OF THE UNIVERSITY o OF THE WORKS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON H5&<^° • ^ '^^ o k THE WORKS OF ALFRED LORD TENxNYSON POET LAUREATE THE MACMILLAN COMPANY LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 1898 All rights reserved 1 . Copyright, 1892, By MACMILLAN AND CO. Printed by R. & R. Clark, January 1884. Reprinted, with slight corrections, April 1SS4. Repritited February and October 1885; May 1886; with slight altera- tions, Decetnber 1886. Reprinted 1887; May and Novonber 1888; with many additions, February 1889. Reprinted April and December 1889; June and November 1890; July and Decetnber 1891. Complete Edition with additions, January 1893. Reprinted May 1893, July 1894 August 1895. Ne^v edition April 1898. CONTENTS. PAGE To THE Queen . . . . . . i Juvenilia . . • 2 Claribel 2 Nothing will Die 2 All Things will Die 3 Leonine Elegiacs ..... 3 Supposed Confessions of a Second-rate Sensitive Mind 3 The Kraken 5 Song 6 Lilian ....... 6 Isabel 6 Mariana 7 To 8 Madeline 8 Song — the Owl ..... 9 Second Song — to the Same ... 9 Recollections of the Arabian Nights . 9 Ode to Memory . . . . .11 Song . . . . . . . .12 A Character 13 The Poet .13 The Poet's Mind 14 The Sea-Fairies 14 The Deserted House . . . .15 The Dying Swan 15 A Dirge ....... 16 Love and Death 17 The Ballad of Oriana . . . -17 Circumstance .18 The Merman 18 The Mermaid 19 Adeline ....... 20 Margaret 20 Rosalind ....... 21 Eleanore ....... 22 ' My life is full of weary days' . . 23 Early Sonnets 24 1. Sonnet to . . . . .24 2. Sonnet to J. M. K 24 3. ' Mine be the strength of spirit ' . 24 4. Alexander ..... 24 5. Bonaparte 25 PAGE Juvenilia — Early Sonnets continued : 6. Poland ...... 25 7. ' Caress'd or chidden ' . . .25 8. ' The form, the form alone is elo- quent ' . . . . . -25 9. ' Wan sculptor, weepest thou ' . .26 10. ' If I were loved, as I desire to be ' . 26 11. The Bridesmaid .... 26 The Lady of Shalott, and other Poems: =- The Lady of Shalott 27 Mariana in the South .... 29 The Two Voices 30 The Miller's Daughter .... 36 Fatima 38 (Enone 39 The Sisters 43 To 43 The Palace of Art 43 Lady Clara Vere de Vere .... 48 The May Queen 49 New Year's Eve ..... 50 Conclusion 51 The Lotos-Eaters 53 Choric Song 53 A Dream of Fair Women . . • • 55 The Blackbird 60 The Death of the Old Year ... 60 To J. S 61 On a Mourner 62 ' You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease' . . 63 ' Of old sat Freedom on the heights ' . 63 ' Love thou thy land' .... 63 England and America in 1782 ... 65 The Goose 65 English Idyls, and other Poems: The Epic 66 Morte d'Arthur 67 The Gardener's Daughter; or, the Pictures 71 Dora 75 Audley Court 78 Walking to the Mail .... 79 Edwin Morris; or, the Lake ... 81 St. Simeon Stylites 83 ivi5691CG VI CONTENTS. PAGE English Idyls, and other Poems contd. : The Talking Oak 86 Love and Duty ..... 90 The Golden Year 91 Ulysses 93 ""^.Tithonus 94 V,„,Locksley Hall 95 Godiva ....... loi The Day-Dream 102 Prologue 102 The Sleeping Palace .... 102 The Sleeping Beauty .... 103 The Arrival 103 The Revival 104 The Departure 104 Moral 104 L'Envoi 105 Epilogue 105 Amphion 105 St. Agnes' Eve ,. 107 Sir Galahad 107 Edward Gray 108 Will Waterproof 's Lyrical Monologue . .108 Lady Clare in The Captain . . . . . .112 The Lord of Burleigh . . . .113 The Voyage 114 Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere . 115 A Farewell 116 The Beggar Maid 116 The Eagle 116 ' Move eastward, happy earth, and leave ' 116 ' Come not, when I am dead ' . . . 116 The Letters 117 The Vision of Sin 117 To , after reading a Life and Letters 120 To E. L. on his Travels in Greece . . 121 ' Break, break, break' .... 121 The Poet's Song 121 Enoch Arden, and other Poems: Enoch Arden 122 The Brook 136 Aylmer's Field i39 Sea Dreams 152 " """Lucretius i57 A Welcome to Her Royal Highness Marie Alexandrovna, Duchess of Edinburgh The Grandmother Northern Farmer. Old Style Northern Farmer. New Style The Daisy .... To the Rev. F. D. Maurice Will .... ^;^In the Valley of Cauteretz In the Garden at Swainston The Flower . Requiescat . The Sailor Boy The Islet Child-Songs . 1. The City Child . 2. Minnie and Winnie The Spiteful Letter Literary Squabbles The Victim . Wages .... The Higher Pantheism The Voice and the Peak ' Flower in the crannied wall ' A Dedication The Princess: a Medley 161 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 212 The Third of February, 1852 . . .216 The Charge of the Light Brigade . . 217 Ode sung at the Opening of the International Exhibition 217 A Welcome to Alexandra . . . . 218 219 220 223 225 227 229 229 229 230 230 230 230 231 231 231 231 232 232 232 233 234 234 235 235 Experiments: Boadicea 235 In Quantity 237 Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in Blank Verse 238 The Window ; or, the Song of the Wrens : The Window 239 On the Hill 239 At the Window 239 Gone 239 Winter 239 Spring 240 The Letter 240 No Answer 240 The Answer 240 Ay 241 When . , 241 Marriage Morning 241 In Memoriam A. H. H. Maud : A Monodrama Idylls of the King. In Twelve Books. Dedication The Coming of Arthur The Round Table . Gareth and Lynette The Marriage of Geraint 241 281 302 303 311 311 335 CONTENTS. Vll Idylls of the King. Round Table c ontd. : Geraint and Enid . ■ 347 Balin and Balan . 362 Merlin and Vivien . • 373 Lancelot and Elaine . 388 The Holy Grail . . 410 Pelleas and Ettarre • 425 The Last Tournament • 435 Guinevere • 447 The Passing of Arthur • 458 To the Queen . 466 The Lover's Tale • 467 To Alfred Tennyson, my Grandsc >N . 490 Ballads, and other Poems: The First Quarrel • 490 Rizpah ■ 492 The Northern Cobbler • 494 The Revenge: A Ballad of the Flee <■ ■ 497 The Sisters . ... • 499 The Village Wife; or, the Entail ■ 504 In the Children's Ho.spital • 507 Dedicator>' Poem to the Princess W ice . 508 The Defence of Lucknow 509 Sir John f )ldcastlc. Lord Cobham • 5" Columbus • 514 The Voyage of Maeldune . . 518 De Profundis: The Two Greetings • 521 The Human Cry . 522 Sonnets: Prefatory Sonnet to the ' Ninct :enth Century ' . . . . . 522 To the Rev. \V. H. Brookfield . 322 Montenegro .... • 523 To Victor Hugo . . . . • 523 Tkanslations, etc. Battle of Brunanburh • 523 Achilles over the Trench . • 525 To the Princess Fredcrica of Hanov er on her Marriage . . . . . . 526 Sir John Franklin . . . . . 526 To Dante . . 526 Tiresias, and other Poems To E. Fitzgerald Tiresias The Wreck Despair The Ancient Sage The Flight Tomorrow The Spinster's Sweet-Arts Locksley Hall Si.xty Years After Prologue to General Hamley . The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava 526 533 536 540 543 545 548 556 Tiresias, and other Poems continued : Epilogue ...... To Virgil The Dead Prophet .... Early Spring ..... Prefatory Poem to my Hrother's Sonnets Frater Ave atque Vale Helen's Tower ..... Epitaph on Lord Stratford de Redcliffe Epitaph on General Gordon Epitaph on Caxton .... To the Duke of Argj'll Hands all Round .... Freedom ...... To H. R. H. Princess Beatrice The Fleet Opening of the Indian and Colonial E.\ hibition by the Queen . Poets and their bibliographies . To W. C. Macready Queen Mary Hakold ...... 5ecket .... The Cup The Falcon • «. The Promise of May Demeter, and other Poems: To the Marcjuis of Dufferin and Ava On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria To Professor Jebb Demeter and Persephone . Owd Roa Vastness The Ring Forlorn Happy To Ulysses To Mary Boyle The Progress of Spring Merlin and The (ilearn Romney's Remorse . Parnassus .... By an Evolutionist . Far — far — away Politics .... Beautiful City . The Ro.'Jes on the Terrace The Play .... On One who affected an F-'.fleminate M To One who ran down the English The Snowdrop .... The Throstle .... The Oak In Memoriam — William George Ward 557 558 559 560 561 561 561 562 562 562 562 562 563 563 564 564 565 565 566 636 676 730 / 756 781 782 783 783 785 788 790 797 798 802 803 804 806 807 810 810 811 811 811 812 812 anner 812 812 812 812 812 813 Vlll CONTENTS. The Foresters PAGE 814 The Death of Q^none, Akbar's Dream, AND OTHER PoEMS: June Bracken and Heather . . . 851 To the Master of Balliol . . • .851 The Death of Oinone , . . .851 St. Telemachus 853 Akbar's Dream 854 The Bandit's Death 859 The Church- Warden and the Curate . 860 Charity 862 Kapiolani 863 The Dawn 864 The Making of Man . . . . .865 The Dreamer 865 The Death of CEnone, Akbar's Dream, AND other Poems continued : Mechanophilus ...... Riflemen Form ! The Tourney ...... The Bee and the Flower .... The Wanderer Poets and Critics ..... A Voice spake out of the Skies Doubt and Prayer Faith The Silent Voices ..... God and the Universe .... The Death of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale ...... Crossing the Bar 865 866 866 867 867 867 867 867 868 868 Index to the First Lines 871 TO THE QUEEN. Revered, beloved — O you that hold A nobler ojffice upon earth Than arms, or poiuer of brain, or birth Could give the warrior kings of old, Victoria, — since your Royal grace To one of less desert allows This laurel greener from the brows Of him that uttered nothing base ; And should your greatness, and the care That yokes with empire, yield you time To make demand of modern rhyme If aught of ancient worth be there ; Take, Madam, this poor book of S07ig ; For t ho' the faults were thick as dust In vacant charnbers, I could trust Your kindness. May you rule us long, Afzd leave us rulers of your blood As noble till the latest day ! May children of our children say, ' She wrought her people lasting good ; 'Her court was pure ; her life serene; God gave her peace ; her land reposed , A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; Then — while a sweeter music wakes. And thro' zui Id March the throstle calls. Where all about your palace-walls The su7i-lit almojtd-blossom shakes — * And statesmen at her council viet Who kneiu the seasofis when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The boiaids of freedom zvider yet March, \%i^\. B ' By shaping some august decree. Which kept her throne unshaken still. Broad-based upon her people's will, And compassed by the inviolate sea.' JUVENILIA. CLARIBEL. A MELODY. I. Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall : But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial. With an ancient melody Of an inward agony, Where Claribel low-lieth. II. At eve the beetle boometh Athwart the thicket lone : At noon the wild bee hummeth About the moss'd headstone : At midnight the moon cometh. And looketh down alone. Her song the lintwhite swelleth, The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, The callow throstle lispeth, The slumbrous wave outwelleth. The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. NOTHING WILL DIE. When will the stream be aweary of flowing Under my eye? When will the wind be aweary of blowing Over the sky? When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? When will the heart be aweary of beating? And nature die? Never, oh ! never, nothing will die; The stream flows. The wind blows. The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die. Nothing will die; All things will change Thro' eternity. * ■ 'Tis the world's winter; Autumn and summer Are gone long ago; Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Thro' and thro'. Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be fill'd with life anew. The world was never made; It will change, but it will not fade. So let the wind range; For even and morn Ever will be Thro' eternity. Nothing was born ; Nothing will die; All things will change. ALL THLNGS WILL DIE — LEONINE ELEGIACS. ALL THINGS WILL DIE. Clearly the l)lue river chimes in its flowing Under my eye ; Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing Over the sky. One after another the white clouds are fleeting; Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating Full merrily; Yet all things must die. The stream will cease to flow; The wind will cease to blow; The clouds will cease to fleet; The heart will cease to beat; For all things must die. All things must die. Spring will come never more. Oh ! vanity ! Death waits at the door. See ! our friends are all forsaking The wine and the merrymaking. We are call'd — we must go. Laid low, very low, In the dark we must lie. The merry glees are still; The voice of the bird Shall no more be heard, Nor the wind on the hill. Oh ! misery ! Hark ! death is calling While I speak to ye. The jaw is falling, The red cheek paling. The strong limbs failing; Ice with the warm blood mixing; The eyeballs fixing. Nine times goes the passing bell: Ye merry souls, farewell. The old earth Had a birth. As all men know, Long ago. And the old earth must die. So let the warm winds range, And the blue wave beat the shore; For even and morn Ye will never see Thro' eternity. All things were born. Ve will come never more, For all things must die. LEONINE ELEGIACS. Low-flowing breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming : Thro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines. Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes, Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly; Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet halloos; Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly : Over the pools in the burn water- gnats murmur and mourn. Sadly the far kine loweth : the glimmer- ing water outfloweth : Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline. Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast. The ancient poetess singeth, that Hes- perus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind : bring me my love, Rosalind. Thou comest morning or even; she cometh not morning or even. False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind? SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND. God ! my God ! have mercy now. 1 faint, I fall. Men say that Thou Didst die for me, for such as me. Patient of ill, and death, and scorn. And that my sin was as a thorn Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, Wounding Thy soul. — That even now, In this extremest misery CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND. Of ignorance, I should require A sign ! and if a bolt of fire Would rive the slumbrous summer noon While I do pray to Thee alone, Think my belief would stronger grow ! Is not my human pride brought low? The boastings of ifly spirit still? The joy I had in my freewill All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown ? And what is left to me, but Thou, And faith in Thee? Men pass me by; Christians with happy countenances — And children all seem full of Thee ! And women smile with saint-like glances Like Thine own mother's when she bow'd Above Thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud, And Thou and peace to earth were born. Goodwill to me as well as all — I one of them : my brothers they : Brothers in Christ — a world of peace And confidence, day after day; And trust and hope till things should cease. And then one Heaven receive us all. How sweet to have a common faith ! To hold a common scorn of death ! And at a burial to hear The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene'er Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, With hopeful grief, were passing sw^et ! Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee ! Who lets his rosy fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. They comfort him by night and day; They light his little life alway; He hath no thought of coming woes; He hath no care of life or death; Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of happiness And perfect rest so inward is; And loveth so his innocent heart, Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell. Life of the fountain there, beneath Its salient springs, and far apart, Hating to wander out on earth. Or breathe into the hollow air. Whose chillness would make visible Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, Which mixing with the infant's blood, Fulfils him with beatitude. Oh ! sure it is a special care Of God, to fortify from doubt. To arm in proof, and guard about With triple-mailed trust, and clear Delight, the infant's dawning year. Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld In thine, I listen'd to thy vows, For me outpour'd in holiest prayer — For me unworthy ! — and beheld Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew The beauty and repose of faith, And the clear spirit shining thro'. Oh ! wherefore do we grow awry From roots which strike so deep? why dare Paths in the desert? Could not I Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To the earth — until the ice would melt Here, and I feel as thou hast felt? What Devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush the dew From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, my mother, in the clay? Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I So little love for thee? But why Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff, Unpiloted i' the echoing dance Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk ! I know At matins and at evensong. That thou, if thou wert yet alive. In deep and daily prayers would'st strive To reconcile me with thy God. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — * Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, My Lord, if so it be Thy will.' Woultl'st tell me I must brook the rod And chastisement of human pride; CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND— THE KRAKEN. That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of God ! That hitherto I had defied And had rejected God — that grace Would drop from his o'er-brimming love, As manna on my wilderness, If I would pray — that God would move And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, Sweet in their utmost bitterness, Would issue tears of penitence Which would keep green hope's life. Alas! I think that pride hath now no place Nor sojourn in me. I am void, Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. Why not believe then? Why not yet Anchor thy frailty there, where man Hath moor'd and rested? Ask the sea At midnight, when the crisp slope waves After a tempest, rib and fret The broad-imbased beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? Wherefore his ridges are not curls And ripples of an inland mere? Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can Draw down into his vexed pools All that blue heaven which hues and paves The other? I am too forlorn, Too shaken : my own weakness fools My judgment, and my spirit whirls, Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. ' Yet,' said I, in my morn of youth. The unsunn'd freshness of my strength. When I went forth in quest of truth, ' It is man's privilege to doubt, If so be that from doubt at length. Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, An image with profulgent brows. And perfect limbs, as from the storm Of running fires and fluid range Of lawless airs, at last stood out This excellence and solid form Of constant beauty. For the Ox Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills The horned valleys all about. And hollows of the fringed hills In summer heats, with placid lows Unfearing, till his own blood flows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiceth in the year, And raceth freely with his fere. And answers to his mother's calls From the flower'd furrow. In a time, Of which he wots not, run short pains Thro' his warm heart; and then, from whence He knows not, on his light there falls A shadow; and his native slope, Where he was wont to leap and climb, Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies. Shall man live thus, in joy and hope As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Living, but that he shall live on? Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that seem. And things that be, and analyse Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one, If one there be? ' Ay me ! I fear All may not doubt, but everywhere Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I Idol? Let Thy dove Shadow me over, and my sins Be unremember'd, and Thy love Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet Somewhat before the heavy clod Weighs on me, and the busy fret Of that sharp-headed worm begins In the gross blackness underneath. O weary life ! O weary death ! O spirit and heart made desolate ! O damned vacillating state ! THE KRAKEN. Below the thunders of the upper deep; Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides : above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light. From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi SOxVG — LILIAN— ISABEL. Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, Until the latter tire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the sur- face die. SONG. The winds, as at their hour of birth, Leaning upon the ridged sea, Breathed low around the rolling earth With mellow preludes, * We are free.' The streams through many a lilied row Down-carolling to the crisped sea, Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow Atween the blossoms, ' We are free.' LILIAN. Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me. Claps her tiny hands above me, Laughing all she can; She'll not tell me if she love me. Cruel little Lilian. When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs, She, looking thro' and thro' me Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks : So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple. From beneath her gathered wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies. III. Prythee weep, May Lilian I Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me. May Lilian ; Thro' my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth : Prythee weep, May Lilian. IV. Praying all I can. If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian. ISABEL. Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity. Clear, without heat, undying, tended by Pure vestal thoughts in the trans- lucent fane Of her still spirit; locks not wide-dispread, Madonna-wise on either side her head; Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign The summer calm of golden charity, Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, Revered Isabel, the crown and head. The stately flower of female fortitude. Of perfect wifehood and pure lowli- head. The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime; a prudence to withhold ; The laws of marriage character'd in gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. Right to the heart and brain, tho' unde- scried, Winning its way with extreme gentle- ness Thru' all the outworks of suspicious pride; ISABEL — MARIANA. A courage to endure and to obey; A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. III. The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon; A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light The vexed eddies of its wayward brother: A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite With cluster'd flower-bells and am- brosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — Shadow forth thee: — the world hath not another (Tho' all her fairest forms are types of thee. And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity. MARIANA. ' Mariana in the moated grange.' Measure /or Measure. With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch ; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, ' My life is dreary. He Cometh not,' she said; She said, * I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement curtain by. And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, 'The night is dreary. He Cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary I would that I were dead I ' Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her : without hope of change. In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn. Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, * The day is dreary, He Cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, ' My life is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, * I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' And ever when the moon was low. And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, ' The night is dreary, He cometh not,' she said; She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. MARIANA — MADELINE. She only said, ' My life is dreary, He Cometh not,' she said; She said, * I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead ! ' The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bovver. Then, said she, * I am very dreary. He will not come,' she said; She wept, ' I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead !' TO Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn. Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain The knots that tangle human creeds, The wounding cords that bind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn Roof not a glance so keen as thine : If aught of prophecy be mine. Thou wilt not live in vain. Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow: Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords, Can do away that ancient lie; A gentler death shall Falsehood die. Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. III. Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need. Thy kingly intellect shall feed. Until she be an athlete bold, And weary with a finger's touch Those writhed limbsof lightning speed; Like that strange angel which of old. Until the breaking of the light. Wrestled with wandering Israel, Past Yabbok broke the livelong night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel. MADELINE. Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, No tranced summer calm is thine. Ever varying Madeline. Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers. And airy forms of flitting change. II. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore. Revealings deep and clear are thine Of wealthy smiles : but who may know Whether smile or frown be fleeter? Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Who may know? Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Light-glooming over eyes divine. Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, Ever varying Madeline. Thy smile and frown are not aloof From one another, Each to each is dearest brother; Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other. All the mystery is thine; Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore. Ever varying Madeline. III. A subtle, sudden flame, By veering passion fann'd. About thee breaks and dances: When 1 would kiss thy hand. The flush of anger'd shame O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown : But when I turn away. Thou, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest; SONG: THE OWL— THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounden heart entanglest In a golden-netted smile; Then in madness and in bliss, If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest angerly; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown. SONG — THE OWL. When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb. And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. II. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. SECOND SONG. TO THE SAME. I. Thy tuwhits are luU'd, I wot. Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat, So took echo with delight. So took echo with delight. That her voice untuneful grown. Wears all day a fainter tone. II. I would mock thy chaunt anew; But I cannot mimic it; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo. Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, With a lengthen'd loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flow'd back with me. The forward-flowing tide of time; And many a sheeny summer-morn, Adown the Tigris I was borne, By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, High-walled gardens green and old; True Mussulman was I and sworn. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Anight my shallop, rustling thro' The low and bloomed foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citron-shadows in the blue : By garden porches on the brim. The costly doors flung open wide, Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, And broider'd sofas on each side : In sooth it was a goodly time. For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard The outlet, did I turn away The boat-head down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moon-lit sward Was damask-work, and deep inlay Of braided blooms unmown, which crept Adown to where the water slept A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. A motion from the river won Ridged the smooth level, bearing on My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, Until another night in night I enter'd, from the clearer light, Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm. Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome lO RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Still onward ; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake. From the green rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical, Thro' little crystal arches low Down from the central fountain's flow Fall'n silver-chiming, seemed to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Above thro' many a bowery turn A walk with vary-colour'd shells Wander'd engrain'd. On either side All round about the fragrant marge From fluted vase, and brazen urn In order, eastern flowers large, Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odour in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Far off, and where the lemon grove In closest coverture upsprung. The living airs of middle night Died round the bulbul as he sung; Not he : but something which possess'd The darkness of the world, delight. Life, anguish, death, immortal love, Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. Apart from place, withholding time, But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Black the garden-bowers and grots Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : A sudden splendour from behind Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold- green, And, flowing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamond-plots Of dark and bright. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, Grew darker from that under-flame : So, leaping lightly from the boat. With silver anchor left afloat. In marvel whence that glory came Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank, Entranced with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — A realm of pleasance, many a mound, And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn Full of the city's stilly sound, And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks. Thick rosaries of scented thorn, Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time, In honour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. With dazed vision unawares From the long alley's latticed shade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavilion of the Caliphat. Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broad-based flights of marble stairs Ran up with golden balustrade, After the fashion of the time. And humour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright From twisted silvers look'd to shame The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd Upon the mooned domes aloof In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night new-risen, that marvellous time To celebrate the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Then stole I up, and trancedly Gazed on the Persian girl alone. Serene with argent-lidded eyes Amorous, and lashes like to rays ( )f darkness, and a brow of pearl ODE TO MEMORY. II Tressed with redolent ebony, In many a dark delicious curl, Flowing beneath her ruse-hued zone; The sweetest lady of the time. Well worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Six columns, three on either side, Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive ore, from which Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, Engarlanded and diaper'd With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd With merriment of kingly pride, Sole star of all that place and time, I saw him — in his golden prime. The Good Haroun Alraschid. ODE TO MEMORY. ADDRESSED TO . I. Thou \vho stealest fire, From the fountains of the past. To glorify the present; oh, haste, Visit my low desire ! Strengthen me, enlighten me I I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. II. Come not as thou camest of late. Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften'd light Of orient state. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, Even as a maid, whose stately brow The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd. When she, as thou. Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots ( )f orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare. III. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. And with the evening cloud. Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, Because they are the earliest of the year). Nor was the night thy shroud. In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence; and the cope Of the half-attain'd futurity, Tho' deep not fathomless, W^as cloven with the million stars which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Small thought was there of life's distress; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful : Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres. Listening the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years. strengthen me, enlighten me ! 1 faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. IV. Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes ! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory I Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, 12 ODE TO MEMORY— SONG. The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves. Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, In every elbow and turn. The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland, O ! hither lead thy feet ! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, Upon the ridged wolds. When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. V. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed; And like a bride of old In triumph led. With music and SAveet showers Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought gold; Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay. And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls Upon the storied walls; For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee. That all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze On the prime labour of thine early days : No matter what the sketch might be; Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enor- mous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender : Whither in after life retired From brawling storms. From weary wind. With youthful fancy re-inspired. We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind. And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. My friend, with you to live alone. Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! strengthen me, enlighten me ! 1 faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. SONG. A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : To himself he talks; For at eventide, listening earnestly. At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers : Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. II. The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose A CHAR A C TER — THE FOE T. 13 An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box be- neath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. A CHARACTER. With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, ' The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe Teach me the nothingness of things.' Yet could not all creation pierce Beyond the bottom of his eye. He spake of beauty : that the dull Saw no divinity in grass, Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; Then looking as 'twere in a glass, He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, And said the earth was beautiful. He spake of virtue : not the gods More purely when they wish to charm Pallas and Juno sitting by : And with a sweeping of the arm, And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye. Devolved his rounded periods. Most delicately hour by hour He canvassed human mysteries, And trod on silk, as if the winds Blew his own praises in his eyes, And stood aloof from other minds In impotence of fancied power. With lips depress'd as he were meek. Himself unto himself he sold: Upon himself himself did feed : Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, And other than his form of creed, With chisell'd features clear and sleek. THE POET. The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill. He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll, Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame : The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame. Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit; Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, The fruitful wit Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Where'er they fell, behold. Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew A flower all gold, And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breath- ing spring Of Hope and Youth. So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho' one did fling the fire. Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire. 14 THE POET'S MIND — THE SEA-FAIRIES. Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the II. world Like one great garden show'd, Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; And thro' the wreaths of floating dark All the place is holy ground; upcurl'd, Hollow smile and frozen sneer Rare sunrise flow'd. Come not here. Holy water will I pour And Freedom rear'd in that august sun- Into every spicy flower rise Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. Her beautiful bold brow, The flowers would faint at your cruel When rites and forms before his burning cheer. eyes In your eye there is death, Melted like snow. There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. There was no blood upon her maiden Where you stand you cannot hear robes From the groves within Sunn'd by those orient skies ; The wild-bird's din. But round about the circles of the In the heart of the garden the merry bird globes chants. Of her keen eyes It would fall to the ground if you came And in her raiment's hem was traced in in. In the middle leaps a fountain flame Like sheet lightning. Wisdom, a name to shake Ever brightening All evil dreams of power — a sacred With a low melodious thunder; name. All day and all night it is ever drawn And when she spake. From the brain of the purple moun- tain Which stands in the distance yonder : Her words did gather thunder as they ran, It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And as the lightning to the thunder And the mountain draws it from Heaven Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, above. Making earth wonder, And it sings a song of undying love; And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and So was their meaning to her words. No full. sword You never would hear it; your ears are Of wrath her right arm whirl'd. so dull; But one poor poet's scroll, and with his So keep where you are : you are foul with word sin; She shook the world. It would shrink to the earth if you came in. THE POET'S MIND. THE SEA-FAIRIES. I. Slow sail'd the weary mariners and Vex not thou the poet's mind saw. With thy shallow wit : Betwixt the green brink and the running Vex not thou the poet's mind; foam. For thou canst not fathom it. Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms Clear and bright it should be ever, prest Flowing like a crystal river; To little harps of gold; and while they Bright as light, and clear as wind. mused THE DESERTED HOUSE— THE DYING SWAN. '5 Whispering to each other half in fear, Shrill music reacliM them on the middle Whither away, whither away, whither away? Hy no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls : Down shower the gambolling waterfalls From wandering over the lea : Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea: O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me : Hither, come hither and frolic and play; Here it is only the mew that wails; We will sing to you all the day : Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, For here are the blissful downs and dales, And merrily, merrily carol the gales. And the spangle dances in bight and bay, And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; Hither, come hither and see; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave. And sweet is the colour of cove and cave. And sweet shall your welcome be : O hither, come hither, and be our lords, For merry brides are we : We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Runs up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o'er, all the world o'er? Whither away? listen and stay : mariner, mariner, fly no more. THE DESERTED HOUSE. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide : Careless tenants they ! All within is dark as night : In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before. III. Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro' the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house. IV. Come away : no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground. V. Come away : for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell ; But in a city glorious — A great and distant city — have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us ! THE DYING SWAN. I. The plain was grassy, wild and bare. Wide, w-ild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan. And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky. i6 THE DYING SWAN— A DIRGE. Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Above in the wind was the swallow, Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far thro' the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept. Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. III. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; And floating about the under-sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear But anon her awful jubilant voice. With a music strange and manifold, Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd Thro' the open gates of the city afar. To the shepherd who watcheth the even- ing star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank. And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank. And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song. A DIRGE. I. Now is done thy long day's work; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. II. Thee nor carketh care nor slander; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. III. Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; Chaunteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny? Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. IV. Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. V. Round thee blow, self-pleached deep. Bramble roses, faint and pale. And long purples of the dale. Let them rave. These in every shower creep Thro' the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. VI. The gold-eyed kingcups fine ; The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine. As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave. VII. Wild words wander here and there : God's great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused : But let them rave. LOVE AND DEATH— THE BALLAD OF OKI ANA. »7 The balm-cricket carols clear In the green that fulds thy grave. Let them rave. LOVE AND DEATH. What time the mighty moon was gather- ing light Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roU'd his lustrous eyes; When, turning round a cassia, full in view, Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, And talking to himself, lirst met his sight : ' You must begone,' said Death, ' these walks are mine.' Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for tiight; Yet ere he parted said, ' This hour is thine : Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all be- neath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall. But I shall reign for ever over all.' THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana, There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana. Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana : Winds were blowing, waters flowing. We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana ; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana. In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana. She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana: She watch'd my crest among them all, Oriana : She saw me fight, she heard me call. When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana. The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana : The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana : The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana ! Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana, Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh ! death ful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen'd in its place, Oriana; But I was down upon my face, Oriana. They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana ! How could I rise and come away, Oriana? How could I look upon the day? They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana — They should have trod me into clay, Oriana. O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana ! i8 CIRCUMSTANCE— THE MERMAN. pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana ! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana : What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, Oriana? 1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within thy heart my arrow lies, Oriana. O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! Oriana ! happy thou that liest low, Oriana ! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana. When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, 1 walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. CIRCUMSTANCE. Two children in two neighbour villages, Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas ; Two strangers meeting at a festival ; Two lovers whispered by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church -tower, VVash'd with still rains and daisy blos- somed ; Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; So runs the round of life from hour to hour. THE MERMAN. Who would be A merman bold. Sitting alone. Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold. On a throne ? I would be a merman bold, I would sit and sing the whole of the day; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks. Dressing their hair with the white sea- flower; And holding them back by their flowing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly; And then we would wander away, away To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily. III. There would be neither moon nor star; But the wave would make music above us afar — Low thunder and light in the magic night — Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells. Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily; They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, THE MERMAID. 19 Laughing and clapping their hands be- tween, All night, merrily, merrily: But I would throw to them hack in mine Turkis and agate and almondine : Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh ! what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green I Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily. THE MERMAID. Who would be A mermaid fair. Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea. In a golden curl With a comb of pearl. On a throne? II. I would be a mermaid fair ; I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, ' Who is it loves me ? who loves not me? ' I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around, And I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound. Over the throne In the midst of the hall; Till that great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me. III. But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low- flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells. Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list, Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, In the purple twilights under the sea; But, the king of them all would carry me, Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea AVould curl round my silver feet silently, All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea. All looking down for the love of me. 20 ADELINE — MAR GARE T. ADELINE. Mystery of mysteries, Faintly smiling Adeline, Scarce of earth nor all divine, Nor unhappy, nor at rest, But beyond expression fair With thy floating flaxen hair; Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim looks of thine. Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? Whence that aery bloom of thine. Like a lily which the sun Looks thro' in his sad decline, And a rose-bush leans upon. Thou that faintly smilest still. As a Naiad in a well, Looking at the set of day, Or a phantom two hours old Of a maiden past away, Ere the placid lips be cold? Wherefore those faint smiles of thine. Spiritual Adeline? III. W^hat hope or fear or joy is thine? Who talketh with thee, Adeline? For sure thou art not all alone. Do beating hearts of salient springs Keep measure with thine own? Hast thou heard the butterflies What they say betwixt their wings? Or in stillest evenings With what voice the violet woos To his heart the silver dews? Or when little airs arise, How the merry bluebell rings To the mosses underneath? Hast thou look'd upon the breath Of the lilies at sunrise? Wherefore that faint smile of thine. Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? IV. Some honey-converse feeds thy mind. Some spirit of a crimson rose In love with thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind. What aileth thee? whom waitest thou With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow. And those dew-lit eyes of thine. Thou faint smiler, Adeline? V. Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies? Doth the low-tongued Orient Wander from the side of the morn, Dripping with Sabaean spice On thy pillow, lowly bent With melodious airs lovelorn, Breathing Light against thy face, While his locks a-drooping twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a carcanet of rays. And ye talk together still. In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline. MARGARET. O SWEET pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power. Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek. Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound. Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth. Moving thro' a fleecy night. MARGARET— ROSALIND. 21 II. Vou love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the light. You are the evening star, ahvay Remaining betwixt dark and bright : LuU'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night. III. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart. Even in her sight he loved so well? IV. A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes. You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin- sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue. And less aerially blue, But ever trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woeful sympathies. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak : Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : The sun is just about to set. The arching limes are tall and shady, And faint rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, W^here all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. ROSALIND. My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My frolic falcon, with bright eyes. Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight, Stoops at all game that wing the skies, My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither, Careless both of wind and weather, Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, Up or down the streaming wind? II. The quick lark's closest-caroU'd strains. The shadow rushing up the sea. The lightning flash atween the rains, The sunlight driving down the lea, The leaping stream, the very wind, That will not stay, upon his way. To stoop the cowslip to the plains, Is not so clear and bold and free As you, my falcon Rosalind. You care not for another's pains, Because you are the soul of joy, Bright metal all without alloy. Life shoots and glances thro' your veins, And flashes off a thousand ways. Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright, Keen with triumph, watching still To pierce me thro' with pointed light; But oftentimes they flash and glitter Like sunshine on a dancing rill. And your words are seeming- bitter. Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter From excess of swift delight. III. Come down, come home, my Rosalind, My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : Too long you keep the upper skies; Too long you roam and wheel at will; But we must hood your random eyes, That care not whom they kill, 22 ELEANORE. And your cheek, whose brilliant hue Is so sparkUng-fresh to view, Some red heath-flower in the dew, Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind And keep you fast, my Rosahnd, Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, And clip your wings, and make you love : When we have lured you from above, And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night, From North to South, We'll bind you fast in silken cords, And kiss away the bitter words From off your rosy mouth. ELEANORE. Thy dark eyes open'd not. Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, For there is nothing here. Which, from the outward to the inward brought. Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighbourhood. Thou wert born on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades : And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth, From old well-heads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple hills. And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, The choicest wealth of all the earth, Jewel or shell, or starry ore, To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. II. Or the yellow-banded bees, Thro' half- open lattices Coming in the scented Ijreeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone. With whitest honey in fairy gar- dens cull'd — A glorious child, dreaming alone, I n silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull'd. III. Who may minister to thee r Summer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape- thicken'd from the light, and blinded With many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, . And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowing shore, Crimsons over an inland mere, Eleanore ! IV. How may fuU-sail'd verse express, How may measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleanore? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleanore? Every turn and glance of thine, Every lineament divine, Eleanore, And the steady sunset glow. That stays upon thee? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free From one censer in one shrine, Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as tho' They were modulated so To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep; Who may express thee, Eleanore? V. I stand before thee, Eleanore; I see thy beauty gradually unfold. ELEANORE. 23 Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. 1 would 1 were So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore I VI. Sometimes, with most intensity Ciazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, Hut am as nothing in its light : As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev'n while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd — then as slowly fade again. And draw itself to what it was before; So full, so deep, so slow, Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. VII. As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Roofd the world with doubt and fear. Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch' d by thy spirit's mellowness. Losing his hre and active might In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight. And luxury of contemplation As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will : Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land. With motions uf the outer sea : And the self-same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore. VIII. But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined; I watch thy grace ; and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps. While I muse upon thy face; And a languid fire creeps Thro' my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly : soon From thy rose-red lips MY name Floweth; and then, as in a swoon, With dinning sound my ears are rife, My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimmed with delirious draughts of warm- est life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I wotild be dying evermore. So dying ever, Eleanore. Mv life is full of weary days. But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wander'd into other ways : I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise. And now shake hands across the brink Of that deep grave to which I go : Shake hands once more : I cannot sink So far — far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below. 24 EARLY SONNETS. II. When in the darkness over me The four-handed mole shall scrape, Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape. And when the sappy field and wood Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud, And thro' damp holts new-flush'd with May, Ring sudden scritches of the jay, Then let wise Nature work her will. And on my clay her darnel grow; Come only, when the days are still, And at my headstone whisper low, And tell me if the woodbines blow. EARLY SONNETS. TO As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood. And ebb into a former life, or seem To lapse far back in some confused dream To states of mystical similitude; If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, Ever the wonder vvaxeth more and more. So that we say, ' All this hath been before, All this hath been, I know not when or where.' So, friend, when first I look'd upon your face. Our thought gave answer each to each, so true — Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — That tho' I knew not in what time or place, Methought that I had often met with you, And either lived in cither's heart and speech. II. TO J. M. K. My hope and heart is with thee — thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master's feast ; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee : Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily; But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good sabbath, while the worn- out clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. III. Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free, Like some broad river rushing down alone, With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was thrown From his loud fount upon the echoing lea: — Which with increasing might doth for- ward flee By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle. And in the middle of the green salt sea Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. Mine be the power which ever to its sway Will win the wise at once, and by degrees May into uncongenial spirits flow; Ev'n as the warm gulf-stream of Florida Floats far away into the Northern seas The lavish growths of southern Mexico. IV. ALEXANDER. Warrior of God, whose strong right arm debased The throne of Persia, when her Satrap bled At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, dis- graced EARLY SONNETS. 25 For ever — thee (thy pathway sand- eraseil) Gliding with equal crowns two serpents led Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed Ammonian Oasis in the waste. There in a silent shade of laurel brown Apart the Chamian Oracle divine Shelter'd his unapproached mysteries: High things were spoken there, unhanded down ; Only they saw thee from the secret shrine Returning with hot cheek and kindled eves. BUONAPARTE. He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, Madman! — to chain with chains, and bind with bands That island queen who sways the floods and lands P'rom Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, When from her wooden walls, — lit by surejiands, — With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke, — Peal after peal, the British battle broke. Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. We taught him lowlier moods, when El- sinore Heard.the war moan along the distant sea. Rocking with shatter'd spars, with sud- den fires Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once more We taught him : late he learned humility Perforce, like those whom Gideon school'd with briers. VI. POLAND. How long, O God, shall men be ridden down. And trampled under by the last and least Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth drown The fields, and out of every smouldering town Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- creased, Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East Transgress his ample bound to some new crown : — Cries to Thee, ' Lord, how long shall these things be? How long this icy-hearted Muscovite Oppress the region?' Us, O Just and Good, Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three; Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right — A matter to be wept with tears of blood ! VII. Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand. And singing airy trifles this or that. Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand. And run thro' every change of sharp and flat; And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, W^hen Sleep had bound her in his rosy band. And chased away the still-recurring gnat. And woke her with a lay from fairy land. But now they live with Beauty less and less, For Hope is other Hope and wanders far, Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds; And Fancy watches in the wilderness, Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. VIII. The form, the form alone is eloquent ! A nobler yearning never broke her rest Than but to dance and sing, be gaily drest, And win all eyes with all accomplish- ment : Yet in the whirling dances as we went. My fancy made me for a moment blest To find my heart so near the beauteous breast That once had power to rob it of content, A moment came the tenderness of tears, The phantom of a wish that once could move, A ghost of passion that no smiles re- store — For ah ! the slight coquettej she cannot love, 26 EARLY SONNETS. And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years, She still would take the praise, and care no more. IX. Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie? sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past. In painting some dead friend from memory? Weep on : beyond his object Love can last: His object lives : more cause to weep have I : My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast, No tears of love, but tears that Love can die. 1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup. Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — Ah pity — hint it not in human tones. But breathe it into earth and close it up With secret death for ever, in the pits Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones. If I were loved, as I desire to be, What is there in the great sphere of the earth. And range of evil between death and birth, That I should fear, — if I were loved by thee? All the inner, all the outer world of pain Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine. 'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-hand with thee. To wait for death — mute — careless of all ills. Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge Below us, as far on as eye could see. XI. THE BRIDESMAID. BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was tied, Thine eyes so wept that they could hardly see; Thy sister smiled and said, ' No tears for me ! A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride.' And then, the couple standing side by side. Love lighted down between them full of alee And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thee, ' O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride.' And all at once a pleasant truth I learn'd, For while the tender service made thee weep, 1 loved thee for the tear thou couldst not hide. And prest thy hand, and knew the press return'd. And thought, ' My life is sick of single sleep : O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride ! ' THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 27 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS. THE LADY OF SHALOTT. PART I. On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers. And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow-veil'd Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot : But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land. The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot : And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers ' 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott,' PART II. There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she. The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year. Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot : There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls. And the red cloaks of market girls. Pass onward from Shalott, Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. An abbot on an ambling pad. Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. Goes by to tower'd Camelot : And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two : She hath no loyal knight and true. The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot : Or when the moon was oveihead, Came two young lovers lately wed; ' I am half sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott. 28 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. PART III. A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzHng thro' the leaves, And flamfed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red- cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot : And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather. The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together. As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light. Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode. As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, ' Tirra lirra,' by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom. She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom. She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; * The curse is come upon me,' cried The Lady of Shalott. PART IV. In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complain- ing, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat. And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance. Seeing all his own mischance — With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot : And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song. The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side. Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, vSilent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name. The Lady of Shalott. MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 29 Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot : But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, ' She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.' MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. With one black shadow at its feet. The house thro' all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines : A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before, And shallows on a distant shore, In glaring sand and inlets bright. But ' Ave Mary,' made she moan, And ' Ave Mary,' night and morn, And ' Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone. To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' She, as her carol sadder grew. From brow and bosom slowly down Thro' rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right, and made appear Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine, The home of woe without a tear. And ' Ave Mary,' was her moan, * Madonna, sad is night and morn,' And ' Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' Till all the crimson changed, and past Into deep orange o'er the sea, Low on her knees herself she cast, Before Our Lady murmurM she; Complaining, ' Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load.' And on the liquid mirror glow'd The clear perfection of her face. ' Is this the form,' she made her moan, 'That won his praises night and morn ? ' And 'Ah,' she said, 'but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.' Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault. But day increased from heat to heat. On stony drought and steaming salt; Till now at noon she slept again, And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass, x\nd runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan. And murmuring, as at night and morn. She thought, ' My spirit is here alone, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.' Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : She felt he was and was not there. She woke : the babble of the stream Fell, and, without, the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sere and small. The river-bed was dusty-white; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall. She whisper'd, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, ' Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten and die forlorn,' And, rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For 'Love,' they said, 'must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth.' An image seem'd to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say ' But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore.' ' O cruel heart,' she changed her tone, ' And cruel love, whose end is scorn. Is this the end to be left alone. To live forgotten, and die forlorn ? ' But sometimes in the falling day An image seem'd to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say, ' But thou shalt be alone no more.' And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased. And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall, 'The day to night,' she made her moan. 30 THE TWO VOICES. 'The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung. And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, And deepening thro' the silent spheres Heaven over Heaven rose the night. And weeping then she made her moan, 'The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone. To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' THE TWO VOICES. A STILL small voice spake unto me, ' Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be? ' Then to the still small voice I said : * Let me not cast in endless shade What is so wonderfully made.' To which the voice did urge reply: ' To-day I saw the dragon-fly Come from the wells where he did lie. 'An inner impulse rent the veil Of his old husk : from head to tail Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. ' He dried his wings : like gauze they grew; Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew A living flash of light he flew.' I said, ' When first the world began. Young Nature thro' five cycles ran. And in the sixth she moulded man. ' She gave hirri mind, the lordliest Proportion, and, above the rest. Dominion in the head and breast.' Thereto the silent voice replied : * Self-blinded are you by your pride : Look up thro' night : the world is wide. 'This truth within thy mind rehearse. That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse. * Think you this mould of hopes and fears Could find no statelier than his peers In yonder hundred million spheres?' It spake, moreover, in my mind : ' Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.' Then did my response clearer fall : ' No compound of this earthly ball Is like another, all in all.' To which he answer'd scoffingly : ' Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, Who'll weep for thy deficiency? ' Or will one beam be less intense, When thy peculiar difference Is cancell'd in the world of sense? ' I would have said, ' Thou canst not know,' But my full heart, that work'd below, Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. Again the voice spake unto me : * Thou art so steep'd in misery, Surely 'twere better not to be. ' Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, Nor any train of reason keep : Thou canst not think, "but thou wilt weep.' I said, ' The years with change advance : If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance. ' Some turn this sickness yet might take, Ev'n yet.' But he : ' What drug can make A wither'd palsy cease to shake?' I wept, ' Tho' I should die, I know That all about the thorn will blow In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; THE TWO VOICES. 31 ' And men, thro' novel spheres of thought Still moving after truth long sought, Will learn new things when I am not.' 'Yet,' said the secret voice, 'some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime. ' Not less swift souls that yearn for light. Rapt after heaven's starry flight. Would sweep the tracts of day and night. ' Not less the bee would range her cells. The furzy prickle tire the dells, The foxglove cluster dappled bells.' I said that ' all the years invent; Each month is various to present The world with some development. ' Were this not well, to bide mine hour, Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower How grows the day of human power? ' ' The highest-mounted mind,' he said, ' Still sees the sacred morning spread The silent summit overhead. ' Will thirty seasons render plain Those lonely lights that still remain, Just breaking over land and main? ' Or make that morn, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town? ' Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 'Thou hast not gain'd a real height. Nor art thou nearer to the light. Because the scale is infinite. ' 'Twere better not to breathe or speak. Than cry for strength, remaining weak. And seem to find, but still to seek. ' Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind.' I said, * When I am gone away, " He dared not tarry," men will say, Doing dishonour to my clay.' ' This is more vile,' he made reply, 'To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, Than once from dread of pain to die. ' Sick art thou — a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. ' Do men love thee? Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Will vex thee lying underground? 'The memory of the wither'd leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 'Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; The right ear, that is fiU'd with dust. Hears little of the false or just.' ' Hard task, to pluck resolve,' I cried, ' From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 'Nay — rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm'd me in the days While still I yearn'd for human praise. ' When, wide in soul and bold of tongue. Among the tents I paused and sung. The distant battle flash'd and rung. ' I sung the joyful Paean clear, And, sitting, burnish'd without fear The brand, the buckler, and the spear — ' Waiting to strive a happy strife, To war with falsehood to the knife. And not to lose the good of life — 'Some hidden principle to move, To put together, part and prove. And mete the bounds of hate and love — ' As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about — 32 THE TWO VOICES. ' To search thro' all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe, And reach the law within the law : * At least, not rotting like a weed, But, having sown some generous seed. Fruitful of further thought and deed, ' To pass, when Life her light withdraws. Not void of righteous self-applause, Nor merely in a selfish cause — ' In some good cause, not in mine own, To perish, wept for, honour'd, known, And like a warrior overthrown; * Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears. When soil'd with noble dust, he hears His country's war-song thrill his ears : ' Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman's line is broke, And all the war is roll'd in smoke. ' Yea ! ' said the voice, ' thy dream was good, While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. * If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour? 'Then comes the check, the change, the fall, Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. There is one remedy for all. ' Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, Link'd month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain. 'Thou hadst not between death and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. So were thy labour little-worth. ' That men with knowledge merely play'd I told thee — hardly nigher made, Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade; ' Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind. Named man, may hope some truth to find, That bears relation to the mind. ' For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. ' Cry, faint not : either Truth is born Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. Or in the gateways of the morn. ' Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope Beyond the furthest flights of hope, Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. * Sometimes a little corner shines, As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag with belts of pines. ' I will go forward, sayest thou, I shall not fail to find her now. Look up, the fold is on her brow. ' If straight thy track, or if oblique, Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike. Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; ' And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, Calling thyself a little lower ' Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? There is one remedy for all.' ' O dull, one-sided voice,' said I, ' Wilt thou make everything a lie, To flatter me that I may die? ' I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds. ' I cannot hide that some have striven, Achieving calm, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven : ' Who, rowing hard against the stream. Saw distant gates of Eden gleam. And did not dream it was a dream; ' But heard, by secret transport led, Ev'n in the charnels of the. dead, The murmur of the fountain-head — THE TWO VOICES. zz ' Which did accomplish their desire, Bore and forebore, and did not tire, Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. ' He heeded not reviling tones. Nor sold his heart to idle moans, Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with stones : ' But looking upward, full of grace. He pray'd, and from a happy place God's glory smote him on the face.' The sullen answer slid betwixt: * Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd. The elements were kindlier mix'd.' I said, ' I toil beneath the curse, But, knowing not the universe, I fear to slide from bad to worse. ' And that, in seeking to undo One riddle, and to find the true, 1 knit a hundred others new : * Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense. Be fix'd and froz'n to permanence : * For I go, weak from suffering here : Naked I go, and void of cheer: What is it that I may not fear? ' * Consider well,' the voice replied, ' His face, that two hours since hath died; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride ? ' Will he obey when one commands ? Or answer should one press his hands He answers not, nor understands, ' His palms are folded on his breast : There is no other thing express'd But long disquiet merged in rest. * His lips are very mild and meek : Tho' one should smite him on the cheek. And on the mouth, he will not speak. ' His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. Becomes dishonour to her race — ' His sons grow up that bear his name. Some grow to honour, some to shame, — But he is chill to praise or blame. ' He will not hear the north-wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave From winter rains that beat his grave. ' High up the vapours fold and swim : About him broods the twilight dim : The place he knew forgetteth him.' ' If all be dark, vague voice,' I said, ' These things are wrapt in doubt and dread. Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. ' The sap dries up ; the plant declines. A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not Death? the outward signs? * I found him when my years were few; A shadow on the graves I knew, And darkness in the village yew. ' From grave to grave the shadow crept : In her still place the morning wept : Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 'The simple senses crown'd his head: " Omega ! thou art Lord," they said, " We find no motion in the dead." ' Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, Should that plain fact, as taught by these. Not make him sure that he shall cease? ' Who forged that other influence, That heat of inward evidence. By which he doubts against the sense? ' He owns the fatal gift of eyes. That read his spirit blindly wise, Not simple as a thing that dies. ' Here sits he shaping wings to fly : His heart forebodes a mystery : He names the name Eternity. ' That type of Perfect in his mind In Nature can he nowhere find. He sows himself on every wind. 34 THE TWO VOICES. ' He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro' thick veils to apprehend A labour working to an end. 'The end and the beginning vex His reason : many things perplex, With motions, checks, and counterchecks. ' He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good. He may not do the thing he would. ' Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Vast images in glimmering dawn. Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. ' Ah ! sure within him and without. Could his dark wisdom find it out, There must be answer to his doubt, * But thou canst answer not again. With thine own weapon art thou slain. Or thou wilt answer but in vain. ' The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. In the same circle we revolve. Assurance only breeds resolve.' As when a billow, blown against. Falls back, the voice with which 1 fenced A httle ceased, but recommenced. ' Where wert thou when thy father play'd In his free field, and pastime made, A merry boy in sun and shade? * A merry boy they call'd him then. He sat upon the knees of men In days that never come again. * Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert also man : ' Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, Whose troubles number with his days : * A life of nothings, nothing-worth. From that first nothing ere his l)irth To that last nothing under earth ! ' ' These words,' I said, ' are like the rest; No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast : ' But if I grant, thou mightst defend The thesis which thy words intend — That to begin implies to end; ' Yet how should I for certain hold, Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould? ' I cannot make this matter plain. But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, A random arrow from the brain. ' It may be that no life is found. Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round. ' As old mythologies relate, Some draught of Lethe might await The slipping thro' from state to state. ' As here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then, Until they fall in trance again, ' So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much. For those two hkes might meet and touch. * But, if I lapsed from nobler place, Some legend of a fallen race Alone might hint of my disgrace; * Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, Some yearning toward the lamps of night; * Or if thro' lower lives I came — Tho' all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame — ' I might forget my weaker lot; For is not our first year forgot? The haunts of memory echo not. ' And men, whose reason long was blind. From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind. THE TWO VOICES. 35 ' Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory : * For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime? ' Moreover, something is or seems. That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — ' Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare.' The still voice laugh'd. ' I talk,' said he, ' Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain is a reality.' ' But thou,' said I, * hast missed thy mark. Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. ' Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new? ' Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death, ' 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant. Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More fife, and fuller, that I want.' I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, ' Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.' And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, When meres begin to uncongeal. The sweet church bells began to peal. On to God's house the people prest : Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter'd like a welcome ffuest. One walk'd between his wife and child, With measured footfall firm and mild, x\nd now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good. Wearing the rose of womanhood. And in their double love secure. The little maiden walk'd demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure. These three made unity so sweet, My frozen heart began to beat, Remembering its ancient heat. I blest them, and they wander'd on : I spoke, but answer came there none : The dull and bitter voice was gone. A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, ' Be of better cheer.' As from some blissful neighbourhood, A notice faintly understood, ' I see the end, and know the good.' A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, ' I may not speak of what I know.' Like an ^F^olian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes : Such seem'd the whisper at my side : ' What is it thou knowest, sweet voice? ' I cried. ' A hidden hope,' the voice replied : So heavenly-toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the shower. To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love. And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. 36 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 1 wonder'd at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers : You scarce could see the grass for flowers. I wonder'd, while I paced along : The woods were fiU'd so full with song, There seem'd no room for sense of wrong; And all so variously wrought, I marvell'd how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought; And wherefore rather I made choice To commune with that barren voice, Than him that said, 'Rejoice ! Rejoice ! ' THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. I SEE the wealthy miller yet. His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead drily curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world? In yonder chair I see him sit. Three fingers round the old silver cup — I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest — gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad. So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life. But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, That we may die the self-same day. Have I not found a happy earth? I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine — It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine — To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire : For even here, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin song. And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce- my life with fancy play'd Before I dream'd that pleasant dream — Still hither thither idly sway'd Like those long mosses in the stream. Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear The milldam rushing down with noise. And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise. The tall flag-flowers when they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones. Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones. But, Alice, what an hour was that. When, after roving in the woods ('Twas April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue; And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you. But angled in the higher pool. A love-song I had somewhere read. An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long. With weary sameness in the rhymes. The phantom of a silent song, That went and came a thousand times. Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watch'd the little circles die; THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. They past into the level flood, And there a vision caught my eye ; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck. As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck For you remember, you had set, That morning, on the casement-edge A long green box of mignonette. And you were leaning from the ledge And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright — Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love. That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispell'd the fear That I should die an early death : For love possess'd the atmosphere, And fill'd the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, ' What ails the boy? ' For I was alter'd, and began To move about the house with joy, And with the certain step of man. I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel. The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. And oft in ramblings on the wold. When April nights began to blow, And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, I saw the village lights below; I knew your taper far away, And full at heart of trembling hop From off the wold I ca,me, and lay Upon thefreshly-flower'd slope. The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill; And 'By that lamp,' I thought, 'she sits ! ' The white chalk-quarry from the hill Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits, ' O that I were beside her now ! O will she answer if I call? O would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all? ' Sometimes I saw you sit and spin; And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within, Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken'd there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may. Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day; And so it was — half-sly, half-shy. You would, and would not, little one ! Although I pleaded tenderly. And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire : She wish'd me happy, but she thought I might have look'd a little higher; And I was young — too young to wed:* ' Yet must I love her for your sake; Go fetch your Alice here,' she said : Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. And down I went to fetch my bride : But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried. Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. I watch'd the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things. And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face. As near this door you sat apart. And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. Ah, well — but sing the foolish song . I gave you, Alice, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER — FATLMA. With bridal flowers — that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by. It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me. In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom. With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. A trifle, sweet ! which true love spells — True love interprets — right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love, His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth. And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone, Like mine own life to me thou art, While Past and Present, wound in one. Do make a garland for the heart : So sing that other song I made, Half-anger'd with my happy lot. The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not. Love that hath us in the net. Can he pass, and we forget? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love? for we forget: Ah, no! no! Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife. Round my true heart thine arms entwine My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine ! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell ! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed : they had their part Of sorrow : for when time was ripe. The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type. That into stillness past again. And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain. That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss. The comfort, I have found in thee : But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind — With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find. Arise, and let us wander forth. To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north. Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below : On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go. FATIMA. O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! O sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight. Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and l)lind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers : FA TIM A — (ENONE. 39 I thirsted for the brooks, the showers : I roll'd among the tender flowers : I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth ; I look'd athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. Love, O fire ! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro' My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. Before he mounts the hill, I know He Cometh quickly : from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon. The wind sounds like a silver wire. And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light. My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight. Bursts into blossom in his sight. My whole soul waiting silently. All naked in a sultry sky. Droops blinded with his shining eye : I will possess him or will die. 1 will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. CENONE. There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen. Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine. And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus Stands up and takes the morning : but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel. The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon ISIournful Qinone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine. Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper clifl". ' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : The grasshopper is silent in the grass : The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops : the golden bee Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love. My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim. And I am all aweary of my life. ' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown'd snake 1 O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 40 CENONE. * O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, iVnd dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. * O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft : Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down- dropt eyes I sat alone : white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's : And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. * Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk- white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. That smelt ambrosially, and while Ilook'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. ' " My own CEnone, Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n * For the most fair,' would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows." ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added " This was cast upon the board. When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; where- upon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due : But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve. Delivering that to me, by common voice Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, un- heard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods." ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. ' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, " from many a vale And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn. (ENONE. 41 Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore. Honour," she said, " and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers." ' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, " Which in all action is the end of all; Power fitted to the season; wisdom- bred And throned of wisdom — from all neigh- bour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me. From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thyhfe but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying Vjliss In knowledge of their own supremacy." * Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her peatly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye her cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. * " Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self- control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law. Acting the law we live by without fear; And because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- quence." * Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said : " I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet, indeed If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbias'd by self-profit, oh ! rest the sure. That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood. Shall strike within thy pulses like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will. Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom." ' Here she ceas'd. And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, " O Paris, Give it to Pallas 1 " but he heard me not, Or hearing w'ould not hear me, woe is me I ' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful. Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder : from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 42 (ENONE. ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, " I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece." She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight for fear: But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud. And I was left alone within the bower ; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die. ' Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. Fairest — why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks 1 must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. * O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone G^none see the morning mist Sweep thro' them ; never see them over- laid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trem- bling stars. ' O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her The Abominable, that uninvited came Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall. And cast the golden fruit upon the board. And bred this change; that I might speak my mind. And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. * O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times. In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth; Pass by the happy souls, that love to live : 1 pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within. Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. ' O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the in- most hills. Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder THE SISTERS— THE PALACE OF ART. 43 Across me : never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! * O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone. Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire.' THE SISTERS. We were two daughters of one race : She was the fairest in the face : The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell; Therefore revenge became me well. O the Earl was fair to see ! She died : she went to burning flame : She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. The wind is howling in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late. To win his love I lay in wait : O the Earl was fair to see ! I made a feast; I bade him come; I won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaring in turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed, Upon my lap he laid his head : O the Earl was fair to see ! I kissed his eyelids into rest : His ruddy cheek upon my breast. The wind is raging in turret and tree. I hated him with the hate of hell, But I loved his beauty passing well. O the Earl was fair to see ! I rose up in the silent night : I made my dagger sharp and bright. The wind is raving in turret and tree. As half-asleep his breath he drew, Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. O the Earl was fair to see ! I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, He look'd so grand when he was dead. The wind is blowing in turret and tree. I wrapt his body in the sheet, And laid him at his mother's feet. O the Earl was fair to see ! TO WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. I SEND you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul, A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain. That did love Beauty only (Beauty seen In all varieties of mould and mind), And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good, Good only for its beauty, seeing not That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters That dote upon each other, friends to man. Living together under the same roof. And never can be sunder'd without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie. Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta'en from the common earth Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man. THE PALACE OF ART. I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house. Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, ' O Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well.' 44 THE PALACE OF ART. A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. And ' While the world runs round and round,' I said, * Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade Sleeps on his luminous ring.' To which my soul made answer readily : ' Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for me, So royal-rich and wide.' Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam. And round the cool green courts there ran a row Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods. Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods. And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands. Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea and sands. From those four jets four currents in one swell Across the mountain stream'd below In misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torrent-bow. And high on every peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd From out a golden cup. So that she thought, ' And who shall gaze upon My palace with unblinded eyes. While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise?' For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd. And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, Burnt like a fringe of fire. Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced. Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires. * * * * * * * * Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over-vaulted grateful gloom, Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass, Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood And change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue. Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff 'd cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand, And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon. One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. You seem'd to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, Beneath the windy wall. THE PALACE OF ART. 45 And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain, The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, \Vith shadow-streaks of rain. And one, the reapers at thefr sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Be- hind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind. And one a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire. And one, an English home — gray twi- light pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace, Nor these alone, but every landscape fair. As fit for every mood of mind. Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there Not less than truth design'd. Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm. Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea. Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; An angel look'd at her. Or thronging all one porch of Paradise A group of Houris bow'd to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes That said. We wait for thee. Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law. Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, And many a tract of palm and rice. The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd A summer fann'd with spice. Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, From off her shoulder backward borne : From one hand droop'd a crocus : one hand grasp'd The mild bull's golden horn. Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky Above the pillar'd town. Nor these alone : but every legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, design'd. Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, Moved of themselves, with silver sound ; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung The royal dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song. And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million wrinkles carved his skin; A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast. From cheek and throat and chin. Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set Many an arch high up did lift. And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift. Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd With cycles of the human tale 46 THE PALACE OF ART. Of this wide world, the times of every land So wrought, they will not fail. The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings; Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings; Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined. And trusted any cure. But over these she trod : and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne : She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone. And thro' the topmost Oriels' coloured flame Two godlike faces gazed below; Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, The first of those who know. And all those names, that in their motion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change. Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair In diverse raiment strange : Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush'd in her temples and her eyes. And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone. More than my soul to hear her echo'd song Throb thro' the ribbed stone; Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth. Joying to feel herself alive. Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth. Lord of the senses five; Communing with herself: 'All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, 'Tis one to me.' She — when young night divine Crown'd dying day with stars. Making sweet close of his delicious toils — Lit light in wreaths and anadems. And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow'd moons of gems, To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, * I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide. Be flatter'd to the height. 'O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! shapes and hues that please me well ! silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dwell ! ' O God-like isolation which art mine, 1 can but count thee perfect gain. What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. ' In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep.' Then of the moral instinct would she prate And of the rising from the dead. As hers by right of fuU-accomplish'd Fate ; And at the last she said : * I take possession of man's mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl. 1 sit as God holding no form of creed, But contemplating all.' P^uU oft the riddle of the painful earth Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth. And intellectual throne. THE PALACE OF ART. 47 And so she throve and prosper'd : so three years She prosper'd : on the fourth she fell, Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, Struck thro' with pangs of hell. Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight The airy hand confusion wrought. Wrote, ' Mene, mene,' and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn. * What I is not this my place of strength,' she said, ' My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory? ' But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And horrible nightmares, And hollow shades, enclosing hearts of flame. And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, That stood against the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal. A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand. Left on the shore; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon-led waters white. A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance Roll'd round by one fix'd law. Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. ' No voice,' she shriek'd in that lone hall, ' No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world : One deep, deep silence all ! ' She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod. In wrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name; And death and life she hated equally. And nothing saw, for her despair. But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, No comfort anywhere; Remaining utterly confused with fears, And ever worse with growing time. And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. And all alone in crime : Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound Of human footsteps fall. As in strange lands a traveller walking slow. In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea; And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, 'I have found A new land, but I die.' She howl'd aloud, ' I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. 48 LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die? ' So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away. * Make me a cottage in the vale,' she said, ' Where I may mourn and pray. * Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly, beautifully built : Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt.' LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown : You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: ' The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies : A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view. She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You hekl your course without remorse. To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth. But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate. Nor any poor about your lands? Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray heaven for a human heart. And let the foolish yeoman go. THE MAY QUEEN, 49 THE MAY QUEEN. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands ga)^ For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white. And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass. And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. £ 50 THE MAY QUEEN. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. NEW-YEAR'S EVE. If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see. Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea. And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall He alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade. And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. * I have been w^ild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. THE MAY QUEEN. 51 If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say. And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore. And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. Goodnight, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION. I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow. And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be. For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 52 THE MAY QUEEN. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Efifie dear; I saw you sitting in the house and I no longer here; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, * It's not for them : it's mine.' And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am passed away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. THE LOTOS-EATERS. 53 THE LOTOS-EATERS. * Courage ! ' he said, and pointed toward the land, ' This mounting wave will roll us shore- ward soon.' In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams ! some, like a down- ward smoke. Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke. Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land : far off, three moun- tain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same ! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them. And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake. And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but ever- more Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar. Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, ' We Avill return no more; ' And all at once they sang, ' Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.' CHORIC SONG. There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass. Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tii''d eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. II. WTiy are we weigh'd upon with heavi- ness, And utterly consumed with sharp dis- tress. 54 THE LOTOS-EATERS. While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest : why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things. And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown : Nor ever fold our wings. And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, ' There is no joy but calm ! ' Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? III. Lo ! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo I sweeten'd with the summer light. The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mel- low. Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days. The flower ripens in its place. Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. IV. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil ? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. How sweet it were, hearing the down- ward stream. With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream ! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day. To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melan- choly; To muse and brood and live again in memory. With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass ! VI. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears : but all hath suf- fer'd change : For surely now our household hearths are cold : Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange : And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the min- strel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile : 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, THE LOTOS-EATERS— A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 55 Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. VII. But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill — To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine — To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! Only to hear and see the far-off spark- ling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. VIII. The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : The Lotos blows by every winding creek : All day the wind breathes low with mel- lower tone : Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind. In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world : Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an an- cient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil. Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil. Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer — some, 'tis whisper'd — down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell. Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. I READ, before my eyelids dropt their shade, * The Legend of Good Wofnen,'' long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made His music heard below; Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart. Brimful of those wild tales, 56 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. Charged both mine eyes with tears. In As when a great thought strikes along every land the brain, I saw, wherever light illumineth, And flushes all the cheek. Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death. And once my arm was lifted to hew down A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, Those far-renowned brides of ancient song That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town; Peopled the hollow dark, like burning And then, I know not how, stars, And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing wrong, thought And trumpets blown for wars; Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and did creep And clattering flints batter'd with clang- Roll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, ing hoofs; and brought And I saw crowds in column'd sanctu- Into the gulfs of sleep. aries ; And forms that pass'd at windows and on At last methought that I had wander'd far roofs In an old wood ; fresh-wash'd in coolest Of marble palaces; dew The maiden splendours of the morning star Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall Shook in the stedfast blue. Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and Lances in ambush set; lean Upon the dusky brushwood underneath And high shrine-doors burst thro' with Their broad curved branches, fledged wfth heated blasts clearest green, That run before the fluttering tongues New from its silken sheath. of fire; White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and The dim red morn had died, her journey masts. done. And ever climbing higher; And with dead lips smiled at the twi- light plain. Squadrons and squares of men in brazen Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun, plates. Never to rise again. Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, There was no motion in the dumb dead air, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron Not any song of bird or sound of rill; grates. Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre And hush'd seraglios. Is not so deadly still So shape chased shape as swift as, when As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine to land turn'd Bluster the winds and tides the self- Their humid arms festooning tree to same way. tree, Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level And at the root thro' lush green grasses sand, burn'd Torn from the fringe of spray. The red anemone. I started once, or seem'd to start in pain. I knew the flowers, 1 knew the leaves, I Resolved on noble things, and strove knew to speak, The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 57 On those long, rank, dark wood-walks ' Still strove to speak : my voice was drench'd in dew, thick with sighs Leading from lawn to lawn. As in a dream. Uimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolf- The smell of violets, hidden in the green, ish eyes. Pour'd back into my empty soul and Waiting to see me die. frame The times when I remember to have been ' The high masts flicker'd as they lay Joyful and free from blame. afloat; The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and And from within me a clear under-tone the shore; Thrill'd thro' mine ears in that unbliss- The bright death quiver'd at the victim's ful clime, throat; 'Pass freely thro' : thewoodisallthineown. Touch'd; and I knew no more.' Until the end of time.' Whereto the other with a downward At length I saw a lady within call, brow : Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing ' I would the white cold heavy-plung- there; ing foam. A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, W^hirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep And most divinely fair. below. Then when I left my home.' Her loveliness with shame and with sur- prise Her slow full words sank thro' the silence Froze my swift speech : she turning on drear. my face As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes. sea : Spoke slowly in her place. Sudden I heard a voice that cried, ' Come here. That I may look on thee.' * I had great beauty : ask thou not my name : No one can be more wise than destiny. I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise. Many drew swords and died. Where'er One sitting on a crimson scarf unroU'd ; I came A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold I brought calamity.' black eyes, Brow-bound with burning gold. 'No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died,' She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : I answer'd free; and turning I appeal'd ' I govern'd men by change, and so I To one that stood beside. sway'd All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, a man. To her full height her stately stature Once, like the moon, I made draws; * My youth,' she said, ' was blasted with 'The ever-shifting currents of the blood a curse : According to my humour ebb and flow. This woman was the cause. I have no men to govern in this wood: That makes my only woe. ' I was cut off from hope in that sad place, Which men call'd Aulis in those iron ' Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not years : bend My father held his hand upon his face; One will; nor tame and tutor with I, blinded with my tears, mine eye 58 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, From tone to tone, and glided thro' all friend, change Where is Mark Antony? Of liveliest utterance. * The man, my lover, with whom I rode When she m.ade pause I knew not for sublime delight; On Fortune's neck: we sat as God by Because with sudden motion from the God: ground The Nilus would have risen before his She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd time with light And flooded at our nod. The interval of sound. * We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest lit darts; Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus. As once they drew into two burning my life rings In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, All beams of Love, melting the mighty The flattery and the strife, hearts Of captains and of kings. ' And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I My Hercules, my Roman Antony, heard My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, A noise of some one coming thro' the Contented there to die ! lawn. And singing clearer than the crested ' And there he died : and when I heard bird my name That claps his wings at dawn. Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my fear 'The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel Of the other : with a worm I balk'd his From craggy hollows pouring, late and fame. soon, What else was left? look here ! ' Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell. (With that she tore her robe apart, and Far-heard beneath the moon. half The polish'd argent of her breast to * The balmy moon of blessed Israel sight Floods all the deep-blue gloom with Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a beams divine : laugh, All night the splinter'd crags that wall Showing the aspick's bite.) the dell With spires of silver shine.' * I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found As one that museth where broad sunshine Me lying dead, my crown about my laves brows, The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the A name for ever ! — lying robed and door crown'd, Hearing the holy organ rolling waves Worthy a Roman spouse.' Of sound on roof and floor Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and range tied Struck by all passion, did fall down To where he stands, — so stood I, and glance when that flow A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 59 Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father's vow; The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, A maiden pure; as when she went along From IMizpeh's tower'd gate with wel- come light, With timbrel and with song. INIy words leapt forth : ' Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath.' She render'd answer high : 'Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times I would be born and die. ' Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes be- neath. Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. r 'My God, my land, my father — these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, l-ower'd softly with a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave. ' And I went mourning, " No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers " — emptied of all Leaving the dance and song, * Leaving the olive-gardens far below. Leaving the promise of my bridal bower. The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower. ' The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the Ijon roaring from his den; We saw the large white stars rise one by one. Or, from the darken'd glen, ' Saw God divide the night with flying flame. And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. ' When the next moon was roU'd into the sky, Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire ! ' It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, That I subdued me to my father's will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. Sweetens the spirit still. * Morieover it is written that my race Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer On Arnon unto Minneth.' Here her face Glow'd, as I look'd at her. .She lock'd her lips : she left me where I stood : * Glory to God,' she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood. Toward the morning-star. Losing her carol I stood pensively, As one that from a casement leans his head. When midnight bells cease ringing sud- denly, And the old year is dead. ' Alas ! alas i ' a low voice, full of care, Murmur'd beside me : ' Turn and look on me : I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be. 6o A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN— THE BLACKBIRD. * Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor ! O me, that I should ever see the light I Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor Do hunt me, day and night,' She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : To whom the Egyptian : ' Oh, you tamely died ! You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust The dagger thro' her side.' With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping beams, Stol'n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark. Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, A light of ancient France; Or her who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o'er Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass' d, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By sighs or groans or tears; Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art. Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat. THE BLACKBIRD. O BLACKBIRD ! sing me something well : While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thoumay'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting. A golden bill ! the silver tongue. Cold February loved, is dry : Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee . famous once, when young : And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning ! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sigh- ing : THE DEA TH OF THE OLD YEAR — TO J. S. 6i Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily. You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still : he doth not move : He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love. And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us. Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. And tho' his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you. Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest. But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend. And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes ! over the snow I heard just, now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack ! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. TO J. S. The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made. Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. 'Tis strange that those we lean on most. Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed. Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us ; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas ! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death'did pass ; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile — not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother : his mute dust I honour and his living worth : A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth. 62 TO J. S.— ON A MOURNER. I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I : I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, * Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain.' Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done — to weep or not to weep. I will not say, * God's ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind; ' For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace ! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How shotild I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say : For he too was a friend to me : Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace : Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase. And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. ON A MOURNER. Nature, so far as in her lies. Imitates God, and turns her face To every land beneath the skies, Counts nothing that she meets with base. But lives and loves in every place; II. Fills out the homely quickset-screens, And makes the purple lilac ripe, Steps from her airy hill, and greens The swamp, where humm'd the drop- ping snipe. With moss and braided marish-pipe; III. And on thy heart a finger lays, Saying, ' Beat quicker, for the time Is pleasant, and the woods and ways Are pleasant, and the beech and lime Put forth and feel a gladder clime.' IV. And murmurs of a deeper voice, Going before to some far shrine, Teach that sick heart the stronger choice. Till all thy life one way incline With one wide Will that closes thine. And when the zoning eve has died Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn. Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride. From out the borders of the morn, With that fair child betwixt them born. VI. And when no mortal motion jars The blackness round the tombing sod, LOVE THOU THY LAND. Thro' silence and the trembhng stars Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod, And Virtue, like a household god VII, Promising empire; such as those Once heard at dead of night to greet Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose With sacrifice, while all the fleet Had rest by stony hills of Crete. You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, W^hose spirits falter in the mist. And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose. The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, W'here Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent : Where faction seldom gathers head. But by degrees to fullness wrought. The strength of some diftusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute; Tho' Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great — Tho' every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand — Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, W^ild wind I I seek a warmer sky. And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South. Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet : Above her shook the starry lights : She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind. But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race. And part by part to men reveal'd The fullness of her face — Grave mother of majestic works. From her isle-altar gazing down. Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks. And, King-like, wears the crown : Pier open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams. Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes ! Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought. True love turn'd round on fixed poles. Love, that endures not sordid ends. For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers and immortal souls. But pamper not a hasty time. Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings That every sophister can lime. Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait day, Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. for 64 LOVE THOU THY LAND. Make knowledge circle with the winds; But let her herald, Reverence, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth of minds. Watch what main-currents draw the years : Cut Prejudice against the grain: But gentle words are always gain : Regard the weakness of thy peers : Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise : It grows to guerdon after-days : Nor deal in watch-words overmuch : Not clinging to some ancient saw; Not master'd by some modern term; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : And in its season bring the law; That from Discussion's lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds — Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all. For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong. Matures the individual form. Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that which flies, And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, hard to shape in act; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. Ev'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom — The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life. A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States — The warders of the growing hour. But vague in vapour, hard to mark; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power. Of many changes, aptly join'd. Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind; A wind to puff" your idol-fires. And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. Oh yet, if Nature's evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war — If New and Old, disastrous feud. Must ever shock, like armed foes. And this be true, till Time shall close. That Principles are rain'd in blood; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled land, like Peace; Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword That knowledge takes the sword away — Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes : And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : To-morrow yet would reap to-day. As we bear blossom of the dead : Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Decay. ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782— THE GOOSE. 65 ENGL.\ND AND AMERICA IN 1782. O THOU, that sendest out the man To rule by land and sea, Strong mother of a Lion-line, Be proud of those strong sons of thine Who wrench'd their rights from thee ! What wonder, if in noble heat Those men thine arms withstood, Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught, And in thy spirit with thee fought — Who sprang from English blood ! But Thou rejoice with liberal joy, Lift up thy rocky face, And shatter, when the storms are black, In many a streaming torrent back, The seas that shock thy base ! Whatever harmonies of law The growing world assume, Thy work is thine — The single note From that deep chord which Hampden smote Will vibrate to the doom. THE GOOSE. I KNEW an old wife lean and poor. Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door. And it was windy weather. He held a goose upon his arm. He utter'd rhyme and reason, * Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season.' She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose — 'twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter. She dropt the goose, and caught the • pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself. And rested from her labours. And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded. So sitting, served by man and maid. She felt her heart grow prouder : But ah ! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder. It clutter'd here, it chuckled there; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle : She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl'd the pan and kettle. ' A quinsy choke thy cursed note ! ' Then wax'd her anger stronger. ' Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer.' Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that. And fiU'd the house with clamour. As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, the And it was windy weather : nd iter oud, He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning : * So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning.' The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled. Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off", her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder : And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, * The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger ! ' ork 66 THE EPIC. ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. THE EPIC. At Francis Allen's on the Christmas- eve, — The game of forfeits done — the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away — The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wassail- bowl. Then half-way ebb'd : and there we held a talk. How all the old honour had from Christ- mas gone, Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the For P°"^^' • V^here, three times slipping from the Tc Th outer edge. , , bump'd the ice into three several stars, /ell in a doze; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider ^ sweeps, ^\ow harping on the church-commis- sioners, Now hawking at Geology and schism; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro' the world, ' at home was little left, And none abroad : there was no anchor, none. To hold by.' Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard's shoulder, with ' I hold by him.' * And I,' quoth Everard, ' by the wassail- bowl,' • Why yes,' I said. * we knew your gift that way At college : but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then). What came of that? ' * You know,' said Frank, ' he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books ' — And then to me demanding why? 'Oh, sir. He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing — that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day : God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased me well enough.' ' Nay, nay,' said Hall, * Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Masto- don, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? these twelve books of mine Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing- worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.' ' But I,' Said Francis, ' pick'd the eleventh from this hearth And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes.' He laugh'd, and I, tho' sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears; For I remember'd Everard's college fame When we were Freshmen : then at my request He brought it; and the poet little urged, But with some prelude of disparagerftent, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes. Deep-chested music, and to this result. MORTE n ARTHUR. 67 MORTE D'ARTHUR. So all day long the noise of battle roU'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord, King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross. That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : ' The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, — Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more — but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride : for thou remem- berest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- ful. Holding the sword — and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known : But now delay not : take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere : Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.' To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : ' It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. A little thing may harm a wounded man. Yet I thy best will all perform at full, Watch what 1 see, and lightly bring thee word.' So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind. In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi' vere : ' Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' c 68 MORTE n ARTHUR. And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- vere : * I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag.' To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 'Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : For surer sign had follow'd, either hand. Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.' Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud, ' And if indeed I cast the brand away. Surely a precious thing, one worthy note. Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. ' What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? deep harm to dis- obey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey, then, if a king de- mand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept. Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms. Saying, " King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills." So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost.' So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. And hid Excalibur the second time. And so strode back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : ' What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard? ' And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- vere: ' I heard the water lapping on the crag. And the long ripple washing in the reeds.' To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 'Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. In whom should meet the offices of all. Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands.' Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, MORTE n ARTHUR. 69 Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- ful, And caught him by the hilt, and bran- dish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: * Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast he.ard, or seen? ' And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- vere: ' Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheel- ing him; But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mvstic, wonder- ful, That caught him by the hilt, and bran- dish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.' And answer made King Arthur, breath- ing hard: ' My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight. And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.' So saying, from the pavement he half rose. Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bevidere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words; Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ' Quick, quick ! I fear it is too late, and I shall die.' But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad. Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. Beneath them ; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, ' Place me in the barge,' 70 MORTE D' ARTHUR. And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands. And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls — ^ That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, ' Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead. When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole round table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world ; And I, the last, go forth companionless. And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.' And slowly answered Arthur from the barge : ' The old order changeth, yielding place to new. And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within Himself make pure I but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain. If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest — if indeed I go — (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion ; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard- lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with sum- mer sea. Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.' So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full- breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood. With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull MORTE D' ARTHUR ^HE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 71 Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell : At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted ' Good I ' but we Sat rapt : it was the tone with which he read — Perhaps some modern touches here and there Redeem'd it from the charge of nothing- ness — Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; I know not: but we sitting, as I said. The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : Then Prancis, muttering, like a man ill- used, 'There now — that's nothing I ' drew a little back. And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log, That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point ; till on to dawn, when dreams Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. To me, methought, who waited with a crowd. There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port ; and all the people cried, ' Arthur is come again : he cannot die.' Then those that stood upon the hills behind Repeated — 'Come again, and thrice as fair ; ' And, further inland, voices echo'd — * Come With all good things, and war shall be no more.' At this a hundred bells began to peal. That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas-morn. THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. This morning is the morning of the day. When I and Eustace from the city went To see the gardener's daughter; I and he. Brothers in Art ; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt. My Eustace might have sat for Her- cules ; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little; — Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, • When will jc« paint like this?' and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) ' 'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.' And Juliet answer'd laughing, ' Go and see The gardener's daughter : trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his master- piece.' 72 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; And up we rose, and on the spur we went. Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock ; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar. Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers. The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine. And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. In that still place she, hoarded in herself. Grew, seldom seen; not less among us lived Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard Of Rose, the gardener's daughter ? Where was he. So blunt in memory, so old at heart. At such a distance from his youth in grief. That, having seen, forgot ? The common mouth, So gross to express delight, in praise of her Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world. And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart. And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes. That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, Born out of everything I heard and saw, riutter'd about my senses and my soul; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought. That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream Dream' d by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. And sure this orbit of the memory folds For ever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares. Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind. Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward : but all else of heaven was pure Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge. And May with me from head to heel. And now. As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze. And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood. Leaning his horns into the neighbour field. And lowing to his fellows. From the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right, The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; The redcap whistled; and the nightingale Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, ' Hear how the bushes echo ! by my life. These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song? Or have they any sense of why they sing? And would they praise the heavens for what they have? ' And I made answer, ' Were there nothing else For which to praise the heavens but only love. OR, THE PICTURES. 73 That only love were cause enough for praise.' Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd, We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; And one warm gust, full-fed with per- fume, blew Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. The garden-glasses glanced, and mo- mently The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. ' Eustace,' I said, ' this wonder keeps the house.' He nodded, but a moment afterwards' He cried, ' Look ! look ! ' Before he ceased I turn'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught. And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood, A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — Ah, happy shade — and still went waver- ing down, But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced The greensward into greener circles, dipt. And mix'd with shadows of the common ground ! But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips. And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young. So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her ten- dance turn'd Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her : ' Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips Less exquisite than thine.' She look'd : but all Suffused with blushes — neither self-pos- sess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that. Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turn- ing, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came. Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue-like, In act to render thanks. I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk. So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. ' Now,' said he, * will you climb the top of Art. You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match 74 THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. My Juliet ? you, not you, — the Master, Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.' So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving — such a noise of life Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice Call'd to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark. And all that night I heard the watchman peal The sliding season : all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odors on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East. Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all. Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. Light pretexts drew me; sometimes a Dutch love For tulips : then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city rooms; or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm; and more and more A word could bring the colour to my cheek; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased. The daughters of the year. One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd; Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade; And each in passing touch'd with some new grace Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day. Like one that never can be wholly known, Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep ' I will,' Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold From thence thro' all the worlds : but I rose up Full of his bliss', and following her dark eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. There sat we down upon a garden mound. Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third. Between us, in the circle of his arms Enwound us both ; and over many a range Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers. Across a hazy glimmer of the west, Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd, We spoke of other things; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and near. Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round The central wish, until we settled there. Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear. Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; And in that time and place she answer'd me. And in the compass of three little words, More musical than ever came in one. The silver fragments of a broken voice. Made me most happy, faltering, ' I am thine.' Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to say That my desire, like all strongest hopes, By its own energy fulfill'd itself. Merged in completion ? Would you learn at full THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER — DORA. 75 How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades Beyond all grades develop'd ? and indeed I had not staid so long to tell you all, But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, Holding the folded annals of my youth; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, And with a flying finger swept my lips. And spake, ' Be wise : not easily forgiven Are those who, setting wide the doors that bar The secret bridal chambers of the heart. Let in the day,' Here, then, my words have end. Yet might I tell of meetings, of fare- wells — Of that which came between, more sweet than each. In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter- ance, Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, And vows, where there was never need of vows. And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, Spread the light haze along the river- shores, And in the hollows; or as once we met Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sigh- ing wind. And in her bosom bore the baby. Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the time Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there. As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, My first, last love; the idol of my youth. The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! Now the most blessed memory of mine age. DORA. With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son. And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought, ' I'll make them man and wife.' Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd toward William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house. Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, ' My son : I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die : And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years.' But William answer'd short : ' I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : * You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law. And so it shall be now for me. Look to it ; Consider, William : take a month to think. 76 DORA. And let me have an answer to my wish ; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again.' But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh ; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said : ' My girl, I love you well ; But if you speak with him that was my son. Or change a word with her he calls his wife. My home is none of yours. My will is law.' And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, ' It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! ' And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save. And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : ' I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone. And for your sake, the woman that he chose. And for this orphan, I am come to you : You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest : let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.' And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work. And came and said: 'Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?' So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child ! ' ' And did I not,' said Allan, ' did I not Forbid you, Dora? ' Dora said again : ' Do with me as you will, but take the child. And bless him for the sake of him that's gone ! ' DORA. 77 And Allan said, ' I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you ! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more.' So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head. Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dura went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widow- hood. And Dora said, * My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you : He says that he will never see me more.' Then answer'd Mary, ' This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go. And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back : But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us.' So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in : but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her : And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 'O Father! — if you let me call you so — I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora : take her back; she loves you well. Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said He could not ever rue his marrying me — 1 had been a patient wife : but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: " God bless him ! " he said, " and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro' ! " Then he turn'd His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before.' So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room ; And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — ' I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd my son. AUDLEY COURT. I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son. May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children.' Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with re- morse; And all his love came back a hundred- fold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er Will- iam's child Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death. AIJDLEY COURT. *The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court.' I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat. And breathing of the sea. ' With all my heart,' Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn. We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores, And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge. With all its casements bedded, and its walls And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound. Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home. And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, W^here quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied; last, with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat And talk'd old matters over; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall: Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm. The four-field system, and the price of grain; And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang — ' Oh ! who would fight and march and countermarch. Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field. And shovell'd up into some bloody trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life. * Oh ! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk? but let me live my hfe. * Who'd serve the state ? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all : but let me live my life. * Oh ! who would love? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, AUDLEY COURT— WALKING TO THE MAIL. 79 And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea; but let me live mv life.' He sang his song, and I replied with mine: I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride. His books — the more the pity, so I said — Came to the hammer here in March — and this — I set the words, and added names I knew. ' Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm. And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 'Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; EmiUa, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. ' Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast : Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn. ' I go, but I return : I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.' So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer's son, who lived across the bay. My friend; and I, that having where- withal. And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and everywhere. Did what I would; but ere the night we rose And saunter'd home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, The town was hush'd beneath us : lower down The bay was oily calm; the harbour- buoy. Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm, With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike? James. Yes, John. And when does this come by? James. The mail? At one o'clock. John. What is it now? James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see? No, not the County Member's with the vane : Up higher with the yew-tree by it, and half A score of gables, James. That? Sir Edward Head's: But he's abroad : the place is to be sold, John. Oh, his. He was not broken, James. No, sir, he, Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself. He lost the sense that handles daily life — That keeps us all in order more or less — And sick of home went overseas for change. John. And whither? James. Nay, who knows? He's here and there. But let him go; his devil goes with him, As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes, John. What's that? James. You saw the man — on Mon- day, was it? — There by the humpback'd willow; half stands up And bristles; half has fall'n and made a bridge; And there he caught the younker tickling trout — Caught in Jlagrante — what's the Latin word ? — Delicto : but his house, for so they say, Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook I 8o WALKING TO THE MAIL, The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors. And rummaged like a rat : no servant stay'd : The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, • What ! You're flitting ! ' ' Yes, we're flitting,' says the ghost (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds). *Oh well,' says he, 'you flitting with us too — Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again.' John. iYif left /;zj wife behind; for so I heard. James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once : A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back — 'Tis now at least ten years — and then she was — You could not light upon a sweeter thing : A body slight and round, and like a pear In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager. Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd To what she is : a nature never kind ! Like men, like manners : like breeds like, they say : Kind nature is the best : those manners next That fit us like a nature second-hand; Which are indeed the manners of the great. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. I once was near him, when his bailiff brought A Chartist pike. ' You should have seen him wince As from a venomous thing : he thought himself A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs Sweat on his blazon'd chairs; but, sir, you know That these two parties still divide the world — Of those that want, and those that have : and still The same old sore breaks out from age to age With much the same result. Now I myself, A Tory to the quick, was as a boy Destructive, when I had not what I would. I was at school — a college in the South : There lived a flayflint near; we stole his fruit. His hens, his eggs; but there was law for tis ; We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, With meditative grunts of much content, Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. By night we dragg'd her to the college tower From her warm bed, and up the cork- screw stair With hand and rope we haled the groan- ing sow. And on the leads we kept her till she Large range of prospect had the mother sow. And but for daily loss of one she loved As one by one we took them — but for this — As never sow was higher in this world — Might have been happy : but what lot is pure? EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE lAKE. 8i We took them all, till she was left alone Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, And so return'd unfarrow'd to her sty. John. They found you out? James. Not they. John. Well — after all — What know we of the secret of a man? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, That we should mimic this raw fool the world, Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows To Pity — more from ignorance than will. But put your best foot forward, or I fear That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes With five at top : as quaint a four-in-hand As you shall see — three pyebalds and a roan. EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth Of city life ! I was a sketcher then : See here, my doing : curves of mountain, bridge, Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built When men knew how to build, upon a rock With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : And here, new-comers in an ancient hold. New-comers from the Mersey, million- aires. Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimnied bulk Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names. Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim. Who read me rhymes elaborately good, His own — I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. And once I ask'd him of his early life, And his first passion; and he answer'd me; And well his words became him : was he not A fuU-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke. ' My love for Nature is as old as I ; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that. And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her, Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, Twin-sisters differently beautiful. To some full music rose and sank the sun, And some full music seem'd to move and change With all the varied changes of the dark. And either twilight and the day between; For daily hope fulfiU'd, to rise again Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe.' Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, ' I take it, God made the woman for the man. And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, And keeps us tight ; but these unreal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and in- deed W^orn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. 82 EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. I say, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world.' 'Parson,' said I, 'you pitch the pipe too low : But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his : Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce have other music : yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream? ' I ask'd him half-sardonically. 'Give? Give all thou art,' he answer'd, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; ' I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear Her lightest breath; her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came; Her voice fled always thro' the summer land ; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days! The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more.' Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did? but something jarr'd; Whether he spoke too largely; that there seem'd A touch of something false, some self- conceit. Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was. He scarcely hit my humour, and I said : ' Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me. As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left? But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein : I have, I think, — Heaven knows, — as much within; Have, or should have, but for a thought or two. That like a purple beech among the greens Looks out of place : 'tis from no want in her : It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, Or something of a M'ayward modern mind Dissecting passion. Time will set me right.' So spoke I knowing not the things that were. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull: ' God made the w^oman for the use of man. And for the good and increase of the world.' And I and Edwin laughed; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy ' holms And alders, garden-isles; and now we left The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran By ripply shallows of the lisping lake. Delighted with the freshness and the sound. But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk. The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. 'Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more : She sent a note, the seal an Elle voiis suit. The close, ' Your Letty, only yours ; ' and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My craft aground, and heard with beat- ing heart The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel; And out I stept, and up I crept : she moved, ST. SIMEON S XYLITES. ^3 Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers : Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and she, She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed In some new planet : a silent cousin stole Upon us and departed : ' Leave,' she cried, * O leave me ! ' * Never, dearest, never : here I brave the worst : ' and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yell'd within, and out they came Trustees and Aunts and Uncles, ' What, with him ! Go ' (shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus) ; ' him ! ' I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen — ' Him ! ' Again with hands of wild rejection * Go ! — Girl, get you in ! ' She went — and in one month They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds. To lands in Kent and messuages in York, And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile And educated whisker. But for me. They set an ancient creditor to work : It seems I broke a close with force and arms : There came a mystic token from the king To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy ! I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd : Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below : I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the storm ; So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. Nor cared to hear? perhaps: yet long ago I have pardon'd little Letty; not indeed, It may be, for her own dear sake but this. She seems apart of those fresh days to me; For in the dust and drouth of London life She moves among my visions of the lake. While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then While the gold-lily blows, and overhead The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. ST. SIMEON STYLITES. Altho' I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin. Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and sob, Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, Patient on this tall pillar I have borne Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow; And I had hoped that ere this period closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. O take the meaning. Lord : I do not breathe. Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were still Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush'd My spirit flat before thee. O Lord, Lord, Thou knowest I bore this better at the first. For I was strong and hale of body then; And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away. 84 ST. SIMEON S XYLITES. Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound Of pious hymns and psalms, and some- times saw An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh; I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am. So that I scarce can hear the people hum About the column's base, and almost blind, And scarce can recognise the fields I know; And both my thighs are rotted with the dew; Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry, While my stiff spine can hold my w-eary head, Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul. Who may be saved? who is it may be saved? Who may be made a saint, if I fail here? Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? For either they were stoned, or crucified. Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. Bear witness, if I could have found a way (And heedfully I sifted all my thought) More slowly-painful to subdue this home Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, I had not stinted practice, O my God. For not alone this pillar-punishment, Not this alone I bore : but while I lived In the white convent down the valley there, For many weeks about my loins I wore The rope that haled the buckets from the well. Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose; And spake not of it to a single soul. Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, Betray'd my secret penance, so that all My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, I lived up there on yonder mountain side. My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not. Except the spare chance-gift of those that came To touch my body and be heal'd, and live : And they say then that I work'd miracles, Whereof my fame is loud amongst man- kind, Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, OGod, Knowest alone whether this was or no. Have mercy, mercy ! cover all my sin. Then, that I might be more alone with thee. Three years I lived upon a pillar, high Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve; And twice three years I crouch'd on one that rose Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew Twice ten long weary weary years to this, That numbers forty cubits from the soil. I think that I have borne as much as this — Or else I dream — and for so long a time. If I may measure time by yon slow light. And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — So much — even so. And yet I know not well. For that the evil ones come here, and say, ' Fall down, O Simeon : thou hast suffer'd long For ages and for ages ! ' then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone thro'. Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall. Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. But yet Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 85 Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth House in the shade of comfortable roofs, Sit with their wives by fires, eat whole- some food, And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, Bow down one thousand and two hundred times. To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the saints; Or in the night, after a little sleep, I wake : the chill stars sparkle; I am wet With drenching dews, or stiff with crack- ling frost. I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back; A grazing iron collar grinds my neck; And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, And strive and wrestle with thee till I die : mercy, mercy ! wash away my sin. O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am; A sinful man, conceived and born in sin : 'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine; Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this. That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha! They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? The silly people take me for a saint. And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers : And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) Have all in all endured as much, and more Than many just and holy men, whose names Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. What is it I can have done to merit this? 1 am a sinner viler than you all. It may be I have wrought some miracles, And cured some halt and maim'd; but what of that? It may be, no one, even among the saints, May match his pains with mine; but what of that? Yet do not rise; for you may look on me, And in your looking you may kneel to God. Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? I think you know I have some power with Heaven From my long penance : let him speak his wish. Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark ! they shout ' St. Simeon Stylites.' Why, if so, God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, Can I work miracles and not be saved? This is not told of any. They were saints. It cannot be but that I shall be saved; Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, ' Behold a saint ! ' And lower voices saint me from above. Courage, St. Simeon ! This dull chrysalis Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all My mortal archives. O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end; I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes; I, whose bald brows in silent hours become Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now From my high nest of penance here pro- claim That Pontius and Iscariot by my side Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, A vessel full of sin : all hell beneath Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve, Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd again. In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd mv chest : 86 ST. SIMEON S XYLITES— THE TALKING OAK. They flapp'd my light out as I read : I saw Their faces grow between me and my book; With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns; Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps. With slow, faint steps, and much exceed- ing pain. Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise : God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit. Among the powers and princes of this world, To make me an example to mankind. Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say But that a time may come — yea, even now, Now, now, his footsteps smite the thresh- old stairs Of life — I say, that time is at the doors When you may worship me without re- proach; For I will leave my relics in your land, And you may carve a shrine about my dust, And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, When I am gather'd to the glorious saints. While I spake then, a sting of shrewd- est pain Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudlike change. In passing, with a grosser film made thick These heavy, horny eyes. The end ! the end ! Surely the end ! What's here? a shape, a shade, A flash of light. Is that the angel there That holds a crown? Come, blessed l)rother, come. I know thy glittering face. I waited long; My brows are ready. What ! deny it now? Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ ! 'Tis gone: 'tis here again; the crown! the crown ! So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, And from it melt the dews of Paradise, Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense. Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, Among you there, and let him presently Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft. And climbing up into my airy home. Deliver me the blessed sacrament; For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, I prophesy that I shall die to-night, A quarter before twelve. But thou, O Lord, Aid all this foolish people; let them take Example, pattern : lead them to thy light. THE TALKING OAK. Once more the gate behind me falls; Once more before my face I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, That stand within the chace. Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke; And ah ! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak. For when my passion first began, Ere that, which in me burn'd, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return'd; To yonder oak within the field 1 spoke without restraint, And with a larger faith appeal'd Than Papist unto Saint. THE TALKING OAK. S7 For oft I talk'd with him apart, And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarised a heart, And answer'd with a voice. Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven None else could understand; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land. But since I heard him make reply Is many a weary hour; 'Tvvere well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power. Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place ! Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs. — ' O Walter, I have shelter'd here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year Made ripe in Sumner-chace : ' Old Summers, when the monk was fat. And, issuing shorn and sleek. Would twist his girdle tight, and pat The girls upon the cheek, 'Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, And number'd bead, and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the spence And turn'd the cowls adrift : 'And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose To chase the deer at five; 'And all that from the town would stroll, Till that wild wind made work In which the gloomy brewer's soul Went by me, like a stork : 'The slight she-slips of loyal blood, And others, passing praise. Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud For puritanic stays : * And I have shadow'd many a group Of beauties, that were born In teacup-times of hood and hoop, Or while the patch was worn; ' And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, Abuut me leap'd and laugh'd The modish Cupid of the day, And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. ' I swear (and else may insects prick Each leaf into a gall) This girl, for whom your heart is sick. Is three times worth them all; ' For those and theirs, by Nature's law, Have faded long ago; But in these latter springs I saw Your own Olivia blow, ' From when she gamboll'd on the greens A baby-germ, to when The maiden blossoms of her teens Could number five from ten. ' I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, (And hear me with thine ears,) That, tho' I circle in the grain Five hundred rings of years — 'Yet, since I first could cast a shade, Did never creature pass So slightly, musically made. So light upon the grass: ' P'or as to fairies, that will flit To make the greensward fresh, I hold them exquisitely knit, But far too spare of flesh.' O hide thy knotted knees in fern. And overlook the chace; And from thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place. « But thou, whereon I carved her name, That oft hast heard my vows. Declare when last Olivia came To sport beneath thy boughs. 88 THE TALKING OAK. ' yesterday, you know, the fair That round me, clasping each in each, Was holden at the town; She might have lock'd her hands. Her father left his good arm-chair, And rode his hunter down. ' Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet As woodbine's fragile hold. ' And with him Albert came on his. Or when I feel about my feet I look'd at him with joy : The berried briony fold.' As cowslip unto oxlip is, So seems she to the boy. O mufile round thy knees with fern. And shadow Sumner-chace ! ' An hour had past — and, sitting straight Long may thy topmost branch discern Within the low-wheel'd chaise. The roofs of Sumner-place ! Her mother trundled to the gate Behind the dappled grays. But tell me, did she read the name I carved with many vows * But as for her, she stay'd at home, When last with throbbing heart I came And on the roof she went. To rest beneath thy boughs? And down the way you use to come, She look'd with discontent. ' O yes, she wander'd round and round These knotted knees of mine. * She left the novel half-uncut And found, and kiss'd the name she Upon the rosewood shelf ; found. She left the new piano shut : And sweetly murmur'd thine. She could not please herself. 'A teardrop trembled from its source, * Then ran she, gamesome as the colt. And down my surface crept. And livelier than a lark My sense of touch is something coarse, She sent her voice thro' all the holt But I believe she wept. Before her, and the park. * Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light. ' A light wind chased her on the wing, She glanced across the plain; And in the chase grew wild. But not a creature was in sight: As close as might be would he cling She kiss'd me once again. About the darling child : ' Her kisses were so close and kind. ' But light as any wind that blows That, trust me on my word. So fleetly did she stir. Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind. The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose. But yet my sap was stirr'd : And turn'd to look at her. * And even into my inmost ring * And here she came, and round me A pleasure I discern'd, play'd, Like those blind motions of the Spring, And sang to me the whole That show the year is turn'd. Of those three stanzas that you made About my " giant bole; " 'Thrice-happy he that may caress The ringlet's waving balm — ' And in a fit of frolic mirth The cushions of whose touch may press She strove to span my waist : The maiden's tender palm. Alas, I was so broad of girth, I could not be embraced. ' I, rooted here among the groves But languidly adjust * I wish'd myself the fair young beech My vapid vegetable loves That here beside me stands, With anthers and with dust : THE TALKING OAK. 89 ' For ah ! my friend, the days were brief Whereof the poets talk, When that, which breathes within the leaf, Could slip its bark and walk. ' But could I, as in times foregone, From spray, and branch, and stem. Have suck'd and gather'd into one The life that spreads in them, * She had not found me so remiss; But lightly issuing thro', I would have paid her kiss for kiss. With usury thereto.' O flourish high, with leafy towers, And overlook the lea, Pursue thy loves among the bovvers But leave thou mine to me. O flourish, hidden deep in fern. Old oak, I love thee well; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell. ' 'Tis little more : the day was warm; At last, tired out with play. She sank her head upon her arm And at my feet she lay. ' Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves. I breathed upon her eyes Thro' all the summer of my leaves A welcome mix'd with sighs. * I took the swarming sound of life — The music from the town — The murmurs of the drum and fife And lull'd them in my own. ' Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip. To light her shaded eye; A second flutter'd round her lip Like a golden butterfly; ' A third would glimmer on her neck To make the necklace shine; Another slid, a sunny fleck, From head to ankle fine. 'Then close and dark my arms I spread. And shadow'd all her rest — Dropt dews upon her golden head, An acorn in her breast. ' But in a pet she started up. And pluck'd it out, and drew My little oakling from the cup, And flung him in the dew. ' And yet it was a graceful gift — I felt a pang within As when I see the woodman lift His axe to slay my kin. ' I shook him down because he was The finest on the tree. He lies beside thee on the grass. O kiss him once for me. ' O kiss him twice and thrice for me, That have no lips to kiss. For never yet was oak on lea Shall grow so fair as this.' Step deeper yet in herb and fern, Look further thro' the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern The front of Sumner-place. This fruit of thine by Love is blest. That but a moment lay Where fairer fruit of Love may rest Some happy future day. I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, The warmth it thence shall win To riper life may magnetise The baby-oak within. But thou, while kingdoms overset. Or lapse from hand to hand. Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet Thine acorn in the land. May never saw dismember thee, Nor wielded axe disjoint, Thou art the fairest-spoken tree From here to Lizard-point. O rock upon thy towery-top All throats that gurgle sweet ! All starry culmination drop Balm-dews to bathe thy feet! 90 THE' TALKING OAK— LOVE AND DUTY. All grass of silky feather grow — And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around thee blow The sound of minster bells. The fat earth feed thy branchy root, That under deeply strikes 1 The northern morning o'er thee shoot, High up, in silver spikes 1 Nor ever lightning char thy grain, But, rolling as in sleep. Low thunders bring the mellow rain. That makes thee broad and deep ! And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy side Will I to Olive plight my troth, And gain her for my bride. And when my marriage morn may fall, She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball In wreath about her hair. And I will work in prose and rhyme, And praise thee more in both Than bard has honour'd beech or lime. Or that Thessalian growth. In which the swarthy ringdove sat, And mystic sentence spoke; And more than England honours that, Thy famous brother-oak, Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode. And humm'd a surly hymn. LOVE AND DUTY. Of love that never found his earthly close. What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? Or all the same as if he had not been? Not so. Shall Error in the round of time Still father Truth? O shall the braggart shout For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law, System and empire ? Sin itself be found The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun? And only he, this wonder, dead, become Mere highway dust? or year by year alone Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, Nightmare of youth, the spectre of him- self? If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all. Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days, The long mechanic pacings to and fro. The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years, The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit Of wisdom. Wait : my faith is large in Time, And that which shapes it to some perfect end. Will some one say. Then why not ill for good? Why took ye not your Pastime? To that man My work shall answer, since I knew the right And did it; for a man is not as God, But then most Godlike being most a man. — So let me think 'tis well for thee and me — Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to me, When eyes, love-languid thro' half tears would dwell One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, I'altering. would break its syllables, to keep LOVE AND DUTY— THE GOLDEN YEAR. 91 My own full-tuned, — hold passion in a leash, And not leap forth and fall about thy neck. And on thy bosom (deep desired relief!) Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! For Love himself took part against himself To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love — O this world's curse — beloved but hated — came Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine, And crying, ' Who is this? behold thy bride,' She push'd me from thee. If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to these — No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : Hard is my doom and thine : thou knowest it all. Could Love part thus? was it not well to speak, To have spoken once? It could not but be well. The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good. The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, And all good things from evil, brought the night In which we sat together and alone, And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart. Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye. That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears As flow but once a life. The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. Then foUow'd counsel, comfort, and the words That make a man feel strong in speaking truth ; Till now the dark was worn, and overhead The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd In that brief night; the summer night, that paused Among her stars to hear us; stars that hung Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of Time Spun round in station, but the end had come. O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose. There — closing like an individual life — In one blind cry of passion and of pain. Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it, And bade adieu for ever. Live — yet live — Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all Life needs for life is possible to will — Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended by My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold. If not to be forgotten — not at once — Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, O might it come like one that looks con- tent, With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth. And point thee forward to a distant light. Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh'd Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown Full quire, and morning driv'n her plow of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, Beyond the fair green Held and eastern sea. THE GOLDEN YEAR. Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote : It was last summer on a tour in Wales: Old James was with me ; we that day had been 92 THE GOLDEN YEAR. Up Snowdon; and I wish'd for Leonard there, And found him in Llanberis : then we crost Between the lakes, and clamber'd half way up The counter side; and that same song of his He told me; for I banter'd him, and swore They said he lived shut up within himself, A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, That, setting the how much before the how, Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, ' Give, Cram us with all,' but count not me the herd! To which 'They call me what they will,' he said : ' But I was born too late : the fair new forms, That float about the threshold of an age, Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown'd — Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. But if you care indeed to listen, hear These measured words, my work of yestermorn. ' We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move; The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun; The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse; And human things returning on them- selves Move onward, leading up the golden year. * Ah, tho' the times, when some new thought can bud. Are but as poets' seasons when they flower. Yet oceans daily gaining on the land. Have ebb and flow conditioning their march. And slow and sure comes up the golden year. ' When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, But smit with freer light shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands, And light shall spread, and man be liker man Thro' all the season of the golden year. 'Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less. But he not less the eagle. Happy days Roll onward, leading up the golden year. ' Fly, happy happy sails, and bear the Press; Fly happy with the mission of the Cross; Knit land to land, and blowing haven- ward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. ' But we grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal Peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. Thro' all the circle of the golden year?' Thus far he flow'd, and ended; where- upon 'Ah, folly!' in mimic cadence answer'd James — * Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 'Tis like the second world to us that live; 'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven As on this vision of the golden year.' With that he struck his staff against the rocks And broke it, — James, — you know him, — old, but full Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet. And like an oaken stock in winter woods, O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : Then added, all in heat : ' What stuff is this ! Old writers push'd the happy season back, — The more fools they, — we forward : dreamers both : You most, that in an age, when every hour UL YSSES. 93 Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt Upon the teeming harvest, should not plunge His hand into the bag: but well I know- That unto him who works, and feels he works. This same grand year is ever at the doors.' He spoke; and, high above, I heard them blast The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap And buffet round the hills, from bluff to bluff. ULYSSES. It little profits that an idle king. By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel : I will drink Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have sufTer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades s Vext the dim sea : ^I am become a name;) For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known : cities of men, And manners, climates, councils, govern- ments. Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains : but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself. And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow kno wledge like a sinking star. Beyond the utmosT bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He w-orks his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners. Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic w^elcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all : but something ere the end. Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 94 TITHONUS. 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : It maybe we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts. Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. TITHONUS. The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms. Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man — So glorious in his beauty and thy choice. Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd To his great heart none other than a God! I ask'd thee, * Give me immortality.' Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile. Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills. And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me. And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now. Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me ? Let me go : take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men. Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all ? A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure. And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom. Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine. Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears. And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, TITHONUS — LOCKSLE Y HALL. 95 In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true ? ' The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.' Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch — if I behe thatwatch'd — The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowlv crimson'd all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay. Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing. While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not for ever in thine East : How can my nature longer mix with thine ? Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave : Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. LOCKSLEY HALL. Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn : Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed ; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed : When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see; Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. — 96 LOCKSLEY HALL. In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, *My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee.' On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a hght. As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — Saying, ' I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong ; ' Saying, 'Dost thou love me, cousin ?' weeping, ' I have loved thee long.' Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue 1 Is it well to wish thee happy? — having known me — to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him: it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. LOCKS LEY HALL. 97 It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought : Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! Well — 'tis well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less unworthy proved- Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? No — she never loved me truly: love is love for evermore. Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead* unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep. To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the ' Never, never,' whisper'd by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. H 98 LOCKSLEY HALL. Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 'They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt Truly, she herself had suffer'd ' — Perish in thy self-contempt I Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore should I care? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age ! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield. Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men : Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do : For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see. Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; LOCKSLEY HALL. 99 Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, "With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry. Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher. Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore. And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn. They to Avhom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness 1 woman's pleasure, woman's pain Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine. Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd; — I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit — there to wander far away. On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. loo LOCKSLEY HALL. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the vv^ild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I knoiv my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost tiles of time — I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the Hghtnings, weigh the Sun. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. GODIVA. lOI GODIVA. / ivaited for the train at Coventry; I hung tvith grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The citys ancient legend into this : — Not only we, the latest seed of Time, New men, that in the flying of a wheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtax'd; but she Did more, and underwent, and overcame, The woman of a thousand summers back, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled In Coventry: for when he laid a tax Upon his town, and all the mothers brought Their children, clamouring, ' If we pay, we starve ! ' She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone. His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears. And pray'd him, ' If they pay this tax, they starve.' Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, * You would not let your little finger ache For such as these ?'' — ' But I would die,' said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul: Then fiUip'd at the diamond in her ear; ' Oh ay, ay, ay, you talk ! ' — 'Alas ! ' she said, 'But prove me what it is I would not do.' And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand. He answer'd, ' Ride you naked thro' the town. And I repeal it; ' and nodding, as in scorn, He parted, with great strides among his dogs. So left alone, the passions of her mind, As winds from all the compass shift and blow. Made war upon each other for an hour. Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all The hard condition; but that she would loose The people : therefore, as they loved her well, From then till noon no foot should pace the street, No eye look down, she passing; but that all Should keep within, door shut, and win- dow barr'd. Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt. The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath She linger'd, looking like a summer moon Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head. And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee; Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd The gateway; there she found her pal- frey trapt In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity : The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's foot- fall shot Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes; and over- head Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field I02 THE DAY-DREAM. Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity : And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little auger-hole in fear, Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will, Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- used; And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon W'as clash'd and hammer'd from a hun- dred towers, One after one : but even then she gain'd Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd. To meet her lord, she took the tax away And built herself an everlasting name. THE DAY-DREAM. PROLOGUE. O Lady Flora, let me speak : A pleasant hour has pass'd away While, dreaming on your damask cheek. The dewy sister-eyelids lay. As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro' many wayward moods To see you dreaming — and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dream'd, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw. Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the (juaint Macaw, And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eye — The rhymes are dazzled from their place And urder'd words asunder fly. THE SLEEPING PALACE. The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains. Here rests the sap within the leaf. Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd, Faint murmurs from the meadows come. Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. II. Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower. On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower. The parrot in his gilded wires. III. Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: In these, in those the life is stay'd. The mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily : no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings. That watch the sleepers from the wall. IV. Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain'd; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair; The page has caught her hand in his: Her lips are sever'd as to speak : His own are pouted to a kiss : The blush is Hx'd upon her cheek. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine. Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps. Grave faces gather'd in a ring. THE DAY-DREAM. 103 His state the king reposing keeps. He must have been a jovial king. VI. All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, And grapes with bunches red as blood; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, bur and brake and briar. And glimpsing over these, just seen. High up, the topmost palace spire. VII. When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men? Here all things in their place remain. As all were order'd, ages since. Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purple coverlet, The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. II. The silk star-broider'd coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever ; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm With bracelets of the diamond bright : Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. III. She sleeps : her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps : on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. THE ARRIVAL. All precious things, discovered late. To those that seek them issue forth; For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth. He travels far from other skies — His mantle glitters on the rocks — A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, And lighter-footed than the fox. The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days to pass. Are wither'd in the thorny close, Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. He gazes on the silent dead : 'They perish'd in their daring deeds.' This proverb flashes thro' his head, ' The many fail : the one succeeds.' III. He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks : He breaks the hedge : he enters there : The colour flies into his cheeks : He trusts to light on something fair ; For all his life the charm did talk About his path, and hover near With words of promise in his walk. And whisper'd voices at his ear. IV. More close and close his footsteps wind : The Magic Music in his heart Beats quick and quicker, till he find The quiet chamber far apart. His spirit flutters like a lark, He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. ' Love, if thy tresses be so dark. How dark those hidden eyes must be!' I04 THE DAY-DREAM. THE REVIVAL. A TOUCH, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. There rose a noise of striking clocks, And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks; A fuller light illumined all, A breeze thro' all the garden swept, A sudden hubbub shook the hall, And sixty feet the fountain leapt. II. The hedge broke in, the banner blew. The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd. The fire shot up, the martin flew, The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd. The maid and page renew'd their strife. The palace bang'd, and buzz'd and clackt. And all the long-pent stream of life Dash'd downward in a cataract. III. And last with these the king awoke, And in his chair himself uprear'd. And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, * By holy rood, a royal beard ! How say you? we have slept, my lords. My beard has grown into my lap.' The barons swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. IV. * Pardy,' return'd the king, ' but still My joints are somewhat stiff or so. My lord, and shall we pass the bill I mention'd half an hour ago? ' The chancellor, sedate and vain. In courteous words return'd reply: But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by. THE DEPARTURE. I. And on her lover's arm she leant. And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old : Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day The happy princess follow'd him. II. * I'd sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss; ' ' O wake for ever, love,' she hears, ' O love, 'twas such as this and this.' And o'er them many a sliding star. And many a merry wind was borne. And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn. III. 'O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! ' ' O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! ' ' O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! ' * O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! ' And o'er them many a flowing range Of vapour buoy'd the crescent-bark, And, rapt thro' many a rosy change. The twilight died into the dark. IV. ' A hundred summers ! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where ? ' ' O seek my father's court with me. For there are greater wonders there.' And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day. Thro' all the world she follow'd him. MORAL. So, Lady Flora, take my lay. And if you find no moral there, Go, look in any glass and say. What moral is in being fair. Oh, to what uses shall we put The wild weed- flower that simply blows? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose? II. But any man that walks the mead, In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find, THE DA Y-DREAM— AMPHION 105 According as his humours lead, A meaning suited to his mind. And liberal applications lie In Art like Nature, dearest friend; So 'twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end. L'ENVOI. You shake your head. A random string Your finer female sense offends. Well — were it not a pleasant thing To fall asleep with all one's friends; To pass with all our social ties To silence from the paths of men; And every hundred years to rise And learn the world, and sleep again; To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars. And wake on science grown to more. On secrets of the brain, the stars. As wild as aught of fairy lore; And all that else the years will show. The Poet-forms of stronger hours. The vast Republics that may grow. The Federations and the Powers; Titanic forces taking birth In divers seasons, divers climes; For we are Ancients of the earth. And in the morning of the times. II. So sleeping, so aroused from sleep Thro' sunny decads new and strange. Or gay quinquenniads would we reap The flower and quintessence of change. III. Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! So much your eyes my fancy take — Be still the first to leap to light That I might kiss those eyes awake ! For, am I right, or am I wrong, To choose your own you did not care; You'd have 77iy moral from the song, And I will take my pleasure there : And, am I right or am I wrong, My fancy, ranging thro' and thro', To search a meaning for the song. Perforce will still revert to you; Nor finds a closer truth than this All-graceful head, so richly curl'd. And evermore a costly kiss The prelude to some brighter world. IV. For since the time when Adam first Embraced his Eve in happy hour, And every bird of Eden burst In carol, every bud to flower. What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes, What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd? Where on the double rosebud droops The fullness of the pensive mind; Which all too dearly self-involved, Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; A sleep by kisses undissolved, That lets thee neither hear nor see : But break it. In the name of wife, And in the rights that name may give. Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, And that for which I care to live. EPILOGUE. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And, if you find a meaning there, O whisper to your glass, and say, ' What wonder, if he thinks me fair? ' What wonder I was all unwise, To shape the song for your delight Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light? Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — But take it — earnest wed with sport, And either sacred unto you. AMPHION. My father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree, And waster than a warren : Yet say the neighbours when they call, It is not bad but good land. And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great In days of old Amphion, io6 AMPHIOiV. And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, Nor cared for seed or scion ! And had I lived when song was great, And legs of trees wete limber, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. And fiddled in the timber ! 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue. Such happy intonation, Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation; Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move, And flounder into hornpipes. The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming. And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing. The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreaths that bind her. And down the middle, buzz ! she went With all her bees behind her : The poplars, in long order due, With cypress promenaded, The shock-head willows two and two By rivers gallopaded. Came wet-shod alder from the wave, Came yews, a dismal coterie; Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave Poussetting with a sloe-tree : Old elms came breaking from the vine. The vine stream'd out to follow, And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine From many a cloudy hollow. And wasn't it a sight to see. When, ere his song was ended. Like some great landslip, tree by tree. The country-side descended; And shepherds from the mountain-eaves Look'd down, half-pleased, half-fright- en'd. As dash'd about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lighten'd ! Oh, nature first was fresh to men. And wanton without measure; So youthful and so flexile then, You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the twigs ! And make her dance attendance; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs. And scirrhous roots and tendons. 'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle; Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick, The passive oxen gaping. But what is that I hear? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading; O Lord ! — 'tis in my neighbour's ground. The modern Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses ! how they prose O'er books of travell'd seamen, And show you slips of all that grows From England to Van Diemen. They read in arbours dipt and cut. And alleys, faded places, By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain. The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro' months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom : Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom. ST. AGNES' EVE— SIR GALAHAD. 107 ST. AGNES' EVE. Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon : My breath to heaven like vapour goes : May my soul follow soon I The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord : Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am. To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord I and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen. Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below. And deepens on and up I the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide — A light upon the shining sea — The Bridegroom with his bride I SIR GALAHAD. My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists. And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers. That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall 1 For them I battle till the end. To save from shame and thrall : But all my heart is drawn above. My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims. Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns : Then by some secret shrine I ride ; I hear a voice but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board : no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light ! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white. On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. The streets are dumb with snow. . The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail ; io8 EDWARD GRAY. But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. A maiden knight — to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven . That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams. Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky. And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod. Wings flutter, voices hover clear : ' O just and faithful knight of God ! Ride on ! the prize is near.' So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, AU-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. EDWARD GRAY. Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, * And have you lost your heart ? ' she said; 'And are you married yet, Edward Gray?' vSweet Emma Moreland spoke to me : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : ' Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. * Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. ' Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Fill'd I was with folly and spite. When Ellen Adair was dying for me. ' Cruel, cruel the words I said ! Cruelly came they back to-day : "You're too slight and fickle," I said, "To trouble the heart of Edward Gray." 'There I put my face in the grass — Whisper'd, " Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did : Speak a little, Ellen Adair ! " ' Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, " Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray ! " ' Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree; But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me. ' Bitterly wept I over the stone : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! And there the heart of Edward Gray ! ' WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. MADE AT THE COCK. O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort. How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port : But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers. No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind. And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind, To make me write my random rhymes. Ere they be half-forgotten ; Nor add and alter, many times, Till all be ripe and rotten. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 109 I pledge her, and she comes and dips Her laurel in the wine, And lays it thrice upon my lips, These favour'd lips of mine; Until the charm have power to make New lifeblood warm the bosom, And barren commonplaces break In full and kindly blossom. I pledge her silent at the board; Her gradual fingers steal And touch upon the master-chord Of all I felt and feel. Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom hopes assemble; And that child's heart within the man's Begins to move and tremble. Thro' many an hour of summer suns, By many pleasant ways, ^ Against its fountain upward runs The current of my days : I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd; The gas-light wavers dimmer; And softly, thro' a vinous mist, My college friendships glimmer. I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men. Who hold their hands to all, and cry For that which all deny them — Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, And all the world go by them. Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, Tho' fortune clip my wings, I will not cramp my heart, nor take Half-views of men and things. Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; There must be stormy weather; But for some true result of good All parties work together. Let there be thistles, there are grapes; If old things, there are new; Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, Yet glimpses of the true. Let rafts be rife in prose and rhyme, We lack not rhymes and reasons. As on this whirligig of Time We circle with the seasons. This earth is rich in man and maid; W' ith fair horizons bound : This whole wide earth of light and shade Comes out a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar, And set in Heaven's third story, I look at all things as they are, But thro' a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honour'd by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe. The pint, you brought me, was the best That ever came from pipe. But tho' the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with stiffer. Is there some magic in the place? Or do my peptics differ? For since I came to live and learn, No pint of white or red Had ever half the power to turn This wheel within my he^d, Which bears a season'd brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out. Thro' every convolution. For I am of a numerous house, With many kinsmen gay. Where long and largely we carouse As who shall say me nay : Each month, a birth-day coming on, We drink defying trouble, Or sometimes two would meet in one, And then we drank it double; Whether the vintage, yet unkept. Had relish fiery-new, Or elbow-deep in sawdust, slept. As old as Waterloo; Or stow'd, when classic Canning died. In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! She answer'd to my call, She changes with that mood or this. Is all-in-all to all : She lit the spark within my throat. To make my blood run quicker, TIO WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout. His proper chop to each, fie looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally; I think he came like Ganymede, From some delightful valley. The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg. And cramm'd a plumper crop; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crow'd lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley. A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw A something-pottle-bodied boy That knuckled at the taw : He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good. Flew over roof and casement : His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire. And follow'd with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter. One fix'd for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go? How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow Among the chops and steaks ! 'Tis but a steward of the can, One shade more plump than common; As just and mere a serving-man As any born of woman. I ranged too high : what draws me down Into the common day ? Is it the weight of that half-crown. Which I shall have to pay? For, something duller than at first, Nor wholly comfortable, I sit, my empty glass reversed. And thrumming on the table : Half fearful that, with self at strife, I take myself to task ; Lest of the fullness of my life I leave an empty flask : For I hadjiope, by something rare To prove myself a poet : But, while I plan and plan, my hair Is gray before I know it. So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather'd up; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the vacant cup : And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches. Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone; 'Tis gone, and let it go. 'Tis gone : a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces. And fall'n into the dusty crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went Long since, and came no more; With peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern-door, With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters; The tavern-hours of mighty wits — Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Had yet their native glow: Nor yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show; But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd, He flash'd his random speeches. Ere (lays, that deal in ana, swarm'd His literary leeches. LADY CLARE. Ill So mix for ever with the past, Like all good things on earth ! For should I prize thee, couldst thou last. At half thy real worth? I hold it good, good things should pass: With time I will not quarrel : It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the chop-house here. To which I most resort, I too must part : I hold thee dear For this good pint of port. For this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirth and laughter; And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after. But thou wilt never move from hence, The sphere thy fate allots : Thy latter days increased with pence Go down among the pots : Thou battenest by the greasy gleam In haunts of hungry sinners, Old boxes, larded with the steam Of thirty thousand dinners. We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Would quarrel with our lot; Thy care is, under polish'd tins. To serve the hot-and-hot; To come and go, and come again. Returning like the pewit. And watch'd by silent gentlemen, That trifle with the cruet. Live long, ere from thy topmost head The thick-set hazel dies; Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread The corners of thine eyes : Live long, nor feel in head or chest Our changeful equinoxes, Till mellow Death, like some late guest, Shall call thee from the boxes. But when he calls, and thou shalt cease To pace the gritted floor. And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, shalt earn no more ; No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee past to Heaven : But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, A pint-pot neatly graven. LADY CLARE. It was the time when lilies blow. And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin. Lady Clare. I trow they did not part in scorn : Lovers long-betroth'd were they : They two will wed the morrow morn : God's blessing on the day ! ' He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well,' said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, * Who was this that went from thee?' ' It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare, ' To-morrow he weds with me.' ' O God be thank'd ! ' said Alice the nurse, ' That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare.' ' Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse? ' Said Lady Clare, ' that ye speak so wild?' ' As God's above,' said Alice the nurse, ' I speak the truth : you are my child. 'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead.' ' Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother,' she said, 'if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due.' ' Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, ' But keep the secret for your life, 112 LADY CLARE— THE CAPTAIN. And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife.' ' If I'm a beggar born,' she said, ' I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by.' ' Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, * But keep the secret all ye can.' She said, ' Not so : but I will know If there be any faith in man.' *Nay now, what faith?' said Alice the nurse, ' The man will cleave unto his right.' * And he shall have it,' the lady replied, ' Tho' I should die to-night.' * Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee,' * O mother, mother, mother,' she said, * So strange it seems to me. ' Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go.' She clad herself in a russet gown. She was no longer Lady Clare : She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. And foUow'd her all the way. Down slept Lord Ronald from his tower : ' O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest like a village maid. That are the flower of the earth? ' * If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born,' she said, ' And not the Lady Clare.' * Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, ' For I am yours in word and in deed. Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 'Your riddle is hard to read.' O and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail : She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. And told him all her nurse's tale. He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : ' If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, * the next in blood — ' If you are not the heiress born, And I,' said he, ' the lawful heir. We two will wed to-morrow morn. And you shall still be Lady Clare.' THE CAPTAIN. A LEGEND OF THE NAVY. He that only rules by terror Doeth grievous wrong. Deep as Hell I count his error. Let him hear my song. Brave the Captain was : the seamen Made a gallant crew, Gallant sons of English freemen, Sailors bold and true. But they hated his oppression, Stern he was and rash; So for every light transgression Doom'd them to the lash. Day by day more harsh and cruel Seem'd the Captain's mood. Secret wrath like smother'd fuel Burnt in each man's blood. Yet he hoped to purchase glory. Hoped to make the name Of his vessel great in story, Wheresoe'er he came. So they past by capes and islands. Many a harbour-mouth, Sailing under palmy highlands Far within the South. On a day when they were going O'er the lone expanse. In the north, her canvas flowing. Rose a ship of France. Then the Captain's colour heighten'd. Joyful came his speech : THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. "3 But a cloudy gladness lighten'd She replies, in accents fainter, In the eyes of each. ' There is none I love like thee.' * Chase,' he said : the ship flew forward, He is but a landscape-painter, And the wind did blow; And a village maiden she. Stately, lightly, went she Norward, He to lips, that fondly falter. Till she near'd the foe. Presses his without reproof: Then they look'd at him they hated, Leads her to the village altar, Had what they desired : And they leave her father's roof. Mute with folded arms they waited — ' I can make no marriage present : Not a gun was fired. Little can I give my wife. But they heard the foeman's thunder Love will make our cottage pleasant, Roaring out their doom; And I love thee more than life.' All the air was torn in sunder, They by parks and lodges going Crashing went the boom, See the lordly castles stand: Spars were splinter'd, decks were shat- Summer woods, about them blowing. ter'd, Made a murmur in the land. Bullets fell like rain; From deep thought himself he rouses. Over mast and deck were scatter'd Says to her that loves him well. Blood and brains of men. 'Let us see these handsome houses Spars were splinter'd; decks were Where the wealthy nobles dwell.' broken : So she goes by him attended, Every mother's son — Hears him lovingly converse, Down they dropt — no word was Sees whatever fair and splendid spoken — Lay betwixt his hom.e and hers; Each beside his gun. Parks with oak and chestnut shady, On the decks as they were lying, Parks and order'd gardens great, Were their faces grim. Ancient homes of lord and lady, In their blood, as they lay dying. Built for pleasure and for state. Did they smile on him. All he shows her makes him dearer : Those, in whom he had reliance Evermore she seems to gaze For his noble name, On that cottage growing nearer, With one smile of still defiance Where they twain will spend their Sold him unto shame. days. Shame and wrath his heart confounded, but she will love him truly ! Pale he turn'd and red. He shall have a cheerful home; Till himself was deadly wounded She will order all things duly. Falling on the dead. When beneath his roof they come. Dismal error ! fearful slaughter ! Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Years have wander'd by. Till a gateway she discerns Side by side beneath the water With armorial bearings stately. Crew and Captain lie; And beneath the gate she turns; There the sunlit ocean tosses Sees a mansion more majestic O'er them mouldering. Than all those she saw before : And the lonely seabird crosses Many a gallant gay domestic With one waft of the wing. Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. W^hile he treads with footstep firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. In her ear he whispers gaily. And, while nov.^ she wonders blindly, ' If my heart by signs can tell. Nor the meaning can divine, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, Proudly turns he round and kindly, And I think thou lov'st me well.' ' All of this is mine and thine.' 114 THE VOYAGE. Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the colour flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin : As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank : And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burthen of an honour Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, And she murmur'd, ' Oh, that he Were once more that landscape-painter. Which did win my heart from me ! ' So she droop'd and droop'd before him. Fading slowly from his side : Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down. Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her. And he look'd at her and said, ' Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed.' Then her people, softly treading. Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in. That her spirit might have rest. THE VOYAGE. I. We left behind the painted buoy That tosses at the harbour-mouth; And madly danced our hearts with joy, As fast we fleeted to the South : How fresh was every sight and sound On open main or winding shore ! We knew the merry world was round, And we might sail for evermore. Warm broke the breeze against the brow, Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail : The Lady's-head upon the prow Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale. The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel. And swept behind ; so quick the run. We felt the good ship shake and reel. We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! III. How oft we saw the Sun retire. And burn the threshold of the night, Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire. And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! How oft the purple-skirted robe Of twilight slowly downward drawn, As thro' the slumber of the globe Again we dash'd into the dawn ! IV. New stars all night above the brim Of waters lighten'd into view; They climb'd as quickly, for the rim Changed every moment as we flew. Far ran the naked moon across The houseless ocean's heaving field. Or flying shone, the silver boss Of her own halo's dusky shield; The peaky islet shifted shapes, High towns on hills were dimly seen. We past long lines of Northern capes And dewy Northern meadows green. We came to warmer waves, and deep Across the boundless east we drove, Where those long swells of breaker sweep The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. VI. By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, Gloom'd the low coast and quivering brine With ashy rains, that spreading made Fantastic plume or sable pine; SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. II By sands and steaming flats, and floods Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, And hills and scarlet-mingled woods Glow'd for a moment as we past. Vtl. O hundred shores of happy climes, How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! At times the whole sea burn'd, at times With wakes of fire we tore the dark; At times a carven craft would shoot From havens hid in fairy bowers, With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, But we nor paused for fruit nor flowers, VIII. For one fair Vision ever fled Down the waste waters day and night, And still we follow'd where she led, In hope to gain upon her flight. Her face was evermore unseen. And fixt upon the far sea-line ; But each man murmur'd, ' O my Queen, I follow till I make thee mine.' IX. And now we lost her, now she gleam'd Like Fancy made of golden air, Now nearer to the prow she seem'd Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair. Now high on waves that idly burst Like Heavenly Hope she crown' d the sea, And now, the bloodless point reversed. She bore the blade of Liberty. X. And only one among us — him We pleased not — he was seldom pleased : He saw not far : his eyes were dim : But ours he swore were all diseased. ' A ship of fools,' he shriek'd in spite, 'A ship of fools,' he sneer'd and wept. And overboard one stormy night He cast his body, and on we swept. XI. And never sail of ours was furl'd, Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn; We lov'd the glories of the world, But laws of nature were our scorn. For blasts would rise and rave and cease. But whence were those that drove the sail x\cross the whirlwind's heart of peace, And to and thro' the counter gale? XII. Again to colder climes we came. For still we follow'd where she led : Now mate is blind and captain lame. And half the crew are sick or dead; But, blind or lame or sick or sound. We follow that which flies before : W^e know the merry world is round. And we mav sail for evermore. SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. A FRAGMENT. Like souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. In crystal vapour everywhere Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between. And far, in forest-deeps unseen. The topmost elm-tree gather'd green From draughts of balmy air. Sometimes the linnet piped his song : Sometimes the throstle whistled strong : Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along. Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong : By grassy capes with fuller sound In curves the yellowing river ran. And drooping chestnut-buds began To spread into the perfect fan, Above the teeming ground. Then, in the boyhood of the year. Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, With blissful treble ringing clear. She seem'd a part of joyous Spring A gown of grass-green silk she wore. Buckled with golden clasps before ; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. ii6 A FAREWELL— THE BEGGAR MALD—THE EAGLE. Now on some twisted ivy-net, Now by some tinkling rivulet, In mosses mixt with violet Her cream-white mule his pastern set : And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains Than she whose elfin prancer springs By night to eery warblings, When all the glimmering moorland rings With jingling bridle-reins. As fast she fled thro' sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid : She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this. To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips. A FAREWELL. Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea. Thy tribute wave deliver : No more by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet, then a river : No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee. For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. THE BEGGAR MAID. Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say : Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; ' It is no wonder,' said the lords, ' She is more beautiful than day.' As shines the moon in clouded skies. She in her poor attire was seen : One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace. In all that land had never been : Cophetua sware a royal oath : 'This beggar maid shall be my queen ! ' THE EAGLE. FRAGMENT. He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow : From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go; Till over thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes That watch me from the glen below. Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, Dip forward under starry light, And move me to my marriage-morn, And round again to happy night. Come not, when I am dead. To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave. To trample round my fallen head. And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblost : THE LETTERS— THE VISION OF SIN. 117 Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where Hie: Go by, go by. THE LETTERS. Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, I peer'd athwart the chancel pane And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet, A band of pain across my brow; * Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow.' II. I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song That mock'd the wholesome human heart, And then we met in wrath and wrong, We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry; She faintly smiled, she hardly moved; 1 saw with half-unconscious eye She wore the colours I approved. III. She took the little ivory chest, With half a sigh she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest, And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please; As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I look'd on these. IV. She told me all her friends had said; I raged against the public liar; She talk'd as if her love were dead, But in my words were seeds of fire. * No more of love; your sex is known I never will be twice deceived. Henceforth I trust the man alone, The woman cannot be believed. V. ' Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell — And women's slander is the worst, And you, whom once I lov'd so well. Thro' you, my life will be accurst.' I spoke with heart, and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarms — Like torrents from a mountain source We rush'd into each other's arms. VI. We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars. And sweet the vapour-braided blue. Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars. As homeward by the church I drew. The very graves appear'd to smile, So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells. ' Dark porch,' I said, * and silent aisle. There comes a sound of marriage bells.' THE VISION OF SIN. I HAD a vision when the night was late : A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown, But that his heavy rider kept him down. And from the palace came a child of sin, And took him by the curls, and led him in, Where sat a company with heated eyes, Expecting when a fountain should arise : A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes — Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes. By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes. II. Then methought I heard a mellow sound, Gathering up from all the lower ground; Narrowing in to where they sat assem.bled Low voluptuous music winding trembled, W^ov'n in circles : they that heard it sigh'd. Panted hand-in-hand with faces pale. Swung themselves, and in low tones re- plied ; ii8 THE VISION OF SIN. Till the fountain spouted, showering wide Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail; Then the music touch'd the gates and died; Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale; Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale, The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated; Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, Caught the sparkles, and in circles, Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, Flung the torrent rainbow round : Then they started from their places, Moved with violence, changed in hue, Caught each other with wild grimaces, Half-invisible to the view. Wheeling with precipitate paces To the melody, till they flew. Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, Twisted hard in fierce embraces. Like to Furies, like to Graces, Dash'd together in blinding dew : Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony The nerve-dissolving melody Flutter'd headlong from the sky. III. And then I look'd up toward a mountain- tract. That girt the region with high cliff and lawn : I saw that every morning, far withdrawn Beyond the darkness and the cataract, God made Himself an awful rose of dawn, Unheeded : and detaching, fold by fold, From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold. Came floating on for many a month and year. Unheeded : and I thought I would have spoken, And warn'd that madman ere it grew too late: But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken, When that cold vapour touch'd the pal- ace gate. And link'd again. I saw within my head A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death. Who slowly rode across awither'd heath, And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : IV. ' Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! Here is custom come your way; Take my brute, and lead him in, Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. ' Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! See that sheets are on my bed; W^hat ! the flower of life is past : It is long before you wed. ' Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour. At the Dragon on the heath ! Let us have a quiet hour, Let us hob-and-nob with Death. ' I am old, but let me drink ; Bring me spices, bring me wine; I remember, when I think. That my youth was half divine. * Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. When a blanket wraps the day, When the rotten woodland drips, And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. ' Sit thee down, and have no shame, Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee: What care I for any name? What for order or degree? * Let me screw thee up a peg : Let me loose thy tongue with wine : Callest thou that thing a leg? Which is thinnest? thine or mine? ' Thou shalt not be saved by works : Thou hast been a sinner too : Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks. Empty scarecrows, I and you ! ' Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before the morn : Every moment dies a man, Everv moment one is born. THE VISION OF SIN. 119 * We are men of ruin'd blood ; Therefore comes it we are wise. P'ish are we that love the mud, Rising to no fancy-flies. ' Name and fame I to fly sublime Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied by the hands of fools. ' Friendship I — to be two in one — Let the canting liar pack ! Well I know, when I am gone, How she mouths behind my back. ' Virtue I — to be good and just — Every heart, when sifted well. Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. * O ! we two as well can look Whited thought and cleanly life As the priest, above his book Leering at his neighbour's wife. 'Fill the cup, and fill the can : Have a rouse before the morn : Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born. ' Drink, and let the parties rave : They are fill'd with idle spleen; Rising, falling, like a wave. For they know not what they mean. ' He that roars for liberty Faster binds a tyrant's power; And the tyrant's cruel glee Forces on the freer hour. ' Fill the can, and fill the cup : All the' windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up. And is lightly laid again. 'Greet her with applausive breath, Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; In her right a civic wreath, In her left a human head. 'No, I love not what is new; She is of an ancient house : And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows. ' Let her go ! her thirst she slakes Where the bloody conduit runs, Then her sweetest meal she makes On the first-born of her sons. ' Drink to lofty hopes that cool — Visions of a perfect State : Drink we, last, the public fool. Frantic love and frantic hate. 'Chant me now some wicked stave, Till thy drooping courage rise, And the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 'Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; Set thy hoary fancies free; What is loathsome to the young ' Savours well to thee and me. 'Change, reverting to the years, When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears. And the warmth of hand in hand. ' Tell me tales of thy first love — April hopes, the fools of chance; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. ' Fill the can, and fill the cup : All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. ' Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads: Welcome, fellow-citizens. Hollow hearts and empty heads ! ' You are bones, and what of that ? Every face, however full. Padded round with flesh and fat, Is but modell'd on a skull. ' Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! Tread a measure on the stones, • Madam — if I know your sex. From the fashion of your bones. I20 THE VISION OF SIN. ' No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye — nor yet your lip : All the more do I admire Joints of cunning workmanship. *Lo ! God's likeness — the ground-plan — Neither modell'd, glazed, nor framed : Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, Far too naked to be shamed ! ' Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, While we keep a little breath ! Drink to heavy Ignorance ! Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 'Thou art mazed, the night is long, And the longer night is near : What ! I am not all as wrong As a bitter jest is dear. ' Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, When the locks are crisp and curl'd; Unto me my maudlin gall And my mockeries of the world. ' Fill the cup, and fill the can : Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! Dregs of life, and lees of man : Yet we will not die folorn.' V. The voice grew faint : there came a further change : Once more uprose the mystic mountain- range : Below were men and horses pierced with worms, And slowly quickening into lower forms; By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross. Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. Then some one spake : ' Behold ! it was a crime Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time.' Another said: 'The crime of sense became The crime of malice, and is equal blame.' And one : 'He had not wholly quench'd his power; A little grain of conscience made him sour.' At last I heard a voice upon the slope Cry to the summit, ' Is there any hope ? ' To which an answer peal'd from that high land. But in a tongue no man could understand; And on the glimmering limit far with- drawn God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. TO AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. ' Cursed be he that moves my bones.' Shakespeare's Epitaph. You might have won the Poet's name. If such be worth the winning now, And gain'd a laurel for your brow Of sounder leaf than I can claim; But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Thro' troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice : And you have miss'd the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown : Hereafter, neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die. Nor leave his music as of old. But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry : ' Proclaim the faults he would not show : Break lock and seal : betray the trust : Keep nothing sacred : 'tis but just The many-headed beast should know.' Ah shameless ! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth; No public life was his on earth. No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. He gave the people of his best: His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest ! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier. TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. 121 The bird that pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree, Than he that warbles long and loud And drops at Glory's temple-gates, For whom the carrion vulture waits To tear his heart before the crowd ! TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Peneian pass, The vast Akrokeraunian walls, Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair. With such a pencil, such a pen. You shadow forth to distaiit men, I read and felt that I was there : And trust me while I turn'd the page. And track'd you still on classic ground, I grew in gladness till I found My spirits in the golden age. For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd — here and there alone The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns; — and Naiads oar'd A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell; And many a slope was rich in bloom From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks To him who sat upon the rocks. And fluted to the morning sea. Break, break, break. On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play ! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still I Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE POET'S SONG. The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place. And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud. And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly. The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak. And stared, with his foot on the prey. And the nightingale thought, ' I have sung many songs. But never a one so gay. For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away.' 122 ENOCH ARDEN. ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS. ENOCH ARDEN. Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port. And Philip Ray the miller's only son. And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing- nets, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up- drawn ; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up And flying the white breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash'd away. A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: In this the children play'd at keeping house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, While Annie still was mistress; but at times Enoch would hold possession for a week : ' This is my house and this my little wife.' 'Mine too,' said Philip, 'turn and turn about :' When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger- made Was master : then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, Shriek out, ' I hate you, Enoch,' and at this The little wife would weep for company. And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, iVnd say she would be little wife to both. But when the dawn of rosy childhood past. And the new warmth of life's ascending sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love. But Philip loved in silence; and the girl Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not. And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set A purpose evermore before his eyes. To hoard all savings to the uttermost, To purchase his own boat, and make a home For Annie : and so prosper'd that at last A luckier or a bolder fisherman, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year On board a merchantman, and made himself F'ull sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life From the dread sweep of the down- streaming seas : And all men look'd upon him favour- ably : ENOCH ARDEN. 123 And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. Then, on a golden autumn eventide. The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small. Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd (His father lying sick and needing him) An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, Just where the prone edge of the wood began To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd. And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, And slipt aside, and like a wounded life Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; There, while the rest were loud in merry- making. Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, And merrily ran the years, seven happy years. Seven happy years of health and com- petence. And mutual love and honourable toil; With children; first a daughter. In him woke. With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish To save all earnings to the uttermost, And give his child a better bringing-up Than his had been, or hers; a wish re- new'd, When two years after came a boy to be The rosy idol of her solitudes, While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, Or often journeying landward; for in truth Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean- spoil In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales. Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp. And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, Whose Friday fare was Enoch's minister- ing. Then came a change, as all things human change. Ten miles to northward of the narrow port Open'd a larger haven : thither used Enoch at times to go by land or sea; And once when there, and clambering on a mast In harbour, bv mischance he slipt and fell : A limb was broken when they lifted him ; And while he lay recovering there, his wife Bore him another son, a sickly one : Another hand crept too across his trade Taking her bread and theirs : and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, To see his children leading evermore Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth. And her, he loved, a beggar : then he pray'd * Save them from this, whatever comes to me.' And while he pray'd, the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mis- chance, Came, for he knew the man and valued him, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? And Enoch all at once assented to it, Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 124 ENOCH ARDEN. So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some little cloud Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, And isles a light in the offing : yet the wife — "When he was gone — the children — what to do? Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her ! He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — And yet to sell her — then with what she brought Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade "With all that seamen needed or their wives — So might she keep the house while he was gone. Should he not trade himself out yonder? go This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice — As oft as needed — last, returning rich, Become the master of a larger craft, "With fuller profits lead an easier life. Have all his pretty young ones educated. And pass his days in peace among his own. Thus Enoch in his heart determined all: Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. Forward she started with a happy cry, And laid the feeble infant in his arms; "Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, Appraised his weight and fondled father- like. But had no heart to break his purposes To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will : Yet not with brawling opposition she, But manifold entreaties, many a tear. Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go. He not for his own self caring but her, Her and her children, let her plead in vain; So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. For Enoch parted with his old sea- friend, Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long till Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe. Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang. Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — The space was narrow, — having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he, "Who needs would work for Annie to the last. Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. And Enoch faced this morning of fare- well Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-in-man is one with man-in- God, Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes Whatever came to him : and then he said : 'Annie, this voyage by the grace of God ENOCH ARDEN. 125 Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it.' Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, ' and he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — Nay — for I love him all the better for it — God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees And I will tell him tales of foreign parts. And make him merry, when I come home again. Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go.' Him running on thus hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd The current of his talk to graver things In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, Heard and not heard him; as the village girl \Yho sets her pitcher underneath the spring, Musing on him that used to fill it for her, Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. At length she spoke : ' O Enoch, you are wise; And yet for all your wisdom well know I That I shall look upon your face no more.' * Well then,' said Enoch, ' I shall look on yours. Annie, the ship I sail in passes here (He named the day); get you a seaman's glass, Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.' But when the last of those last moments came, 'Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted. Look to the babes, and till I come again Keep everything shipshape, for I must go/ And fear no more for me; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds. Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning? if I flee to these Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, The sea is His: He made it.' Enoch rose, Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; But for the third, the sickly one, who slept After a night of feverous wakefulness, When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 'Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child Remember this? ' and kiss'd him in his cot. But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. She, when the day, that Enoch men- tion'd, came, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; She saw him not : and while he stood on deck Weaving, the moment and the vessel past. Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him ; Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave. Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less. And still foreboding ' what would Enoch say?' For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 126 ENOCH ARDEN. Than what she gave in buying what she sold : She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy. Now the third child was sickly-born and grew Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care : nevertheless. Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed — howsoe'er it was. After a lingering, — ere she w^as aware, — Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away. In that same week when Annie buried it, Philip's true heart, which hungerM for her peace (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. * Surely,' said Philip, ' I may see her now. May be some little comfort; ' therefore went. Past thro' the solitary room in front, Paused for a moment at an inner door, Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, Fresh from the burial of her little one, Cared not to look on any human face, But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. Then Philip standing up said falteringly, ' Annie, I came to ask a favour of you.' He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply, ' Favour from one so sad and so forlorn As I am ! ' half abash'd him; yet unask'd, His bashfulness and tenderness at war, He set himself beside her, saying to her : * I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, Enoch, your husband : I have ever said You chose the best among us — a strong man : For where he fixt his heart he set his hand To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. And wherefore did he go this weary way, And leave you lonely? not to see the world — For pleasure? — nay, but for the where- withal To give his babes a better bringing-up Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. And if he come again, vext will he be To find the precious morning hours were lost. And it would vex him even in his grave, If he could know his babes were running wild Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — Have we not known each other all our lives? I do beseech you by the love you bear Him and his children not to say me nay — For, if you will, when Enoch comes again Why then he shall repay me — if you will, Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. Now let me put the boy and girl to school : This is the favour that I came to ask.' Then Annie with her brows against the wall Answer'd, ' I cannot look you in the face; I seem so foolish and so broken down. When you came in my sorrow broke me down; And now I think your kindness breaks me down; But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me : He will repay you : money can be repaid ; Not kindness such as yours.' And Philip ask'd * Then you will let me, Annie?' There she turn'd, .She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him. And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, Then calling