Shakspeare ; 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 you 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 ? No, thank you, far too shrewd f But promisers of fair play, encouragers O' th claimant ; who in candor needs must hoist 242 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." Sludge up on 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 dung-heaps, ay, your literary man, Who draws on his kid gloves to deal with Sludge 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 1 But, for God ? Ay, that's a question ! Well, sir, since you press (How 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 I MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM.' 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 seem 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 Have (by all analogic likelihood) In watching how things go in the old world 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 mothers' 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 to 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 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 donb; Such things may be : but I advise mistrust Of eyes, ears, stomach, more than all, of brain, 244 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUMS 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 this 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-truth ; 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 the 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 ; " 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 eA r en 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 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM: 245 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, time-piece, weather-glass, And almanac ? Are stars not set for signs When we should 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 : for me 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 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 influences 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, s 246 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM.' 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, yon 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 ; Holloa 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 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 mai% 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, MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 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 I 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 H. 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 as I, In simpler things 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. 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 I' the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive, Open-mouthed, like my friend the anteater, 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 248 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUMS 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 ainain, 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 this 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 rest of the world, 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 p' common things, the daily life, This had their due contempt ; no Name pursued Man from the mountain-top where fires abide, 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 pur 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 Comes God behind them. Talk of mountains now ? We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mites That throng the mould, 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 f " 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 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM.' 249 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, 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 unchikl the child I am." You never had such crotchets ? Nor have I ! Who, frank confessing childship from the first, Cannot 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 whistling 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 tin's ? 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 housfc Abound. I'd like to know ? 250 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 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, Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his fact He can't explain (he'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 in 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, 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, MR. SLUDGE, " THE MEDIUM." 251 Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir ! Ride that hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours, Laugh while 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, Kept 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 worshipping. I know it's 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 1 " " 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 am ccnir/ht in the act, Are ?/o?/, or rather, am I sure o' the fact? (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 lay a six-inch 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 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, 252 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM: 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, "Why 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 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-sacrihce 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 things ? What need I care ? I cheat in self-defence, And there's my answer to a world of cheats ! Cheat ? To be sure, sir ! What'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 ? What's your world ? Here are you born, who are, I'll say at once, Of the luckiest whether as to head and 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, hiding 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 ; MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM." 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 waterwork ; 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 it 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 'twere better have been made man or brute, If aught is true, if good and 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 sceptre : what's it now? Changed like a rock-flat, 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 Pervaded by the influx from the next. I cheat, and what's the happy consequence ? You find full justice straightway dealt you out, Each want supplied, each ignorance set at ease, Each folly fooled. No life-long labor now As the price of worse than nothing ! No mere mm Holding you chained in iron, as it seems, Against the outstretch of your very arms And legs i' the sunshine moralists forbid ! What would you have ? Just speak and, there, you see I You're supplemented, made a whole at last : Bacon advises, Shakspeare 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 1 And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin, P 254 MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM.' Seem nigh on bursting, if you nearly see The real world through the false, what do you see ? Is the old so ruined ? You rind you're in a flock O' the youthful, earnest, passionate genius, beauty, Rank and wealth also, if you care for these, And all depose 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 J And all this might be, may be, and with good help Of a little lying shall be : so, Sludge lies ! "Why, he's at worst your poet who sings how Greeks That never were, in Troy which never was, Did this or the other impossible great tiling ! He's Lowell it's a world, you smile and say, Of his own invention wondrous Longfellow, Surprising Hawthorne ! Sludge does more than they, And acts the books they write : the more his praise ! But why do I mount to poets ? Take plain prose Dealers in common sense, set these at work, "Wliat can they do without their helpful lies? Each states the law and fact and face o' the thing Just as he'd have them, finds what he thinks fit, Is blind to what missuits him, just records What makes his case 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 ? 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 o 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 creative ness 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? MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM.' 251 Well, if the marks seein gone, 'Tis because stiffish cock-tail, taken iii time, Is better for a bruise than 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 vou, 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 you 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 V-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 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-night ! Bl-1-less you, sir ! R-r-r, you brute-beast and blackguard ! Cowardly scamp ! 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 you 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. I don't know where my head is : what had I done ? How did it all go ? I said he poisoned her, And hoped he'd have grace given him to repent, Whereon he picked this quarrel, bullied me, And called me cheat : I thrashed him, who could help? He howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees To cut and run and save him from disgrace : I do so, and once off, he slanders me. An end of him. Begin elsewhere anew ! Boston's a hole, the herring-pond is wide, V-notes are something, liberty still more. Beside, is he the only fool in the world ? 256 THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. 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 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 well 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 I Might praise him, that great way, and die ! " Night passed, day shone ; And Theocrite was gone. With God a day endures alway : A thousand years are but a day. God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night Now brings the voice of my delight." 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. 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. (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 worlds that from my footstool go- " Clearer loves sound other ways : I miss my little human praise. Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off 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 dight, 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, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer : And rising from the 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. " Vainly I left my angel-sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year. " Thy voice's praise seemed weak : it dropped Creation's chorus stopped ! " Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain. " With that weak voice of our disdain Take up creation's pausing strain. " Said Blaise, the listening monk, ' Well done ; I doubt -not thou art heard, my son.'" Page 256. A DEATH IN THE DESERT. 257 " 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. 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 goeth 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 robe, Into the water-vessel, lay it right, And cool his forehead just above the eyes, The 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 was 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 Beached there a little, and we would not lose 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 him, 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, presagef ul of the end. Beyond, and half way up the mouth o' the cave, The Bactrian convert, having his desire, Kept watch, and made pretence 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. Outside 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 b disturbed. 258 A DEATH IN THE DESERT. Then Xanthus said a prayer, but still he slept : It is the Xanthus that escaped to Rome, Was burned, and could not write the chronicle. Then the Boy 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 #t 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 First he said, "If a friend declared to me, This my son Valens, this my other son, Were James and Peter, nay, de- clared as well This lad was very John, I could believe ! Could, for a moment, doubtlessly believe : 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