UC-NBtF, 
 
 3 5H6 bMb 
 
 W H MALLOCK 
 
IerkeieyN 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OP 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 ■) 
 

,4 
 
 y 
 
POEMS. 
 
 
 BY 
 
 .EGE, 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 William Hurrell Mallock 
 
 * The mount is mute, the channel dry ' 
 
 LONDON 
 CHATTO i^ WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1880 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 LONDON 
 ITinlca l.J STiuxoBWAYs & 8oH», l-wor Slroct. IprHT SU M.rlm • L»n.. 
 

 MY OLD FRIEND, AND PRIVATE TUTOR, 
 
 THE REVEREND W. B. PHILPOT, 
 
 LATE OF LITTLE HAMFfON, SUSSEX, 
 
 UNDER WHOSE CARE MY HAPPIEST DAYS HAVE BEEN SPENT, 
 
 AND IN WHOSE HOUSE 
 
 MOST OF THESE POEMS WERE WRITTEN. 
 
 483 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 "T^^HE Poems in this Volume, with but one or 
 two exceptions, were written between my 
 feventeejith and my twentieth year. A few 
 months ago I had no thought that I JJiould ever 
 be thus drawing them from their privacy; but a 
 certain number of friends who have fe en them 
 in manufcript tell ??ie that they have taken [one 
 intereji in thefn, and that, were they publified, 
 others might do fo likewife. 'This has been 
 repeated to me feveral times lately , and my 
 vanity, if not my judgment, has made me think 
 there may be fome truth in it. But in aBing 
 on this fuggeji ion with all a parent's pie a fur e, I 
 
X 'Preface. 
 
 cannot but /mile as I refleB how no fatne or 
 applaiife that anything could bring me now 
 could ever equal the pleafure I fhould once have 
 felt could I have only feen thefe verfes publipied. 
 As for their own merits, and their varying 
 tone and fentiment, the reader ?nuji judge them 
 as he pleafes ; but a writer himfelf who looks 
 back over ten years at them, fnay be allowed 
 the forlorn hope that what he fees of good in 
 them he has at leaf tried to developy and what 
 he fees to be regretted he has at leajl tried to 
 outgrow. 
 
 March 1880. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PROEM I 
 
 A CHILD'S LOVE-SONG ...... 7 
 
 A BOY'S LOVE-SONG ...... 8 
 
 A boy's dream 9 
 
 SONG : ' I DID NOT OFFER THEE UP MINE HEART ' . 23 
 LUX MALIGNA ....... 27 
 
 A FRIEND 31 
 
 ALTER ET IDEM 35 
 
 ON LAKE COMO 39 
 
 IN THE CELL ....... 43 
 
 SONG : * WOULD GOD I WERE NOW BY THE SEA ' . 53 
 A MAY IDYL ....... 57 
 
 TO B. W. ON HER BIRTHDAY . . . .63 
 
 TO MDLLE. A. D£ B. . . . . . •67 
 
xii Contents. 
 
 fAGt 
 
 TO A FRIEND ....... J 1 
 
 BRUSSELS AND OXFORD -75 
 
 NATURA VERTICORDIA 8l 
 
 JESEAS TO DIDO ...... 93 
 
 FROM *JENEAS AND DIDO,' AN UNFINISHED DRAMA 99 
 
 ARIADNE ........ 107 
 
 A MARRIAGE PROSPECT , . . . -US 
 
 AT MORNING II 7 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A PET DOG . . . 121 
 
 PYGMALION 125 
 
 FRIENDLESS ....... 133 
 
 TOO LATE ! . . 137 
 
 THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD ..... I4I 
 
 SONNET ON THE LAST VERSE OF THE BIBLE . 1 45 
 
 PROTEUS 149 
 
PROEM 
 
 TO POEMS COLLECTED IN MSS. 
 
 AN. ^T. l8 AND 19, 
 * Neque chorda fonum reddit quern vult manus et mens.' 
 
FAIR flocks of rainbow-plumed imaginings, 
 Flov/n hitherward from fome untrodden dell 
 In the foul's mid foreft, fcarce acceffible ! 
 Lured by the luftre of your fheeny wings, 
 Perforce I chafe you, and with patient care 
 Outfpread in vain — in vain too oft, the fnare ; 
 Or take at laft but bruifed and faded things. 
 Yes, wayward Speech, thou doft flill falfify 
 Mine inmoft thoughts and deareft ; and ftill I 
 Mourn over all thy maimed interpretings — 
 For all the fubtler fenfes 'fcaped like birds 
 From the coarfe mefhes of thefe woven words — 
 For the poor half-truth left, fo like a lie ! 
 
 Jti. at. 19. 
 
A CHILD'S LOVE-SONG 
 
 A BOY'S LOVE-SONG. 
 
(^ CHILD'S LOVE-SONG. 
 
 (composed in a swing.) 
 
 THE breezes are fighing 
 About me, above me ! 
 Oh, I fhould be happy, 
 If Celia would love me ! 
 
 But without Celia's love 
 The breezes may blow ; 
 
 And, for all that I care. 
 To the devil may go ! 
 
 Jn. a-t. 8. 
 
^A BOY'S LOVE-SONG. 
 
 TF Celia won't have you, fond lover, 
 
 -^ Why fquander in fighing the day ? 
 
 If all your entreaties won't move her, 
 
 Rcfent it, and meet her half way. 
 
 H. 
 
 Suppofc you were now to poflefs her, 
 Her beauty and all you defired ; 
 
 How foon you would ceafe to carefs her ' 
 How foon of the beauty be tired ! 
 
 III. 
 Then ling a more refolutc mcafurc. 
 Nor fquander in fighing the day ; 
 It cannot be much of a trcafurc 
 
 Whofc charms with poU'cirion decay. 
 
 A/i. <rt. 13. 
 
A BOY'S DREAM. 
 
 rrlOM THE LIBRARY 
 Or THE i>ATE 
 
 Esvd, OlFllf TEOICAS, D. D, 
 
 LIVERPOOL. 
 PURCHASED AND PRESENTED BY 
 
 U^ WILLIAM TIIOM-AS, 
 
 BOOTLE, LIVERPOOL. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE THEOEOGICAE COEEEGE, 
 B A L A . 
 
<iA BOT'S T>REAM. 
 
 MY life is overhung with cold grey {hade 
 Of frozen clouds that will not weep and die: 
 Hope's orphan flowers hang languid heads, and fade 
 'Neath fuch a wintry fky. 
 
 But though my fun be quenched, of thy pale beams, 
 
 O Moon enchantrefs, let the man forlorn 
 Weave for his foul a daedal woof of dreams, 
 Proof againft all cold fcorn ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Yes, let me here forget my life, my home, 
 In a rapt dream o'er thefe hypaftral feas. 
 Charmed by the luminous fall of fdver foam. 
 In foamy melodies : 
 
12 <t/I Boy's Dream. 
 
 Far gazing where the ocean moonlight fades 
 
 Into the {tarry myftery of night ; 
 Watching the wandering fhudders of foft fhades 
 That fkim the quivering light ; 
 
 V. 
 
 Till, as (bed fnows in water, more and more 
 
 That which I am be loft in that I fee. 
 Oh, dreamy, foamy moonlight! dreamy ftiore ' 
 Oh, dreamy ecftafy! 
 
 My fpirit's plumes expand, and a mute wind 
 
 Lifts them, and I am floated far away 
 From this dull world of lovelefs men and blind, 
 Clofe wedded to their clay, 
 
 Into new realms of buried myftcr), 
 
 Whofe fecret gates fome fudden hand unbars. 
 Where the wild beauties of old ages lie. 
 Looked down upon bv ftars. 
 
^ Boy's 'Dream. 
 
 Strange founds and mufical are on the gales, 
 
 Of tongues long mute; and lo ! beneath my eyes 
 Sweep carven-prows, and fliadowy glimmering fails 
 Of ancient argofies ; 
 
 And triremes with the meafured flafh of oars, 
 
 And foam-wan plumes, and breaftplates luminous, 
 And calm-eyed pilots, helming toward the fhores 
 Of lea^ured Per^amus. 
 
 My foul goes forth over the ifles of fame. 
 
 White temples, and dark frondage ; panting feas 
 That wafli with wavering fringe of liquid flame 
 The facred Cyclades. 
 
 Now once again the ftartled ftars behold 
 
 Wan throngs of faces turned towards the fkies 
 Phantoms adoring phantom gods, in old 
 Hypaethral fan6iuaries, 
 
14- exf Boys ^)rea7n. 
 
 XII. 
 
 That ftand mid lawns, for ages long unknown, 
 
 I Handed in the deep heart of foreft-fcas, 
 And refonant ever with the low lorn moan 
 Of Hamadryades. 
 
 Now great lone lands, with feverifh interchange 
 
 Of hollow fhadows and pale fickly gleams, 
 Perplex my eyes ; wild places, vague and ftrange, 
 And veined with fdvery ftreams — 
 
 Streams rock-born, down from fplintered mountains dafhing. 
 
 Girdling below, with fparkling lines of light, 
 White fkeletons of old mammoth cities flalhing 
 On purple plains of night. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Rifmg o'er billowy mountain-lands unknown, 
 
 Wrecks of faint light ftrewn on a fhadowy {qs^ 
 The aching moon looks down upon the lone 
 Cauc.ifian Calvarv ; 
 
aA Boy's Dream. 15 
 
 And peering, pale over pale mountain inows, 
 On the worn watcher and the cruel chain, 
 Carves on the livid marble of his brows 
 Keen hieroglyphs of pain. 
 
 He lieth there, calm, beautiful, and bound, 
 
 Walled by vaft crags and roofed by fretted fkies. 
 What anguifti fpealcs in that pure gaze profound 
 Of fl-ar-ward, earneft eyes ! 
 
 But what is here — this darker prifon-place — 
 
 Thefe friends with muffled faces and held breath ? 
 And what is this — this one unearthly face — 
 This hemlock-drauffht of death ? 
 
 Ah fee, he lifts the elixir to his lips, 
 
 And, like the moon unclouding by degrees. 
 Breaks from the dimnefs of terrene eclipfe 
 The foul of Socrates. 
 
1 6 zA Boys 'Drei 
 
 Hail, my one love, old beauty born again, 
 
 Dear lovely things of ages long gone by, 
 Whofe laft fmiles minifh from the world, as men, 
 Grown lovelefs, multiply ' 
 
 XXI. 
 
 As a lone fitter on a fea-roclc craves 
 
 Headlong to plunge into the clear green feas, 
 Catching the wavering luftre through the waves 
 Of ocean-palaces, 
 
 So have I longed, ye beautiful dead years, 
 
 For you and yours, feeing the things that be 
 Touch me with cold that nips, or heat that fears. 
 And have fmall part in me. 
 
 For what to me is man, whofe ruthlefs tread 
 
 Tramps beauty's flame to afhcs dav by day 
 And, even with its death not fatiated, 
 Sweeps the poor duft away ? 
 
<tA Boys Dream. 17 
 
 Wherefore, dear things of ages long gone by, 
 My one own love, dead Beauty born again, 
 I hail you and I worlhip you — yea I, 
 An alien among men. 
 
 Unloved of all. But ye, ye long^clofed lids, 
 
 Unfold for me ; comfort me, fplendid eyes ' 
 Smile lips, embalmed beneath the pyramids 
 Of heaped-up centuries ! 
 
 Spurn me not, neither fcorn me, peerlefs throng, 
 
 Who roam immortal through the fields of veric 
 Queens of the wizard univerfe of fong, 
 Be ye my comforters ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Lo, yonder — who is fhe, who wildly-eyed 
 
 Yearneth for fomewhat o'er the ftar-lit fea, 
 From yon wet rock, whereround the fluggifh tide 
 Sobs flow and heavily ? 
 
1 8 iA Boys Dream. 
 
 The flagging wind floats her loofc fluctuous hair, 
 
 As waves float weed. Unheeded creeping down, 
 Her raiment leaves her glimmering bolom bare : 
 Sea-dews are moift thereon. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 'Ah, whither through thine eyes hath thy foul fled ? 
 
 My Dido, he will not return to thee ! 
 We twain are lone : let twain be comforted. 
 Doft thou think fcorn of me ? 
 
 ' Kifs me, fweet lips, that have nor cold nor heat, 
 
 Thou fair, fweet, fuperfenfual fcnfuoufnefs ! 
 Lull me with love that lees itfelf is fweet. 
 With paflion paflionlefs '' 
 
 The eyes that have been gazing otherwhere 
 
 Droop down on mine, as thefe words ftrike her ears: 
 And lo, the hard dry ice of glazed defpair 
 Thaws in flow larce warm tears. 
 
<tA Boy's lOremn. 19 
 
 The relaxed lips, half opening, dreamily, 
 
 Breathe foft things over me, her worihipper — 
 So foft they all melt in the moift wind's figh. 
 And the fad wave-water. 
 
 I only feel on mine thofe lips of hers, 
 
 And the fouls mingling, where the twain mouths clint 
 In harmony like fun-blent rain-colours, 
 Or ftricken ftrino; with ftring. 
 
 And each foul's aching melts in fighs, as fnow, 
 
 Spring-charmed, in dew ; love making all paft pain 
 Sweet fadnefs, as a red fun fets a-glow 
 A dying day of rain. 
 
 But, hark ! a gafping wind is gathering : 
 
 I catch a fudden fprinkling of blown fpray. 
 I ftart : my bubble burfls, and everything — 
 My whole dream — falls away. 
 
20 <t4 Boy's T)ream. 
 
 Numbed Self fprings up ; and, frcfli from trance, once more 
 
 Clutches my foul, once more made void and cold ; 
 And I, lone on this old familiar Oiore, 
 With ftupid eves, behold 
 
 A great night hung with flarlight, {looping down 
 
 Over the tumbled filver of the Tea ; 
 And hear a voice, *■ Is beauty wholly gone ? 
 Let thefe things comfort thee ; 
 
 * And Love, and Good, and Beauty, one thing crowned 
 
 With many names, lead on thy fwervelefs foul 
 By ways wherein but parts of good are found. 
 To realms where reigns the whole. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 * Thou doft not feek the foul in coffined clay ; 
 
 Ihcn feek not Beauty in the blind, dead years. 
 Onward ' This life will foon have pafled away, 
 Ofprifoncd ftraining tears. 
 
<iJl Boys T)ream. 
 
 21 
 
 ' To thee the Nile of Time is fourcelefs ever ! 
 
 Vain, vain to tempt the upper myftery ! 
 Trim thou thy fails for vi^here the buffeting river 
 Meets w^ith God's boundlefs fea.' 
 
 Littlehamptoti, an. ^et. i 7. 
 
SONG. 
 
SONG. 
 
 I DID not oft'er thee up mine heart, 
 Nor did I afk, thou know'ft, for thine. 
 I only faid, ' Until we part 
 
 Lend it, and I will lend thee mine.' 
 
 And have we paft thofe hours in vain ? 
 
 We met, we fmiled — we fmile, we fever. 
 Is it in vain that thus we tivain 
 
 Have met, though thus we part for ever ? 
 
 III. 
 
 In 
 
 Shall I ever forget your eyes, 
 
 Or the love that died of defpair in me ? 
 For my love but lived in defpair's defpite, 
 Like a new-born babe that fees the light 
 For a moment, and fmiles, and dies, 
 And lives in its mother's memory. 
 
 Jn. ^t. 16. 
 
LUX MALIGNA. 
 
LUX ^MALIGNA. 
 
 TTER eyes were like Cocytus' midnight deeps, 
 ^ -*- When far in the tranfparent darknefs fleeps 
 The moon, whofe face, as the waves tremble, flafhes 
 In oily ripples, mid the reedy laflies 
 Dying inceffantly. Who would not (brink, 
 Shivering, from that fad ftream's uncertain brink. 
 Fancying the noifelefs volumes Aiding o'er 
 Strange horrors unconceived, and brimmed with ftore 
 Of lizard-footed things ? So none there were 
 Who loved thofe eyes, and the ftrange moonlight there. 
 
 An. ^t. 1 8. 
 
A FRIEND. 
 
<^^ FRIEND. 
 
 FRIEND let me call you — may I ? friend to me 
 And like a cafket let that wide word be, 
 Wherein, perchance, fome coftlier treafure lies — 
 Wherein we hide, in clouds of clofe eclipfe. 
 The faltering few things known to lips and lips — 
 The many mute things known to eyes and eyes ! 
 
 J?i. at. I 8. 
 
ALTER ET IDEM, 
 
^LTER ET IDEM. 
 
 THIS day, in this fame place, we met laft year, 
 And Abfence, the omnipotent feverer. 
 Since then on thee and me hath worked his will ; 
 I would, my laft year's love, as thou ftand'ft here, 
 My laft year's love, I would I loved thee ftill ! 
 
 Does not this place feem ftrange to thee and me — 
 This frefh cool wafli and whifper of the fea. 
 
 We knew fo well together ? Oh, how ftrange ! 
 All's out of tune now — jars difcordantly. 
 
 This old known place, I would it too would change \ 
 
 How miferably the fame thofe cliffs of grey I 
 And fee — a boat again, too, in the bay ! 
 
 And yon lone fea-girt grey rock, funfet-lit 
 With thofe fame tints we two admired that day I 
 
 My laft year's love, haft thou forgotten it ? 
 
38 
 
 <^lter et Lk?n. 
 
 And thou — ah, wherefore art thou ftill fo fair ? 
 Why are thy fmiles ftill jufl: lo what they were, 
 
 Save that for me they fpealc not any love ? 
 Why haft thou ftill that fame bright golden hair, 
 
 Now 1 have no fhare in the praife thereof? 
 
 V. 
 
 I may not call you now what I did then. 
 Your lips and fmiles are cold and alien. 
 
 Thofe times and thefe — how like ! how wide apart ! 
 I have loft what I ftiall never learn again. 
 
 I have forgotten the by-ways of your heart. 
 
 An. at. 1 8. 
 
ON LAKE COMO. 
 
ON LAKE COMO. 
 
 THE ftars are o'er our heads in hollow fkies, 
 In hollow fkies the ftars beneath our boat. 
 Betwixt the ftars of two infinities, 
 
 Midway upon a gleaming film, we float. 
 IVIy lips are on the founding horn ; 
 
 The founding horn with mufic fills. 
 Faint echoes backwards from the world are borne, 
 Tongued by yon dufky zone of flumbering hills. 
 The world fpreads wide on every fide, 
 
 But dark and cold it feems to me. 
 What care I, on this charmed tide. 
 
 For aught fave thofe far ftars and thee ? 
 
 JfL tet. 17, 
 
IN THE CELL. 
 
 * Even in this folitary life the Saint underwent many temptationb 
 and affault3 of the Evil One ; and he relates that on one occafion the 
 recolledion of a beautifiil woman, whom he had feen at Rome, took 
 fuch polTeflion of his imagination, that he was on the point of quitting 
 his retirement and betaking himfelf to her company.' 
 
 'Oh tortuofas vias ! Vae animae audaci quae fperavit, fi a te recefliflet, 
 fe aliquid melius habituram ! ' 
 
 S. Aug. Conf. lib. vi. 26. 
 
I^ THE CELL, 
 
 I 
 
 MUST have knelt here long, the black-wick'd light 
 
 Flares now fo groffly. In mine ears the night 
 Is dumb as at its feafon lonelieft. 
 
 What do I here ? Hardly I know aright ; 
 But I mufi: kneel ftill, for I dare not reft. 
 
 Kneel in my wretchednefs — leagues, leagues away 
 From all the hours and faces of the day. 
 
 How faint and far they feem ! They little guefs 
 With what ftrange twain alone I ftrive — not they — 
 
 Here in my mid foul's ghoftlieft wildernefs — 
 
 'f-s- 
 
 My fin, and Chrift. He, worn with many a wound. 
 Here pleads. His voice — ah, hark to that fad found 
 
 I dare not, but I feel it all the fame. 
 And there, not pleads, but fcorns, with gold hair crowned. 
 
 She whofe mere fcorn but fans and feeds my flame- 
 
46 In the Cell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Chrilf aiul my fm and I, u dreain-like three ' 
 Some dreadful thing, it feems, has come to me, 
 
 More dreadful than I wot of. When 'tis day, 
 I fhail but give a little ftart to fee 
 
 All my face changed — my hair grown fudden grey 
 
 V. 
 
 I know not why, to-nisht, but all things feem 
 Like feverifti fhapes of fome defpairing dream. 
 
 How ftrangely ghaftlier and more woe-begone 
 Stares in the lamplight's waver of gloom and gleam 
 
 This haggard Chrift in carven marble wan ! 
 
 xi. 
 Strangely the little (hadows (hake and crawl 
 On the rough ftone-work of this nude dim wall, 
 
 And pale ftone femblance of God's thorny crown. 
 How ftriinge thefe feem — my fin, and I, and all ! 
 
 Oh, what a dull weight loads mine eyelids down ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Eyelids and eyes ache ! My brain reels ; my knees 
 May have been bended thus for centuries. 
 
 It almoft feems, here on this bare ftone floor. 
 I have been changed, I think, by fome difeafe, 
 
 And am become a nisrhtmare — man no more. 
 
In the Cell, 47 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Into mine ears the filence creeps and clings, 
 Grotefque with hofts of quaint, vague whifperings. 
 
 Oh for fome common living thing, to break 
 This filent, long monotony of things, 
 
 And fhow me truly if I lleep or wake \ 
 
 IX. 
 
 Perhaps 'twill foon be day. I do not know. 
 I cannot tell if time move fwift or flow. 
 
 Hours may be moments, moments may be hours. 
 Would I could lighten a little this load of woe. 
 
 Ere through the broken Eaft the dull dawn lowers. 
 
 X. 
 
 Dawn ! ay, and day ! Alas ! my part in day. 
 It feems, is gone from me — quite paft away. 
 
 Like young life's guileleflhefs and love and truft. 
 Day will at leaft come back as difmally 
 
 As ghofts of thefe, if come at length it muft. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Oh, Lord, have pity on all this barren pain ! 
 Lo, how two wills have ftriven, until the twain^ 
 
 Each fickly-tired, each unvidtorious. 
 Have grown, like ftreams drunk by a fandy plain, 
 
 Loft in blank waftes of woe monotonous : 
 
48 In the Cell. 
 
 Whilfl: wearinefs completes my mifer)'. 
 My head feels heavy, aching giddily : 
 
 The flaring lamp, too, reels for wearinefs, 
 Impure and tired and dizzy, even as I, 
 Whofe w^hole good part has waned to one diftrefs. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Wearily flaring — ay ! — Why, that's the flit — 
 Yes — of a gnat's wings, fnared and finged in it. 
 
 The lamp's alive at leafl:. Lo, once again 
 I feel feme quick prifm of the fpirit fplit 
 
 Into live parts this formlefs fenfe of pain. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Again my love confronts me. Again I know 
 I cannot, cannot leave it — not although 
 
 There's bitter leaven in this forbidden bread. 
 God, let that tafte abide. 'Tis better fo ; 
 
 For whilft that lafts I am not wholly dead. 
 
 XV. 
 
 But yet I cannot pray. No tear will fall 
 Out of my foul's dry eyes. Aloud I call — 
 
 My voice — but my heart fails me evermore. 
 Would I could fin my fin out once for all, 
 
 Not let the longing rot me to the core ! 
 
In the Cell, 49 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Oh, fterile ftrife ! Oh, hateful bended knees ! 
 Oh, mockery of bittereft mockeries ! 
 
 I cannot pray. I totter towards defpair. 
 Thefe be no prayers, mere fighs and groans like thefe, 
 
 Though phantom-fhaped deceitfully like prayer. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 What fhall I do ? Rife from my knees again ? 
 Thus with my very body why remain 
 
 Lying, O Thou far patient God, to Thee ? 
 Am I indeed fo very wicked, then ? 
 
 And is Chrift's work made wholly vain in me ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 For what hope's left } 1 ftruggle in vain to pray. 
 Ev'n mid my groans my foul ftill fteals away 
 
 Back to the haunting hair, and proud foft eyes — 
 The foul forbidding what the fad lips fay — 
 
 Mere words — mere hollow hufk of prayer-like lies. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 In vain I ftart and ftruggle. In vain I try 
 To think on that kind Chrift I crucify. 
 
 The fad face fades, and from the dim eclipfe 
 Her eyes and hair ftiine forth luxurioufly. 
 
 With curved contempt upon her liftlefs lips. 
 
 E 
 
50 /;/ the Cell. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Oh, fad love, heavy upon me like defpair ! 
 Oh, large dark eyes that haunt me everywhere 
 
 With eloquent wealth of lids ! Pale, perfeiSt face, 
 Crowned with the ftrange furprife of golden hair. 
 
 Leave me — oh, leave mc for a little fpace ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Wouldft thou but one fhort moment tarry away. 
 Then might I feize the time, and cry, and fay, 
 
 *■ Cleanfe me, O Lord, and make my Tick heart whole. 
 One prayer might fave me ; but I cannot pray, 
 
 Save groaning, ' Pity, O Lord, this prayerlefs foul !' 
 
 Alas! for all my ftrugglings I fhall die ; 
 No prayer will come for all my agony ; 
 
 Vain is the ftrcngth of all my travailings. 
 A fnarcd bird vainly beats its wings to fly, 
 
 How hard foe'er it ftrivc, the gin's tooth clings. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 What, then, arc prayers ^ I think no prayer could be 
 Wrung out of a man's heart more bitterly. 
 
 One after one I feel them ftart and roll — 
 Thefe blood-drops of my foul's Gethfemane ; 
 
 My groans, the bloody fwcat-drops of mv foul. 
 
In the Cell. 51 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And all in vain, it Teems — in vain, in vain ! 
 I fcarce know what I fay, for dizzy pain 
 
 Blurs all in one confufion. Everything 
 Reels in the fick delirium of my brain — 
 
 Yea, Chrift reels too ; yet ftill to Him I cling, 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And fin to me. Both cling — I know not how ; 
 All fwims in this hard aching of my brow : 
 
 And now night's come, and none may work therein, 
 Curfe, curfe my weaknefs ! Sleep is on me now. 
 
 Mine eyes ache. I muft flumber with my fin. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Mine eyelids can no longer hold apart ; 
 
 The giddy lamplight feems to dance and dart, 
 
 And fickens me. Mine eyeballs — how they ache ! 
 Pity, O Chrift, mine unrepentant heart, 
 
 For, come what will, I can no longer wake. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Yet, finking in this bitter lethargy, 
 
 ' God, God ! ' I call, even as fome drown er's cry, 
 
 As his ftrength fails, who knows not what he faith. 
 But thinks he (hrieks — ' Hafte, help me, or 1 die !' 
 
 Chrift help me ! Sleep — and is this alfo death \ 
 
 An. at. 19, 
 
SONG. 
 
 HXipdroig v-d Kevdfxwa-i yivoifiav, 
 
 Iva fie TZTtpoiKTav upviv 
 
 BeoQ kv irravaiQ ayeXaieriy Oeir] 
 
 apdeiTjy 8' eirl ttovtlov 
 
 Kiifia rag 'AbpiJjydg 
 
 ciKTag 'Hpibavov 6' v^^ojp. 
 
 EuRip. Hip. ■jzy-'j^z. 
 
w 
 
 SO^G. 
 
 OULD God I were now by the fea, 
 By the winding, wet, worn caves, 
 
 By the ragged rifts of the rocks ; 
 And that there as a bird I might be 
 
 White-winged with the fea-fkimming flocks, 
 Where the fpray and the breeze breathe free 
 O'er the ceafelefs mirth of the waves. 
 And difhevel their loofe grey locks. 
 I would fpread my wings on the moift fait air. 
 And my wide v/hite wings fliould carry me, 
 Lifted up, out over the fea, 
 
 Carry, 1 heed not where — 
 Somewhither far away ; 
 Somewhither far from my hateful home. 
 
 Where the breaftof the breeze is fprinkled with fpray, 
 Where the reftlefs deep is maddened with glee, 
 
 Over the waves' wild ecftafy, 
 Through the free blown foam. 
 
 Jf/. at. 1 8. 
 
A MAY IDYL, 
 
51 
 
 S'iSi.s^vi; 
 
 ^ mAT IDYL. 
 
 WOULD I might lean and dream here evermore, 
 Thus by green fliadow of hazels murmured o'er, 
 Nor ever wander away, clear pool, from thee, 
 Through whofe pure wave thine amber-flicicering floor 
 Swims ever upwards, wavering languidly ! 
 
 For May is ruddy and gold amongft the trees, 
 All round the little valley's fides of peace. 
 
 Where no man's voice, nor any voice, makes flir, 
 Save fometimes o'er the leafy lonelinefs 
 
 The long, loofe laugh of the wild woodpecker. 
 
 Yes, here, clear pool, delicioufly alone. 
 
 Here let me mufe and dream, and make mine own 
 
 All of thy beauty, and every change of thine — 
 The tremulous fhades that cling to every ftone. 
 
 And all thofe tawny ftones that fhake and (hine : 
 
6o ^4 May Idyl. 
 
 Or elfe, what new fwect charm they bring for thee, 
 Thefe breaths, whereof the hazels lifp to me, 
 
 "VVildering thy floors with glimmerings manifold \ 
 Or melting into one rich myftery 
 
 The enamelled foftnefs of their brown and gold : 
 
 V. 
 
 And then, again, the breezy fhudder allayed. 
 And thofe flow coiling lights that float and fade 
 
 Down through the clear mid-water, until once more 
 The little tangled tremor of woven fhade 
 
 Spreads its live tifTue o'er the pebbly floor. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yes, here, loved pool, here let me dream ! for here. 
 Through mine own heart's moft tranquil lake-water. 
 
 Lights alfo from afar, fend other gleams : 
 Dreams of that diftant other love draw near. 
 
 That feems fo fweet, and only fweet in dreams ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Again — ah, flothful-fweet ! — it feems I fee 
 Beauty which once I knew full bitterly : 
 
 Fair faces, long forgotten, rife again. 
 I fee them fniile, and frown and fmilc, at mc; 
 
 And figh for all their falfcncfs, with no pain. 
 
lA ^May Idyl 
 
 6i 
 
 Then, lifting lids, I catch thy mirrorings 
 Of leaf and fky, of green and glancing things, 
 
 Which oft thy wayward pebbles waver through. 
 Oh, how like thefe are my imaginings 
 
 One tendereft interlude of falfe and true ! 
 
 An. at. 1 8. 
 
TO B. W. 
 
 ON HER BIRTHDAY, JUNE 2iji. 
 
To B. W, 
 
 On her Birthday, June 2ist. 
 
 /'"^HILD of the whole year's fiowerieft time, 
 ^-^ Sifter to all the funnieft hours. 
 Daughter of June, whofe each year's chime 
 
 Is rung by choirs of birds and flowers ; 
 The Summer's queen of the days is near, 
 
 Like a rofe the Summer opens and fwells. 
 Liften a moment ! Paufe and hear 
 How the richeft rofes of all the year 
 
 Once more are ringing thy birthday bells. 
 Soft be my words. Thou haft others near 
 With words and wifties and gifts more dear ; 
 And as for me, may'ft thou only hear 
 
 My words as a whifper borne by the breeze 
 
 From dwelling to dwelling acrofs the trees - — 
 A half-articulate voice that fays, 
 Though the rofe-fcent dies and the rofe decays. 
 
 The rofe of the fpirit never is fere. 
 Soft as rofes be all thy ways. 
 And thou, may'ft thou through all thy days 
 Open and greaten even as thefe. 
 
 Petal by petal, and year by year. 
 
 Torquny, an. (St. i 
 F 
 
TO MDLLE. A. DE B. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A CHRISTMAS CARD. 
 
TO ^IDLLE. a. T>E B. 
 
 'VXTHAT {hall the humble verfe exprefs 
 
 ^ ^ I dare to-day to breathe to thee ? 
 Levity, or tendernefs ? 
 It's all the fame to me. 
 
 Shall I fay your charming drelTes 
 Have a fubtler charm than faftiion ? 
 
 Shall I fay your glance expreffes 
 Something more than paflion ? 
 
 Shall I tell you that your face is 
 Something more than pretty r 
 
 Shall I call your wayward phrafes 
 Something; more than wittv r 
 
70 
 
 To mdile. <tA. dc B. 
 
 Shall I tell you that you bring 
 
 A joy where'er you enter, 
 That's warm as fummer, frefh as fpring, 
 
 And ftops as long as winter ? 
 
 No — I'll fay no word of this : 
 It's all lb plain, although To trui 
 
 I'll only wi(h you half the blifs 
 We all receive from you. 
 
 Chriftmasy 1879. 
 
TO A FRIEND. 
 
ro ^.^ FRIEND. 
 
 /^F all the many memories we have fown, 
 ^^ We two together, and feen arife in flowers, 
 
 Whofe roots go deep into the paft fweet hours, 
 Which one, when all the reft are overblown, 
 
 Shall we ftill water and tend with conftant care ? 
 Ah, fellow-watcher many a long night through, 
 For me, I were moft fain to think of you 
 
 Pale as fo many a dawn with me you were, 
 
 Juft when the night turned chill, and the grey air 
 Found all things fallen on fleep, and wet with dew ; 
 And on your foul the folemn paft hours weighed, 
 
 Thofe marvellous hours through which you had waked 
 with me. 
 Watching the tender moonlight and foft ftiade. 
 Like wavering love-thoughts which vague doubts invade, 
 
 Irrefolute on the fweet breaft of the fea. 
 
74 
 
 To a Friend. 
 
 All the night long ; until we turned to mark, 
 Over long lines of dim hills far away, 
 
 I 'he flow grey grow into the Eaftcrn dark, 
 And the flow faflron grow into the grey. 
 
 Leave Chance to garden all meaner memories ! 
 Let hope and triumph, let defeat and care, 
 Let outworn loves, dimmed eyes and faded hair, 
 
 Roufe if they will remorfe, or fmiles or fighs ; 
 So that we ftill may ponder how all of thefe 
 Shrank back abaftied before thofe moonlit feas, 
 
 And the grey calm of thofe far-dawning fkies ! 
 
 Torqua'S, an. rrt. 1 9. 
 
BRUSSELS AND OXFORD. 
 

 BRUSSELS ^ND OXFORD. 
 
 HOW lirft we met do you ftill remember ? 
 Do you ftill remember our laft adieu ? 
 You were all to me, that iweet September : 
 Oh, what, I wonder, was I to you ? 
 
 But I will not aflc. I will leave in haze 
 
 My thoughts of you, and your thoughts of me 
 
 And will reft content that thofe fweet fleet days 
 Are ftill my tendereft memory. 
 
 I often dream how we went together 
 
 Mid glimmering leaves and glittering lights, 
 
 And watched the twilight Belgian weather 
 Dying into the ftarrieft nights : 
 
78 Bruffcls and Oxford. 
 
 And over our heads the throbbing million 
 Of bright Hres beat, like my heart, on high 
 
 And the mufic claftied from the lit pavilion. 
 And we were together, vou and I. 
 
 But a hollow memory now fuffices 
 
 For what, laft fummer, was real and trut 
 
 Since here am I by the mifty Ifis, 
 And under the fogs of London you. 
 
 But what if you, like a fwift magician, 
 
 Were to change the failing, flowerlefs year — 
 
 Were to make that true that is now a vifion, 
 And bring back Summer and Bruflels here ? 
 
 For Fanny, I know, that if you come hither 
 You If/7/ bring with you the time of flowers, 
 
 And a breath of the tender Belgian weather, 
 To Oxford's grey autumnal towers. 
 
Briijfeis and Oxford. 
 
 79 
 
 And in troft and fog though the late year dies, 
 Yet the hours again will be warm and fair, 
 
 If they melt once more in your dark, deep eyes, 
 And are mefhed again in your golden hair. 
 
 Oxford, an. eet. 23. 
 
 \$J/ 
 
NATURA VERTICORDIA. 
 
 Sed ubi oris aurei Sol radiantibus oculis 
 Luftravit aethera album, fola dura, mare ferum, 
 Pepulitque nodlis umbras vegetis fonipedibus 
 Ita de quiete molli, rabida fine rabie, 
 Simul ipfa pedlore Atys fua fafta recoluit, 
 Liquidaque mente vidit line quis ubique foret, 
 Animo asfluante rurfum reditum ad vada tetulit : 
 Ibi maria valla vifens lacrymantibus oculis 
 Patriam allocuta moefta eft ita voce miferiter. 
 
 Catullus. 
 

 
 SHATURA VERTICORDIA. 
 
 \ H, on that morning how I curfed the light ' 
 •'■ ■*■ Let it be namelefs — all the fhamelefs night, 
 
 The fpent fleet pleafure, fanged by hound-fwift pain. 
 The pitilefs morning fmote mine aching fight, 
 
 And would not let me hide in fleep again. 
 
 No Tpongy Eaft — no flough of foiled grey Iky : 
 I could have borne that well. But fplendidly, 
 
 Pitileflly pure, and pitileflly fair, 
 I knew the Eoan rofe-light — fordid I, 
 
 Unclean in all that wafh of radiant air. 
 
 The day-fpring cruftied me with its voicelefs fcorn. 
 Burning towards God, nor heeding me forlorn, 
 
 Dumb and caft out from all that infinite choir — 
 That Titan praife — the pasan of the morn, 
 
 Scaling God's throne with a thunder of colour and fire. 
 
84 S^Jtura Verticordia. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah, there outfide, the fplendour and the blaze ! 
 The foft fun, crimfoning through an amber haze. 
 
 Was fluftiing all the far fair orient fea. 
 And I fhrank, and cried, * My right is gone to gaze, 
 
 Alas, with thefe polluted eyes, on thee ! 
 
 * Guiltily now I tremble as I behold 
 That beauty which I yearned fo for of old, 
 
 Cringe now with fhame in the old clear love's llead- 
 Cower from yon glory of molten mifty gold, 
 Sublimed in fervent fumes of rofe and red. 
 
 VI. 
 
 * Then is the colour hufhed a fpace ; and higher, 
 Splinters and glittering flakes of fcarlet fire 
 
 In waftes of cleareft fafFron, pale and rare ; 
 And over all, in many a crown-like gyre, 
 Pink fleeces floating faint in purple air. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ' Oh, love cftranged ! oh, fwect, loft paradife 
 
 Of light and colour ! To my (hame-fhrunk eyes, 
 
 Thofe great pure things — how alien now they arc ' 
 How do they fcorn me, thefe intenfe blue fkies. 
 
 And clear white chaftcnefs of the morning ftar ' 
 
3^tura Verticordia. 85 
 
 VIII. 
 
 * How am I fallen and changed fince yeflerday, 
 When yonder fun was clouded foft and grey, 
 
 From this fame place I watched with filent fight 
 The Ihifting funlights on the fliadowy bay, 
 
 And faint horizons flafh with lengths of light ; 
 
 IX. 
 
 'And felt my heart, fo ftanding here alone, 
 Throb, and my whole foul on a fudden grown 
 
 Yearning and glad and wild and fad in me, 
 For love of thofe far h.ippy clouds that flione, 
 
 Grey fleeced with filver, o'er the filver fea. 
 
 X. 
 
 ' Then ghofts of unknown longings fwelled my breaft, 
 Meafurelefs love and infinite unreft, 
 
 A reaching after fome withdrawn Delight, 
 I knew was fomewhere, lured me to the queft. 
 
 Loft parent of an orphan appetite — 
 
 XI. 
 
 ' Of a longing that lav ever in wait for me. 
 To fweep me far, far off, aerially. 
 
 Out of myfelf, away from all mean things. 
 Strong as the fea-bound wind, whereon to fea 
 
 Is fwept the fea-mew's fweet white width of wings. 
 
86 V^tiira Vert icor did. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ' Vague, vaft, at fundry times 'twould drift me — yea, 
 The vafter for its vaguenefs — far away, 
 
 I wifl not whitherward, in the ftream thereof; 
 Tinned with the many moods of night and day, 
 
 Changeful of ftiape, yet ftill one changelefs love. 
 
 XIII, 
 
 * Oh, how it filled me, lured me, evermore! 
 Now in the intricate foreft's foliaged core — 
 
 Green ravelled lights, and rich-barked boughs of trees : 
 Now in the noon's bright foam-flafh fhowered to fhore, 
 And blue, foft diftances of funlit feas : 
 
 XIV. 
 
 * Now in fierce night-falls o'er the defolate main. 
 When death was in the weird waves' mad refrain, 
 
 And the lightning fhook its wild hair on the fweep 
 Of the great free foam-fraught fca-going hurricane, 
 Over the hoary darknefs of the deep. 
 
 XV, 
 
 * And now, when fkics were faint and Ihirs were few, 
 'Twould thrill me,fhaped like fadnefs, through and through- 
 Times when the low winds lifped their tendered tune; 
 
 Dim forrow-flaking feafons of foft dew. 
 
 Ami lulled leas filvering flowly to the moon. 
 
5Njitura Verticordia, 87 
 
 XVI. 
 
 * Yes, everywhere I felt, at every hour, 
 
 Through my foul's lulls or tumults, one fame Pov^^er 
 
 Drawing my whole felf open by degrees ; 
 My love feemed greetening towards that perfe6l flower 
 
 Whereof the ftrange witch fang to Socrates. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ' Then thefe things made me noble. Then they teemed 
 For me with voices. Voices, or I dreamed, 
 
 Lured me at all times and on every fide, 
 Wordleffly crying, " Come ! come !" and they feemed 
 
 The voices of the Spirit and the Bride. 
 
 xvin. 
 ' But now — ah, fallen, fallen! — I do not dare 
 To raife myfelf and hearken. Alas ! I bear 
 
 A great weight, heavier than a millftone is — 
 Bitterer than any terrible proud defpair — 
 
 Self's fcorn of felf, God's bittereft Nemefis. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ' For now this fun-ftream of clear rofy light 
 Serves but to fhow me vile in mine own fight. 
 
 All my foul's raiment fpotted ftill with mire. 
 Marred by the ghaftly havoc of the night. 
 
 And conquering ravage of a fcorned defire. 
 
88 S^tura Verticordia. 
 
 XX. 
 
 * And now the old voices all in vain for me 
 Will found J for now no proud antiphone 
 
 Dares, as of old, to anfwer from my foul. 
 How will it ceafe, the evangel of the fea! 
 
 How will the dawn unfold, a vain blank fcroll ' 
 
 XXI. 
 
 ' Maimed, crawling wretch ! Nay, I fhall rife no more. 
 Poor falfc-iledged Icarus, winglefs as before; 
 
 Maimed by the fall! To its old mortality 
 This mortal cleaves. What right had I to foar.-* 
 
 Of the earth earthy — ay, the earth for me! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 ' Oh, how my tenfe brow aches with dull, thick care !* 
 Then I threw wide the window, and laid bare 
 
 My face, to realife that hour of hours. 
 Ah, what a guft of freflinefs ! — morning air 
 
 With rainy fccnts of earth, and whiffs of flowers ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 And there the birds were, finging ; and far and fvveet 
 Came the crifp fhore-lbng of the ebb's retreat ; 
 
 Aiid I fighed and cried as I looked towards the fea, 
 ' How muft thy fands now fwim one fhining flicet, 
 
 With orange funlight, and the bree/.e breathe free ' 
 
datura Verticordia. 89 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ' And all the woods be fed with moift perfumes 
 Of new-blown flowers feftooning green wet glooms, 
 
 Which yet the level dawn-flufli filters through ; 
 And denfe drenched evergreens droop their pendulous plumes, 
 
 Grey with the diamond fparkle of all the dew ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 ' But I ' And yet I ftill flood gazing there, 
 
 Heavy with forrow in my ftupid flare ; 
 
 As might fome proud queen's fcorned, unlooked-at lover, 
 Who, thinking fo to cheat entire defpair. 
 
 Keeps gazing ftill, though all his hopes are over. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And thus — I know not how — a ftealthy Peace, 
 Swathed in dim weeds like Grief's, by foft degrees. 
 
 To me, who knew her not, drew gently near; 
 Till my lids fmarted with a coming eafe. 
 
 And the dawn-light glimmered dim through a fhaken tear. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And I felt my fhame's dull ice was molten through. 
 And hung there flickering, globed in hopeful dew : 
 
 And once again a fad, compaflionate cry. 
 Came in the holy wordlefs voice I knew, — 
 
 ' Infirm of love, why haft thou left us ? Why? 
 
90 ihQaturd Vcrticordia. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 *What haft thou found more pure, more great, more fair, 
 Maddened for whofe fvveet fake thou thus couldft dare 
 
 To blind thine eyes to us, and laugh to fcorn 
 The flower-fweet fellowfhip of the early air, 
 
 And far-fluflied outgoings of the even and morn ? 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 ' What is it? — what, thus worthier far than we ? 
 Art thou content, and fhall thy bartering be ? 
 
 The Holy Spirit of dawn, with its tongues of flame. 
 The proud fong of the funrife and the fca, 
 
 Sold for thofe red lips, and their babble of (hame? 
 
 XXX. 
 
 ' What haft thou found more than the love we gave ? 
 What fympathy more ftrong to fuccour and fave ? 
 
 Haft not thou known a deeper comfort lies 
 In the deep language of the wind and wave 
 
 Than in any human words, or filent eyes ? 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 ' Do not man's fricndfhips fail, and fide, and fall ; 
 And prifoned love turn weary, and weak, and pall ; 
 
 Luft humble, and blind, and blaft, and then grow cold? 
 But we change not, we overlive them all — 
 
 All lults and loves, all young dellres or old. 
 
datura Vertkordia. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 ' Launch then on us thy unanchored life, for we 
 Sweep ever, ever on to the unknown fea, 
 
 In a river of mufic. Hear our call — be wife ! 
 On fweep the floods ! Say, fhall they carry thee 
 
 On their broad breaft of boundlefs harmonies ? 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 * Lo, there is no defire fo wild of wing, 
 No ftrano;e pure nomad paflion pafturing 
 
 By nameleis wells and remote grafs alone, 
 But ftrike our harp, and thou fhalt find fome firing 
 
 With thefe to quiver and yearn in unifon. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 ' Come now, and prove us if our words be true ! 
 Rife, roam the fragrant deep green places through. 
 
 Where the new gofpels of the wild-flowers tell 
 How dew-awakened fcents and virgin dew 
 
 Make a whole heaven in every bending bell. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 ' Or where the wave's voice fparkles in the fun 
 With cold, pure foam — there make the done undone 
 
 There fpurn the paft ! for lo, our lovers muft 
 Draw near as in no humbled veflure fpun 
 
 Of love's threads tangled in the loom of luft. 
 
92 S^itura Verticordia. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 ' Rife o'er thy part, and burn its routed night 
 Into gold fumes, and clouds of crimfon light, 
 
 Sunlike !' And as I gazed, more fplendidly 
 
 Glowed, as it feemcd, the dawn-flufli, and more bright 
 
 Rippled the rough frefh rofe-light on the fea. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 And from mine eaftward lips broke forth a cry, 
 ' Ah, that my flefh were but a cloud, to die 
 
 Into the infinite joy that hath no name, 
 As dies yon rofe-mift into the blue, pure fky — 
 
 Yon almoft fluttering film of rare rofe flame ' 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 *■ Hafte — let me forth, and wander by the feas. 
 
 Or through green places, damp with flowers and trees, 
 
 And wafh old ftains off — cleanfe my foul anew 
 Yea, furely find a facrament in thefc, 
 A fccond baptifm in the morning dew.' 
 
 A/:, at. 19. 
 
TINEAS TO DIDO. 
 
MS^EAS ro DIDO. 
 
 T LEAVE thee, but I love thee none the lefs, 
 
 -"■ And this my love, felf-wounded, fmarts and ftin^ 
 
 Hail, Sorrow ! like a goad thy bitternefs 
 
 Shall drive me to great things. 
 
 For Love's fweet wine has lulled me overlong, 
 
 Loofening my foul — woe's me ! But now at length 
 Let it be mixed and made with fcorn and wrong, 
 A bitter draught of ftrength. 
 
 I am athirft for fuch, having known of old 
 
 Greatnefs is fuckled at the breafts of Pain. 
 But muft — ah ! muft the Iword of burning cold 
 Go through the hearts of twain ? 
 
96 /Eneas to Dido. 
 
 Hark! the winds call me — ' Lover, love, fly ! 
 We to thy true home will companion thee- 
 Divinc untold-of realms, whereto the fky 
 Stoops down behind the fea. 
 
 ' Shake loofe thy fails, and leave the land's delight. 
 And we will fweep thee outward to thine home. 
 Drive through the wild green billows, and the white 
 Wild-driven ("moke of foam ! ' 
 
 Ev'n as the pale hag's muffled muttering 
 
 Draws down the moon from heaven, the fpcll of Fate 
 Draws me from thee. Our bonds in buriling ftring, 
 And all arc violate ! 
 
 I am doomed, and called, and dcftined. Mine, mine own 
 
 Dertiny calls ; nor needs to call again. 
 Though late, I come \ and may mv pain atone 
 For fwect davs fpent in vain ' 
 
Mneas to Dido. 97 
 
 Oh, love, I feal our fevering with this kifs. 
 
 Thy lips w^ere w^arm when thus I firft waxed bold ; 
 Not dew-damp, bloodlefs, miferable like this. 
 Oh, love, thy lips are cold ! 
 
 Farewell, thou fweet child of my great foe's wrath ! 
 
 Farewell, O pleading, beautiful fad face ! 
 Thou waft the golden fruitage in my path, 
 Dropt to make vain my race. 
 
 I may not heed mine agony nor thine, 
 
 O loved one, over-fair, and over-true ! 
 Hail, painful Glory, making Pain divine ! 
 Adieu, fweet love, adieu ! 
 
 Jn. at. 17. 
 
FROM AN UNFINISHED DRAMA, 
 
 iENEAS AND DIDO. 
 
)6l 
 
 FROM AN UNFINISHED DRAMA, 
 
 CALLED 
 
 /ENEAS AND DIDO. 
 
 Scene : A Terrace overlooking the Sea, before Didoes Palaci 
 at Carthage. Moonlight. 
 
 Mercury. 
 TTAR cradled in the facred fecret weft 
 -*- My dwelling lies, from every taint of ill 
 Baftioned, and belted round inviolably, 
 By azure oceans glaffed in boundlefs calm. 
 O'er whofe clear face not ever mortal keel 
 Pafles to blur the blue tranfparency. 
 There is no cold nor froft, nor any care, 
 Nor any tread of fmward-haftening feet 
 Pollutes the foil ; but the pure opulent Earth 
 Pours forth her wealth for thofe that ever are. 
 And gods behold their father face to face. 
 And there fome fouls — fo fate decrees — of men. 
 
I02 /Eneas and 'Dido. 
 
 Some — very few — may hard admittance win, 
 
 Purged and made holy by the luftral wave 
 
 Of the foul's blood, fpilt in the war with flefh, 
 
 And over flefh victorious. But from this 
 
 Hard fight moft fhrinlc — moft even of thefc eledl, 
 
 Deadened by the grofs fenfes, and no lefs 
 
 By thofe great foes to calmnefs, love and hate, 
 
 Not bridled in. But that fuch fad defeat 
 
 Befall not now my ftrenuous care muft be ; 
 
 For I am Maia's fon, the wanderer god, 
 
 The pinion- footed, golden-wanded god. 
 
 Whom with a matter of no mean import 
 
 Freighted the fire now fends ; and here I fiand 
 
 Before this palace, feeking fpcech of one — 
 
 One of the holy eledl, who, led aftray 
 
 By too-encroaching love, without high aid 
 
 Muft mifs for ever the fteep road to fame. 
 
 And, therefore, hither am I fent of Jove, 
 
 To unglue the eyelids of his fleeping foul. 
 
 Stuck with fuch fatal rheum. Ha! — this is he! 
 
 But not alone — his beautiful curfe is with him -, 
 
 Dear curfe, more deadly in that fhe is dear. 
 
 They come to hear the voices of the night ; 
 
 They come to look into each other's eyes, 
 
 And tic frefii vows about them. Ha, dark Queen 
 
JEneas and 'Dido. 103 
 
 Thou little know'ft one burning word of mine 
 Can fmoulder up that hemp of lovers' knots ; 
 But thou fhalt foon be taught. I'll wait awhile, 
 And view thee viewlefs^ till more fitting time. 
 
 Enter i^NEAS and DiDO. 
 
 /Eneas. Oh, light and filence of the fummer night, 
 How thy voice fills me, though the words are loft — 
 All loft fave one, which, ever like a mift 
 Seen flung above fome unfeen waterfall, 
 Rifes. That word is love. O queen ! mine own. 
 Look in my eyes. There was a hungry feafon. 
 When, inarticulate as a wave that creeps 
 With its white lips into a whifpering ftiell, 
 My foul received thefe voices, knowing not 
 What is to love ; but through the famifliing days 
 A hunger haunted me, without the knowledge 
 To feek for food ; and, like a hunted ftag, 
 Driven to the verge of fome Iheer precipice. 
 And wild to fpring fomewhither, from my lips 
 My fpirit hung ; till love, revealed through thee. 
 Came beyond hope, as breaks the fudden moon 
 On one who, wandering blindly round his home. 
 Seems to himfelf far ftrayed into ftrange ways. 
 My Dido, fpeak. 
 
I 04 /Eneas and Dido. 
 
 Dido. O Trojan, cleave to me ! 
 
 None can love more than I ; moft will love lefs. 
 Oh, ufe me not as thy foul's ftepping-ftone. 
 Climbing, as fome men climb, to loftier calm ! 
 Tread not my poor neck down in death to rife, 
 If rife thou canft. 
 
 /Eneas. Reft, for I cannot rife. 
 
 Dido. I truft thee. Yet — deep in my heart there lurks 
 Some cold difquiet. Warm me with thy words. 
 And tell me of the growing of thy love. 
 
 Scene^ the fame. Time^ towards morning. A Jiorm rifing. 
 Mercury meanwhile has been troubling the mind of 
 i^NEAS zuith thoughts of Italy .^ and his dcjUned work 
 there. 
 
 Dido. Will not you look on me? Ah, what means this — 
 Your pale, changed face ? And why fo wiftfully 
 Goes ever to the feaward your wan gaze ? 
 What ftrange thoughts ftir you now ? 
 
 /Eneas. My memories 
 
 Rife like a ftorm and ftir me. In mine ears 
 Harfli ftirieks and hollow rumour of armour and arms 
 Sound like a dream, and windy manes and plumes 
 
/Eneas and Dido. 105 
 
 Of horfes and of heroes waver and tofs 
 
 Dreamlike and dim ; and all the plains of Troy 
 
 Move once again with clouds of battle-duft 
 
 That meet like thunder-clouds, and through the dark 
 
 I see the javelins lighten, and I hear 
 
 The round fhields boom like timbrels, mid the fhouts 
 
 Of fighting men and falling. Hark! the wind 
 
 Rifes, and wheeling voices of the air 
 
 Sing in our ears, and ever fweep to fea — 
 
 The fea where no land is, nor any home 
 
 But florm, and calm, and freedom. Storm — ay, ftorm ! 
 
 I feel it, it will come, it is in my hair — 
 
 The fweet, wild, infant ftorm. Ah me, my love, 
 
 Do not you feel the wild wind in your hair ? 
 
 What ! Are my words wild, too ? What is it I fay ? 
 
 What have my memories to do with ftorm ? 
 
 Ah, I have feen Have I not made my neft, 
 
 As the white, wandering, homelefs fea-bird does. 
 On the ftorms and wide free places of man's life — 
 Battle, and wreck, and ruin ? Have I not been 
 Nurfling of many ftorms ? Ah, me ! that night 
 Wherein my eyes were opened, and I faw, 
 Staring aghaft, where all the towers of Troy 
 Loomed high like dreams above the fiery clouds — 
 Suddenly faw how all the quivering haze 
 
io6 /Eneas and 'Dido. 
 
 Was full of ftalicing Prefences, that went 
 
 Tall as the towers, and breafting drifts of flame — 
 
 The cloudy immortal forms of ruining gods! 
 
 And there, far off, remote from all the reft, 
 
 Pranlct on the topmoft crag of mafonry. 
 
 Was one — a lonely terror in the night. 
 
 Shining, who held in hand a ftiield that fhone. 
 
 And who a burning nimbus round her hair, 
 
 Wore like a meteor, and who looked with eyes 
 
 That did out-ftare the furnace. My blood froze. 
 
 'Twas Pallas' felf. I knew her. This was fhe. 
 
 I knew the fcaly arms of cyanos ; 
 
 I knew the grey gleam of the owl-like eyes ; 
 
 1 knew the end was come ; and down from heaven 
 
 I knew the night had fallen, a fnare of doom ; 
 
 And under it our god-built Pergamus — 
 
 One darknefs ruddy with a thoufand fires. 
 
 » * * • 
 
 An. eft. 18, 19. 
 
ARIADNE. 
 
 Profpicit, et magnis curarum fludluat undis.' 
 
 Catullus. 
 
ARIADNE. 
 
 1\ yrOTIONLESS, like fome maddening Bacchanal 
 "^^-*- Struck marble in mid frenzy, with the call 
 
 Caught on her fundering lips, fo feemed (he there, 
 Gazing ; all marble, fave the rife and fall 
 
 Of the long troubled amber of her hair. 
 
 II. 
 
 No motion elfe j but ever far away 
 
 She gazed towards the fky's low paler grey 
 
 The fwoll'n feas heaved againft, and evermore 
 Blew in her face white powdery drift of fpray — 
 
 That live-trefled ftatue on the lonely fhore. 
 
 So round her there the ftorm grew guftier. 
 
 And hoar fky ftorm-birds round her, with no fear. 
 
 Wheeled wondering at this ftrange unmoving thing, 
 And nearer to her feet, and yet more near. 
 
 The wide white wave-edges wafhed whifpering. 
 
1 1 o zAriadne. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But fhe of nothing fuch had any care, 
 None of her loofened tiar, and ftraying hair 
 
 Unftiepherded in the cold and froward gale — 
 Fell not from off her fait breaft, pale and bare, 
 
 The loofened crimfon raiment flowly fail. 
 
 V. 
 
 Sorrow had numbed each fenfe ; yea, Sorrow now 
 Had numbed itfelf ; and fhe, fhe wift not how 
 
 Nor why fhe forrowed — only dreamily 
 Felt the blown foam-fleet chill on cheek and brow, 
 
 Saw the great foam-crefls rearing far to fea. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And like the fea her foul was. There fhe found 
 A better voice than any of thofe fafl bound 
 
 In her lips petrified, and grief-choked breaft — 
 The unutterable defpairing of the found 
 
 Of the dull, drear, troubled fea, that could not reft. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Till it feemed defpair changed fhape, and grew delight, 
 Whenever the proxy-wail of the chafed waves white 
 
 7\)ok heart for a flronger guft, and writhed on high 
 Wildlier, and the whole fca-chorus infinite 
 
 Sated her gluttonous grief with a vafter cry. 
 
^Ariadne. 1 1 1 
 
 VIII. 
 
 That faved her — eafed the deadly fpeechleflnefs, 
 
 The famine of tears, brought the ftrained breaft fome eafe; 
 
 Ay, verily, there fhe had found a comforter — 
 The unfathomable fympathy of the feas, 
 
 The defolate depths for fellow-forrower. 
 
 IX. 
 
 So (he endured ; and all one huelefs hue 
 The day went by. Little that day fhe knevv^ 
 
 Of time, till at length, fouth on the lorn fea-line, 
 A flufti of ftormy fire aroufed her view — 
 
 One long low jagg'd red ftreak — the funfet fign. 
 
 X. 
 
 Then — help. But had that ftorm-day held its peace. 
 Strewn fpangling gold-duft over blue clear feas, 
 
 That foamed at edge in twinkling lily-flower, 
 She had furely died — day's hateful happinefs 
 
 Robbed of his prize the young god-paramour. 
 
 An. iet. 19. 
 
A MARRIAGE PROSPECT. 
 
 (from an unfinished drama.) 
 
^A CARRIAGE "PROSPECT. 
 
 (from an unfinished drama.) 
 
 'f X 7HY fliould I heed their railings ? What's a prude ? 
 ' ' A devil's fcarecrow in the fields of good. 
 Let them rail on. I think a wedding-day- 
 Looks beft, as mountains do, fome miles away, 
 
 Or fqualid fifhing-fmacks far out to fea, 
 
 Seen lily-failed in funfhine and blue haze, 
 Where the delicious lights are all men chafe, 
 
 And no man ever reaches. And fo I'm free 
 
 Another fix weeks — move in a rich half-light, 
 A tendereft compromife of dark and bright, 
 
 A magic feafon, in fhort, when eyes that fhine 
 
 And lips that whifper with foft words, combine 
 
 The fpice of wrong, the confcience-eafe of right, 
 
 And deepefl: fighs come moft luxurioufly. 
 
 Then too this twilight-time leads not to night 
 
ii6 
 
 zA ^iar ridge ^rofpe&. 
 
 But iunrife — that at leaft will gladden me, 
 The funrife of my day of married life, 
 Ere bride and bridegroom fade to man and wife 
 
 And I meanwhile, a fhort time more, am free — 
 Or half free ; wherefore let me love my fill 
 
 Of half-loves, ere I confecrate my days, 
 
 In fober, fombre truth, for good and ill. 
 
 To the one worftiip of a withering face. 
 
 An. fTt. 19. 
 
AT MORNING. 
 
^^T .MORNING. 
 
 "^TEW from yon choirs of fparklings far away, 
 
 ■^ ^ Frefh with the South, and fmelling of the fea. 
 
 Oh, how this young breeze pours clean into me 
 The gladnefs of the childhood of the day ! 
 The floating pearl-lights twinkle and dip and play 
 
 O'er all the foft fmooth fea-blue, faft and free; 
 
 Whilft the tide's influence makes delicioufly 
 Mufic and laughter in the little bay, 
 
 With ripple of fong, in fhoreward, gliftening quick. 
 
 Live glafs o'er cleared: fands feen under it, 
 
 And there amongft yon low rocks leaping fweet 
 In coral-fhapen bloffom of tender fpray. 
 
 Low-gurgling with loofe wafh of foam-mufic, 
 Drunk with the deep child-gladnefs of the day ! 
 
\ 
 
 J 20 cv// horning. 
 
 Oh, morning joy ! oh, frefh fea-fcented air ! 
 
 Where is the broken joy thou canft not heal. 
 Which thought and doubt have racked and torn piece- 
 meal? 
 Ah, breeze, breathe on, breathe hither and flake my care! 
 
 The fummer fea's evangel with thee bear ; 
 Into mine inmoft fpirit let it ftcal ! 
 
 Yea, breeze, breathe on, breathe hither, and make me feel 
 All the fea's fummer in my lifted hair ! 
 No thought is needed by thy felt delight 
 To mediate betwixt us. Oh, June air. 
 Thy certain rapture thrills me through and through — 
 A conquering joy that puts all doubt to flight. 
 Falfe let it be — if truth be anywhere, 
 This fweet delufion at the leaft is true. 
 
 An. at. 19. 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF 
 A PET DOG 
 
 BELONGING TO LADY DOROTHY NEVILL. 
 ' Animula, vagula, blandula.' 
 
LINES ON THE DEATH OF A 
 "PET DOG. 
 
 "^T 7 HERE are you now, little wandering 
 ' ^ Life, that fo faithfully dwelt with us. 
 Played with us, fed with us, felt with us. 
 Years we grew fonder and fonder in ? 
 
 You, who but yefterday fprang to us. 
 Are we for ever bereft of you ? 
 And is this all that is left of you — 
 
 One little grave and a pang to us ? 
 
 Jufie 1878, 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
)tl 
 
 "PTGMALIO^ 
 
 TO HIS STATUE, BECOME HIS WIFE. 
 
 TS this then {o^ and have I ftriven in vain 
 
 -*■ To hide the change I fuffer ? And can you fee 
 
 Everything is not all it ufed to be ? 
 Yes, love, that paft can come no more again. 
 Am I in pain, too ? Good — you have read my pain. 
 
 Known it is very great. That comforts me. 
 
 For now^ knovi^ing this, I know your lips will fpare 
 
 Reproaches, leave the world to blur my name. 
 
 Mark my face well. No flufh of filly ftiame. 
 
 But pallor only, and calm of grief is there — 
 
 Grief — yes, in that we have one thing ftill to fhare. 
 
 We two ; for you, you will love on the fame. 
 
128 Tygmnlion. 
 
 What do I mean ? Ah, me ! how tenderly 
 
 Your fweet eyes afk, which once to me could bring 
 Bahn, by a look, for any grievous thing. 
 
 What is it ? Well, 'tis beft that I reply — 
 
 Falter forth all myfelf, or by-and-by 
 
 My life will yield thee a crueller truth-telling. 
 
 Yet will you underftand ? or will your heart 
 Conceive my phrafed forrow, or ever tell 
 Truly to what a depth I am pitiable, 
 
 And how to thee hath fallen the better part ? 
 
 Truly how far the happier one thou art, 
 Whofe love is ftill a living water-well ? 
 
 V. 
 
 What (hould 1 tell thcc of fomc man who fain 
 
 Would love fome woman, and find love's font run dry.? 
 Ah, ' There's none fuch,' it is on your lips to cry, 
 ' That ever longed to love and longed in vain — 
 Nay, none fo very wretched !' Paufe again ! 
 
 Paufe and look near, look near ' That man am I. 
 
^ygmaiion. 1 29 
 
 Yes — as fome blind man fl-anding on the fliore, 
 
 With the whole wet drift of the ocean-ftorm blown free 
 On his mute lids, and hearing thunderily 
 All the hoarfe hollow length of breakers roar, 
 Feels one great longing whelm him for one more — 
 One wild fight more of the old yearned-for fea ; 
 
 Even fo I long, taking this one wild fight, 
 
 Oh woman, of thee, for a love that is pafled away — 
 That comes no more, as never on any day 
 
 To that dark auditor the feen delight 
 
 Of the fleets of free white waves, and foam-fhowers white, 
 And dark coads dim with ftormy clouds of fpray. 
 
 Do I wrong thee lightly ? Nay : thou canft divine 
 Too well the lines of anguifh on my brow. 
 Thou muft have anguifh, too ; but happier thou 
 
 Wilt ftill have where to love, for whom to pine ; 
 
 Whilft I only to yearn to love is mine. 
 
 But my dead love revives not anyhow. 
 
 K 
 
1 30 'Pygmalion. 
 
 I have faid. But you, do you take me, faying thus ? 
 
 Can you ever know how^ forrowful men's loves are ? 
 
 How^ we can only hear Love's voice from far — 
 Only defpaired-of eyes be dear to us — 
 Mute ivory, that can never be amorous — 
 
 Far fair gold ftigma of fome lonelieft ftar ? 
 
 The Love we follow is cruel — a myftery ; 
 
 Upon the horizon only doth he dwell. 
 
 And thou, thou art now no more infcrutable, 
 Thou haft given and opened all thine heart to me. 
 I thought to embrace ; I ftretched mine arms to thee j 
 
 And lo. I ftand and ftretch them in farewell. 
 
 Ah, one dear dream, wherein I had hoped to Inare 
 The love I chafe for ever ! oh, ultimate 
 Reft, as I dreamed thee ! Lo, my love, my fate 
 
 Calls us of old far off — I know not where. 
 
 I follow. Adieu, fweet eyes ! love once was there 
 For me ; but love has left them defolatc. 
 
'Pygmalion. 
 
 13 
 
 XII. 
 
 Tired pilgrim of a fugitive vague delight, 
 Where fhall I reft ? Alas ! I fain would be 
 Some far-out ftar over the windy fea, 
 Bathed by the wild fpray-fprinkled breath of night, 
 With the inorn for lullaby, and the faffron light 
 Of the far happy morn to cradle me. 
 
 A?i. at.zo. 
 
FRIENDLESS. 
 
, F%rE.9^DLESS. 
 
 'T^HEY — had they left me ? Did they truft that (o 
 
 -*' I fhould be comfortlefs ? Their hating eyes 
 Meant it, I know ; and all their virtuous lips, 
 Tight with a fnarling fanftity of fcorn, 
 Meant it, I know, that day. And I replied — 
 Looked on as fome pollution — no one word ; 
 Made no appeal to thofe juft arbiters, 
 Not any of whom had any foftening glance. 
 Even in the laft. Only I rofe, and mute. 
 Condemned of all my friends, paffed right away 
 Out of their doors, unpitied, all alone. 
 Into the homelefs ftorm. And lo, the ftorm 
 Bellowed, and howled, and raved, and welcomed me, 
 And the blown defolate drizzlings fell on me 
 Like friends ; and, fweeter than all kifles, fhed 
 On brow and cheek chill mift of briny rain. 
 Full of the fea's breath ; and my whole heart fwellcd. 
 Feeling the great blafts tangled in my hair. 
 And flreaming on my brow; and through the roar, 
 
1 36 Friendlefs. 
 
 With a blind craving I climbed, and made my wav 
 
 Out to a neighbouring beetling, iron-bound coaft, 
 
 Facing towards the bleak Septentrion. 
 
 And as I climbed, the thunder of the hid lea 
 
 Broke on my ears, and high in air I faw 
 
 Grey vapour of flying foam going up like fmoke 
 
 Over thofe heights, not, fave on days like thefe, 
 
 Ever acquainted with the leaft blown fpray. 
 
 Friends — had they left me? Oh, I went alone 
 
 Along the brink of thofe flieer precipices. 
 
 And felt the ftorms my brethren, and had cafe. 
 
 For all the fca was dun, and muffled up 
 
 With yellow fog, and white with tufted foam ; 
 
 And far below, againfl: the pitilefs bafe. 
 
 Shattering amongft black rocks, great bellowing waves 
 
 Daflied their defpairing heads, and groaning died. 
 
 J ft. art. 19. 
 
TOO LATE! 
 
TOO LATE! 
 
 "\X7HAT, dead — quite dead? And can you hear no 
 * ^ prayer 
 
 Already? Have you in fo fhort a fpace 
 Gone fo far from your old abiding-place ? 
 
 And is this all you have left me, this — to bear 
 The ftill accufings of that dear marred face ? 
 
 How^ they make bitterer all my grief than gall ! 
 
 Oh, loving eyes, for ever clofed on me ; 
 
 Worn face that look'ft fo unreproachfuUy ! 
 Too late, too late, I would I could recall 
 
 Every unloving word I have faid to thee ! 
 
 Have I been blind, never to recognife 
 
 The wounds I made till now ? Ah, now I know 
 My cruel work in all that dumb great woe ! 
 
 I fee how piteous look thy poor clofed eyes. 
 And know that it is I have made them fo. 
 
140 Too Late I 
 
 i\ . 
 
 Oh why, why did you love me all thefe years r 
 Why not grow cruel to me as I to you f 
 Had both been falfc, neither had had to rue 
 
 One thing, nor (hed, as I do, hard vain tears. 
 Why have you taunted me by being fo true ? 
 
 Why have you let the whole remorfe be mine ' 
 Thy moft fad mouth, why did it never fay 
 One counter-word of anger ? Lovingly, 
 
 Why did you let each patient, painful lijie. 
 Deepen in moanlefs filence day by day ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Why will tears never come, till they muft fail 
 Of eafc and comfort, and can only fear .'' 
 Why am I moaning now to a deaf ear — 
 
 Moaning, as if my words could ever avail 
 
 'o make one deep-grooved pain-line fhall 
 
 ower 
 
 An. a-t. 20. 
 
THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 ' Behold, 1 ftand at the door and knock.' 
 
THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD. 
 
 /^H, can it be that ftill Thou art ftanding there, 
 
 ^^ Outfide mine heart's door, in Thine old fweet guife, 
 
 With the old words, ' Oh, open, and be wife !' 
 With patient knock and piteous pleading prayer ? 
 Yet ftill I hear Thee. But too fad to bear. 
 
 My Lord, Thy voice hath grown — Thy yearning cries 
 
 Broken with love, whereto no love replies. 
 Yet hope — hope ftill. I need not yet defpair. 
 I will haften and undo the door at laft ; 
 
 I am haftening now for fear Thou elfe be gone. 
 Enter, my Chrift ! or ere the hour be paft ! 
 
 Ah, me! how dufty are the door-pofts grown ! 
 
 Baffled again ! Help, help me here alone — 
 The hinges and the lock are rufted faft. 
 
144 '^'^'^ ^^S^^f (?/^//7t' JVorU. 
 
 And I am dreamy and weak. I cannot tell 
 
 What flothful power hath hold on all my heart. 
 
 I would fome thunder-bolt of thought would dart 
 Right in the midft, and burft the drowfy fpell, 
 Sharp with fierce thunder and flame intolerable ; 
 
 That this blind, curfed film were cloven apart; 
 
 That my dull eyes might open with a ftart, 
 And fting, brought face to naked face with hell ! 
 Lord, I have no ftrength left to come to Thee. 
 
 Oh would that me, thus weak in drunkard's wife, 
 
 Something might roufe, (harp as the chill furprife 
 Of intcrlunar frefh night winds, that be 
 
 Blown in fome reveller's dizzy, aching eyes, 
 Wild from fea-ftars and windy waftes of fea ! 
 
 j^>i. ttt. 19. 
 
SONNET ON THE LAST VERSE OF 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 * If any man add unto thefe things, God fhall add unto him 
 the plagues that are written in this book ; and if any man fhall 
 take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God 
 fhall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the 
 holy city, and from the things that are written in this book. 
 He which teftiiieth thefe things faith. Surely I come quickly. 
 Amen. Even fo, come. Lord Jefus.' 
 
SONNET 
 
 THE LAST FE%SE OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 T AST on the golden lyre j O lafl vibration ! 
 -*— ' Still are thy dread chords quivering fearfully ! 
 
 Nor fpent and filent {hall the long found be, 
 Till, like a bridegroom, lo, with exultation, 
 Over the laft, the faithlefs generation, 
 
 Another found goes out to welcome Thee, 
 
 Thy fpoufe, the thunder long delaying ; and ye 
 Be blended in one vafl: reverberation, 
 
 Thou and the trumpet, over land and fea: 
 And the day dawns when fcarce the righteous ftands, 
 And the Great Judge, with hard avenging hands, 
 
 And infinite terror heralding His path. 
 Sheds the laft curfe over fins, and feas, and lands. 
 
 From the wine-cup of the fiercenefs of His wrath. 
 
 y//;. ^i. 19. 
 
PROTEUS. 
 
 A fcnfe fublime 
 Of fomething far more deeply interfufed, 
 Whofe dwelling is the light of fetting funs. 
 
 Eot Kai ^vi'eif.iL Kcil XoyoiQ a' afxtlfiofxai, 
 KXvwi' ju£j' avbrjy, Ofxfxa b' ov-^ opoji' to (tov. 
 
 Eur. Hipp. 84. 
 
"PROTEUS, 
 
 QOLE in blank boundlefs darknefs, dimly bright, 
 ^ The horned moon hangs o'er the viewlefs fea, 
 
 Whofe faint lips at my feet wafti fitfully 
 Up the black fliingle in whifperings of crifp light. 
 Lonely I (land, the midnight^s eremite, 
 
 Whilft my awed feaward gaze goes earneftly 
 
 Into the darknefs face to face with me — 
 The darknefs where the fea is, and the night. 
 And lo, I feel It coming again, again. 
 
 Up from the deeps as Proteus did of old. 
 Ah, wert thou like that old god of the main, 
 To whom we cry, *• Unveil !' for ever in vain, 
 
 Formlefs Defire, which no eye may behold. 
 No hands of ours can weary, and no fpell chain. 
 
1 5 2 Proteus. 
 
 Oh, bofom-friend ! familiar iMyftery' 
 
 Oh, Lurer with veiled face ! oh, Comforter ! 
 One fpirit of many forms, felt everywhere, 
 
 Who knows what manner of Spirit thou maylt be ? 
 
 None, though his moft loved haunts are full of thee — 
 Valleys where leaves and clear ftreams fleep and ftir, 
 The blue flafh of the diving kingfiftier — 
 
 The rofe whofe depth of fcent foft rains fet free — 
 Though thy wild way be with the hurricane, 
 
 Thunder and cloud ; though he behold the day 
 Cradling thee in fome lonelieft eaftern fleece 
 Of crimfon fire; and fadly fighing again 
 
 His evening foul bewail thee, dying away 
 
 To unknown lands, and gold Hefperian feas. 
 
 Lo, even now thou art very near to me. 
 But veiled, and far as ever from my prayer. 
 Still my foul feels thee, and ftrange longings there 
 
 Start at thy voice, and cry in choirs towards thee. 
 
 In my mid foul what may this tumult be — 
 Longings I cannot rule, that do not dare 
 Whole days to Itir within ihcir fecret Ian, 
 
Proteus. 
 
 153 
 
 But at thy call feek their wild Rhodope r 
 One to another in a ftrange tongue calls : 
 
 I hearken, but can catch not what they fay, 
 
 Only I hear their voices far away 
 
 Swell to a paffionate clamour at intervals. 
 
 Ah, who art thou, their god ? For what boon pray 
 Thefe, mine own inmoft foul's vague Bacchanals ? 
 
 What ! wilt Thou never be revealed to us ? 
 
 Muft our fouls ftill in blindnefs follow Thee, 
 
 Nor, borne in fwift raft over the deep fea. 
 Ever fleep even upon thy Dindymus ? 
 Not ever build Thee up a pillared houfe, 
 
 And ferve Thee with articulate liturgy ? 
 
 Never before Thine altar bend our knee, 
 And twine rare flowers in garlands round Thy brows ? 
 
 No coftlier offerings than thefe prefer — 
 Blind difcontent, infatiable unrefl:, 
 And lonely love following an unknown queft, 
 
 Sad as man's love for woman, and tenderer ? 
 Lo, thefe be all we offer — alas ! our befl : 
 
 No certain gold and frankincenfe and myrrh ! 
 
^54 
 
 'Proteus. 
 
 Do we then waver, and fear we are fools and blind ? 
 Doubt we, and afk we whither lead Thy ways ? 
 y//^, whither ! 'Nzy,fee whence, pale, doubtful face ! 
 
 Look back and fee what things we have left behind — 
 
 Anger, and blinding lufts, and loves that bind. 
 And the mean voice that to any moment fays 
 * Stay ! thou art fair;' as with unflinching pace, 
 
 Veiled One, v/e follow Thee, and truft to find 
 Hereafter, Thee unveiled, knowing and knov/n. 
 Set with a rainbow round about Thy throne. 
 
 Soul of our life's unreft ! to find in Thee 
 
 TheThingwehavelongfoughtforrowing herefrum far — 
 The Spirit of the bright and morning ftar, 
 
 The funrife, and the funfct, and the fca. 
 
 Jf:. arf. 20. 
 
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 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
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