Jew LIBRARY University of California. Class ^53 FROM DAWN TO SUNSET BOOK I THE SONG OF YOUTH BOOK II THE SONG OF MANHOOD BOOK III THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD GEORGE BARLOW Atithor of " The Pageant of Life " LONDON SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO. PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1890 mm NOTE. My best thanks are due to Messrs. Hays, Messrs. Hutchings and Romer, and Messrs. Hopkinson, for kindly allowing me to republish in this volume the following Lyrics which have been set to music, and published by them : — The Brighton Coach (page 52). Set to Music by J. Edward German. Published by Messrs. Hays, under the title of "A Wayside Story." The Old Red Coat (page 53). Set to Music by Joseph L. Roeckel. Published by Messrs. Hutchings and Romer. Moments (page 290). Set to Music by Ernest Birch. Published by Messrs. Hopkinson, under the title of '■''Among the Wildwood Bowers" CONTENTS. Dedication Prelude PAGE ix xi BOOK I. Soi THE SONG OF YOUTH. I. FIRST LOVE. PAGE PAGE lets. Sonnet XI. Fifteen. . . . 8 mnet I. A Vision . . . 3 XII. The Early Sweet- „ II. The Sea-Palace . 4 ness .... 9 „ III. The Maiden „ XIII. The Old Valley . 9 Blossom , . 4 ,, XIV. Life's Gifts . . IO „ IV. Chiefest . . . 5 ,, XV. Venus Incarnate. IO „ v. Atonement . . 5 ,, XVI. August Blossoms ii „ VI. Wedded Diversity 6 „ XVII. Venus .... ii ,, VII. The Growth of „ XVIII. God's Message . 12 Love . . . 6 „ XIX. The Calm of Art 12 „ VIII. Love's Summer . 7 Eleven Years Ago .... 13 „ IX. Real Joys . . . 7 The Immortal Past .... 16 » X. Slowly .... 8 One Look 17 II. LYRICS AND BALLADS. i. Love-Lyrics. I. The Star and the Sea . 18 II. To a Child .... 19 III. In Autumn .... 20 IV. Love's Victory ... 22 V. "The Bright Young Days " 23 VI. " My Queen and I " . 24 VII. The Land Everlasting 25 204898 iv CONTENTS. PAGE PAGE VIII. Never Alone . . . 26 XXII. Sadness .... 40 IX. "I Loved him Once!" 27 XXIII. " If Only Thou art X. Autumn Wailings . . 28 True ! " . . . 41 XI. The Same for Ever . 29 XXIV. A Dream of a XII. The Tearless Days • 30 Flower . . . 42 XIII. Changeless Love . • 31 XXV "The World was XIV. Pain's Constancy . • 32 Fair before we XV. Together. . . . • 33 Met" .... 43 XVI. "A Year Ago". . • 34 XXVI. Consummation . . 44 XVII. "If We had only XXVII. Two Angels . . . 45 Known ! " . . . • 35 XXVIII. " Twenty Summers XVIII. "Only a Dream !' • 36 Ago" .... 46 XIX. The Bird and the XXIX. Blackberry Picking . 47 Butterfly . . . • 37 XXX True Love . . . 48 XX. "Once: then no XXXI. Red Leaves and More!" . . . • 38 Green Leaves . . 49 XXL For Ever . . . • 39 11. Ballads. I. Sailor and Soldier . • 50 XV. Life's Stream . . . 67 II. The Brighton Coach • 52 XVI. Shoreham Church 68 III. The Old Red Coat . • 53 XVII. A Ballad of Winter . 70 IV. jj«I Wonder why She XVIII. The Golden Isles 7i Lingered ? " . . • 54 XIX. The City's Sadness . 72 V. "Ship Ahoy!" . • 55 XX. " If I were as old as VI. The Sea's Laughter • 57 You!" .... 73 VII. One Day in a Life • 59 XXI. The Compact . . . 74 VIII. Across Grey Billows . 60 XXII. Cross Purposes . . 75 IX. Sister Roses . . . 61 XXIII. Birds and Blossoms . 76 X. Sympathy . . . . 62 XXIV. The Golden Carp 77 XL Love on Deck . • 63 XXV. Autumn Leaves . . 7S XII. Over the Way . . . 64 XXVI. "She was but a XIII. Spring and Autumn • 65 Child" .... 79 XIV. After Death . . . . 66 XXVII. Harrow Hill . . . 80 [II. Religious Lyrics. I. 1 ' Thine Eyes shall see the King ! " . . . . 81 II. Light in Darkness . 82 III. Heavenly Whispers . . 83 IV. Church Bells .... 84 V. The Past and the Present 85 VI. The Sea's Message . . 86 VII. Golden Sheaves . VIIIr-Little Things . . IX. A Fairy Garden . X. Life's Path . . XL Home at Last XII. The Voice of the River XIII. Life's Last Gift . ■ . . 87 88 89 90 9i 92 93 CONTENTS. III. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Death 94 Uncompanioned 95 One Woman 96 Art's Martyrs 98 " He will not Know ! " . . 101 Upon the Pier at Night . . 102 Ten Years 104 Phases . . 108 Love-Sonnets. Sonnet I. The Poet's Mission 109 ,, II. Love's Endlessness no ,, III. The Union in Nature and in Music . . . no ,, IV. Supreme Desola- tion . . . . in ,, V. Compensation . in ,, VI. The " Glory of Summer . . . 112 „ VII. The Calm of Autumn . . . 112 „VIII. Faithfulness . . 113 PAGE Ode to Death 114 Hymn 120 Hymn 122 To a Young American Lady . 1 24 The Bridegroom of Venus . 126 Questionings 129 "And Yet!" 131 "Half Seen!" 134 Summer's Dream . . . . 136 Two Sonnets. I. Representative Sounds 138 II. Representative Colours 138 " Too Soon ! " 139 Love-Sonnets. Sonnet I. A Sudden Pang 140 ,, II. Rest .... 141 ,, III. Love's Yearning 141 ,, IV. "Just one Star" 142 V. God .... 142 ,, VI. God in Man. . 143 Thee First, Thee Last . . . 144 The Last Farewell .... 147 BOOK II. THE SONG OF MANHOOD. I. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Sonnets. Sonnet IX. Balaclava . . Sonnet I. The Old Earth's X. The Final Lone- Sweetness iSi liness . . . j» II. The Poet's Doom . . . I> XL Napoleon at St. Helena . . »> III. Love's Despair IS2 XII. The Retreat }> IV. Song's Immor- from Moscow tality . . . K3 >> XIII. Pantheistic j» V. England . . ISS Dreams VI. Waterloo . . 154 XIV. To the "Un- j> VII. Christ and Eng- land . . . i«?4 knowable " God . . . >> VIII. Fairy Land . . 155 »> XV. One Chance . 155 156 156 157 157 158 158 CONTENTS. PAGE Sonnet XVI. Mary Magdalene 159 „ XVII. On Reading " Les Contem- plations" of Victor Hugo 159 ,, XVIII. Louis Bonaparte 160 XIX. The Twentieth Century . . 160 XX. The City of the Dead ... 161 ,, XXI. Religion and Art. . . . 161 ,, XXII. The World's Model. . . 162 „ XXIII. The First Kiss 162 „ XXIV. The Last Kiss 163 „ XXV. The Ancient Moon . . . 163 „ XXVI. First Love. . 164 „ XXVII. Endless Being 164 ,, XXVIII. Forgotten Jesus 165 „ XXIX. ThisCentury — and the Next 165 ,, XXX. Lost Riches . 166 On the Death of Dr. dimming 167 Harrow ^.Eton at Lord's, 1881 171 A Poet's Letter to his Son . 174 Sonnet. To Philip Bourke Marston 187 Sonnet. Leon Gambetta . . 187 Venus and the Evangelists . 188 Sophia Perovskaia .... 190 Love and Time 192 Sonnet. The Crucifixion of Manhood (for Good Friday, 1880) 197 Isolina. Lines written on again reading an old Romance . 198 Post-mortem Surprises . . . 200 Sonnets. Sonnet I. On Reading "Wind- Voices," by Philip Bourke Marston 205 „ II. To P. B. M. . . 206 ,, III. "Waits till the Ship," etc. . . 206 Sonnet IV. To P. B. M. In Mid-stream . . 207 ,, V. The Victory . . 207 ,, VI. A Dream . .* . 208 „ VII. "Fight on !" . 208 „ VIII. The Lonely God- King .... 209 To the Unknown Father of Jesus 210 A Russian Woman to a Rus- sian Nihilist 212 To the Czar 214 Sonnet. Heart -ache . . . 219 Poetry and Science .... 220 Old Letters 226 Sonnet. To Ernest Birch . 234 To September 235 An Eastern Yearning . . . 238 God's Sermon 240 Fate's Equal Measure , . . 243 Moral Complexity .... 245 Four Sonnets. I., II. The Two Prophets . 248 III. The Great Change . 249 IV. Mercy and Justice . 249 This Time Last Year. Lines written in memory of Philip Bourke Marston .... 250 Satan on the Crucifixion . . 252 Fruitless Creation . . . . 257 I. The First Star ... 257 II. The Last Star .... 259 III. The Second Paradise . 261 IV. The Second Fall ... 263 Dead Flowers 271 The Singers of the Nineteenth Century 272 Love's Pleading 286 Moments 290 Love's Gifts 293 Farewell ! 296 The Shoreless Deep . . . 298 Love's Choice 302 A Poet's Vengeance . . . 304 Life and Death 309 CONTENTS. II. LOVED BEYOND WORDS. Love's Dawn. PAGE I. Rapture, — and Despair 316 II. Lines written on Easter Sunday, 1883. . . 319 III. Sonnet. The Inevitable End 321 IV. My Prayer . . . . 321 V. Sonnet. How can you Understand ? . . . 322 VI. Sonnet. " How could I help it ? " . . . 322 VII. Sonnet. This one Thing 323 VIII. Sonnet. One June-day 323 IX. Sonnet. Timeless Woe 324 X. Sonnet. The Love- Song of the Sea . . XL Sonnet. Song's Insuf- ficiency .... XII. Sonnet. The Giftless Days XIII. Sonnet. The Flower and the Night . . XIV. For Thee and Me . . XV. O Face ! . . . . XVI. Sonnet. Safe . . . XVII. Sonnet. The Deadliest Pang: 11. Love's Growth. I. Sonnet. Eternal Junes II. Sonnet. Resurrection- Light III., IV. Two Sonnets. Love and Love .... V. Sonnet. "This Change- less Grace " ... 330 133 VI. Sonnet. Life's Best Deed 333 VII. Weary VIII. Sonnet. Star-meetings IX. M If so thine eyes would not forsake the Dream ! " . . . . X. Sonnet. A Dream XI. Each Night .... XII. Love's Sorrow . . . 338 338 340 341 I., II. Spring Messages . . I. After Long Months . II. Thy Face .... III. Peace IV., V., VI. Three Sonnets. I. Love, and Dreams of Love .... II. Sweeter .... III. Love's Final Powers VII. The Only Death . . VIII. A Vision 345 IX. "Yet More Sweet" . 346 X. Art and Love . . . 347 XL God's Yearning . . 349 XII. A Dream . ... 351 XIII. "Loved Beyond Words" 352 XIV. Jacob and Rachel . . 353 III. Love's Maturity. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. 342 342 343 344 XX. XXI. XXII. XXIII. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. XXVII. Love and Art . . " Across the Stars " A Queen's Bounties The Supreme Love A Prayer for the Future .... Thy Womanhood . Love's Silence . . Out of Sight of Land Mutual Love . . Love's Recompense "The Pain of God" Man's Overthrow . A Change of Thought . . . Envoi. ' ' Never Farewell to Thee!" PAGE 324 325 325 326 327 328 329 329 334 334 335 335 336 337 354 355 356 357 358 360 361 364 366 367 368 369 37 1 373 CONTENTS. BOOK III. THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. ect The Eternal Life . . The Active Dead . . The Soul of Change The Crown of Death . The Real and the Ideal Sonnet. Charles George Gor don The Direct and the Ind Touch A Poet's Thoughts . . Love's Argument . . Past and Future . . . Woman and Nature Sonnet. To England . "The Sovereign Rose" Purity of Heart . . . Thine English Beauty . Death and Love . . Buried Flowers . . . 11 Will you get me some F Tales?" .... Dramatic Dialogues, I. II. H "I- Born upon New Year's Day A Queen's Mandate The Artist-Soul . . The Heavenly Armies Walt Whitman . . The London Streets PAGE 377 38i 382 39i 392 394 395 396 399 401 402 404 405 406 408 411 412 416 419 421 422 424 426 428 43i Gazing Backward . Nature's Tuition The Womanhood of the Future " Have Faith in Truth The Inspiring Spirits To .... The Reign of Man . 11 The Pure in Heart " The Background of Landscape Soul to Soul, in Hell Genius Double Pictures . . Self-forgetfulness Sin, — and Forgiveness After Weary Years . True Kingship . . Woman and Genius Love's Teaching A Woman's Heart . The Statue . . . Unconscious Teaching Renunciation . Beyond, ever Beyond The Border Battle . The Voyage of Death The Depth of Hell . The Eternal Death . Delusions .... Man and God . . God and Man . . 433 435 436 438 439 441 443 446 448 451 453 456 457 459 461 462 463 464 465 466 468 469 470 473 474 477 479 481 485 489 NOTES. PAGE Note A 495 „ B 496 „ C _ ... 497 UNIVERSITY OF g eviration:. TO JOHN ALEXANDER BLENCOWE, MY OLDEST FRIEND. Since the old days when you and I together Roamed over purple miles of Cornish heather And watched the arrowy trout in Cornish brooks, Through the long thirty years, 7vhat blasts have sounded From War's red tru??ipet, what fierce strifes abounded I Strange is it, as back o?ie looks ! Since the old Harrow days, what devastation Has smitten the hopes of nation after nation : — Wide Europe's fields have bled Since you and 1 laughed round the merry wicket ; When all our hopes were centred in our cricket, Nor mattered it if kings or popes fell dead ! What was their fate, compared to winning merely A racquet-match I The latter struggle cleai'ly ( Could any doubt ?) meant most to gods and men. Ah ! happy days, — ere love with all its passion Remoulds us in half sweet half-mournful fashion, — Ye come not back again. In the long years how many well-loved faces Have vanished from our gaze I What vacant places, Looking around, we see. Yet still the earth hath flowers to wreathe and cherish For us, old friend. Past hopes like dead leaves perish, And young-leaved new hopes spring round you and me. BE DIC A TION. The seasons come and go. Seaward the swallow Turns. Springs hand stars each furzy glade and hollow , The golden sumptuous autumn cornlands gleam. Sweet Summer binds her hair in leafy places. Men die, — love lives, and passion's wild embraces Change life into a dream. Great nations fall : new nations rise above them. Sad human hearts are wrung when hearts who love them Pass, at the death-god's wing. Some friendships are quite dead, — some fast are going. Some founts are dry that once were overflowing. But still our friendship is a living thing. Little we dreamed that T, the Muses wooing, Should spend my days their shy sweet gaze pursuing, — That I should bring you after thirty years These flowers of song— some where the dew yet lingers, Some gathered later on with weary fingers, Some blossoms wet with tears I Ah! when we saw the Harrow green fields spreading Bright in the sun, if life's path we are treading Had then as clearly showed, Should we have flinched, as we drew back the curtain ? God knoivs. But this, old friend, we know for certain : Our friendship has shed light on all the road. PREL UDE. Dawn to Sunset. Beneath the high majestic morning gleaming Once field and mount and moor and forest lay : O'er joyous vale and hill I wandered, dreaming That all life's hours were as the dawn of day. The sun's touch woke the golden daffodilly ; His clear beam drew the snow-drop from repose : Then first love said, " My heart is like the lily ! " And passion said, " My soul is as the rose ! " First love and passion with the sun's rich glory Mixed souls as ardent as that mighty flame. When love spake, every flower took up love's story : When passion spake, dream-flowers yet lovelier came. So love and passion took the world with sweetness, With sovereign sceptre swayed the sea and land : The flowers at love's touch won their full completeness, And passion thrilled the world through woman's hand. Woman was queen of all the young day's splendour, Her crown was woven of morning's lustrous light. At noontide love, perhaps, a shade less tender To man's heart seemed, — passion a shade less bright. Through the still afternoon, when shadows lengthened And on the hills fell silence as of grief, Though deep within the soul love's sweet force strengthened, The fierce heat scorched full many a flower and leaf. PRELUDE. Full many a dream had passed, the light of morning No longer lingered on the sapphire wave. The shadows whispered, as in sombre warning, " The sun's sea-cradle is the great sun's grave ! " The sea, from which he rose to fill the air-spaces With light that laughed to see his victory won, His joy reflected in a million faces, Will spread>-forth darkness, and engulf the sun. "As surely as the morning flamed resplendent, Full, as it seemed, of leagues of deathless light, Will evening, dark slave on the sun attendant, Turn traitor, slay the sun, and serve the night." Ah ! so the shadows whispered. But I waited, I let the dreary shadows tell their tale : I watched the flowers within the woods belated ; I saw the light upon the hill-tops fail. I saw the sun's gold chariot, wave-encumbered, Sink in those very waters whence it shone — Not long, devoid of life, the darkness slumbered : Star-torches flashed round black night's ebon throne. Then, as Love's heart made all its vast aim clearer, I saw that one pale sun had taken flight For this — that Love might bring to man's gaze nearer Unnumbered suns, and never-ending light. BOOK I. THE SONG OF YOUTH, i. FIRST LOVE. D.-S. v OF THE UNIVERSITY OF SONNETS. SONNET I. A VISION. Once clear and white the mortal woman came, And softly filled the silent yearning room With a superb exuberance of bloom, A force of sweetness burning like a flame. My soul leapt forth, her passionate soul to claim : A sense as of her presence smote the gloom : I saw her eyes, and heard her lips say, " Come ! " I rose, and almost called her by her name. She filled the room ; and, as for me, I wept And closed my eyes, and opened them again To find her still before me, — then I slept : But through my sleep I felt her eyes remain Watching, till rapture deepened into pain Almost, while pnward hours like ages crept. THE SOXG OF YOUTH. SONNET II. THE SEA-PALACE. In the fair days of youth I did behold One standing on the sea-shore, and her face Smote me with sudden rapture. Then that place, O'er which the sea-wind travelled gaunt and cold, Became as a sweet palace wrought of gold And chiselled into cunning lines of grace ; And in its heart a fountain I could trace, And many a pillar of no mortal mould. And still, when I am wandering by the sea, The wild winds thrill me with a sudden tune, Bringing that palace back again to me, And the early crescent of love's rising moon : "Surely," I whisper, "I shall meet her soon, And pass those palace-gates triumphantly ! " SONNET III. THE MAIDEN BLOSSOM. My lady's soul is maidenly and pure : It has not flowered — it is divine as yet With God's first blessing, with fresh dewdrops wet ; The blossom waits for true love to secure. All sorrow passes from me, all regret, For now I know the paths of God are sure, And that the glances soft that once I met Are mine for ever, — so I but endure. All hardness, therefore, in this perfect faith, That so illumines and transfigures death, I can make light of, suffering to the end : Now that I know that holy God is true, Life's clouds have parted, and the glad bright blue Shows God's face as the lost face of a friend. FIRST LOVE. SONNET IV. CHIEFEST. If any man would win a crown to last, First let his inmost spirit of love be pure, — First let him life's high mountain-airs endure, And face the thunder and the midnight blast. When this world's restless seas are safely past There shall be pleasure, and there shall be praise, And fame perhaps, and garlands of green bays, And recompense; but such flowers spring not fast. Who would be first, must fight the fight most hard ; In labours and in sorrows must abound ; Smooth things and easy must his soul discard ; In battle's red front must his sword-stroke sound : — Who would be chiefest in the world's regard, W T ith the world's supreme sorrow must be crowned. SONNET V. ATONEMENT. It is thy sorrow, lady, that at last Shall amply and with certitude repay : My cross shall draw thee towards me, — thou shalt say " I nailed him there, my folly nailed him fast To this accursed wood one bitter day, Far-off but unforgotten, in our past : I drove the nails in, while he gazed aghast ; Then left him there to wear the years away." When thou dost see and say this gracious thing, Self-sentenced, sad, repentant, — when thine eyes Look large and lovely as the great drops rise Therein, and round the downcast lashes cling, Those tears shall be as pearls within my crown. Thou didst the wrong. Thou only canst atone ! THE SONG OF YOUTH. SONNET VI. WEDDED DIVERSITY. Joined, yet not hopelessly confused or blended, Shall spirit-lovers in their union be. If one fair shape were lost, desire were ended, — Then would ensue unglad satiety. High individual power shall be extended ; Though two are one, yet separate thoughts shall mingle, As through the spirit-lips the rich throbs tingle, — The thoughts that here on separate forms depended. Not mixed, not swallowed up, but grand as ever Shall be the spirit-body of my bride : Not brought too near to kiss, the sweet eyes never Obscured, but brightened rather, — deified ; The sweet lips still a separate perfect flower ; The pure mind still an independent power. SONNET VII. THE GROWTH OF LOVE. I am as one who, threading tropic woods The first time, wondered at the marvels fair That met his yearning vision everywhere Through the green splendid tangled solitudes, — Who worshipped in that dense and torrid air Some wonderful white blossom by the way, Ready to kiss with tender lips each spray That laughed beneath the blue heavens' burning glare. Just as he worshipped wildly, — yet at last, When the sweet days of distant awe were past, Plucked tenderly the blossom for his own, — So hold I now my snow-white bud too near For the old tremulous glance, the old sweet fear, Since worship into living love has grown. FIRST LOVE. SONNET VIII. LOVE'S SUMMER. The spring has passed, — the spring-time of my strain, The spring of thy fair life. Now summer round us Beams, and the laughing- eyed swift loves have found us Who gaily tread in his impassioned train. Thine hair is fragrant with the smell of flowers Still, — but no flowers of simpler spring remain ; Still art thou beauteous as in those first hours Of love, — but no lost hours again we gain. We pass towards perfect summer. Our delight Is hidden for us among the full-leaved trees, And 'mid the passion of the August night, And by the moonlit wonderful still seas Of August : thine imperial face is bright With summer thoughts and ripest ecstasies ! SONNET IX. REAL JOYS. No vision, sweet but formless, shall be mine : No vision, pale and bloodless, in the end, — Thine own bright soul the Lord of love shall send, With mine own spirit to mingle and combine, Forming one spirit imperishable, divine, Serene, superb, ecstatic. Then the real Pleasure shall utterly surpass the ideal Pure hope that heaven has given us for a sign. The real undreamed-of joys of thine embrace, And all the glory of thy passionate face, I then shall win ; and pass beyond regret. I tarry for that ultimate high grace Which round me robes of victory shall place, And on my forehead starry triumph set. THE SONG OF YOUTH. SONNET X. SLOWLY. Slowly my song grows, — as from day to day I add fresh flowers of ever-intenser thought ; Bright buds the calm of riper age has brought, Soft violets, roses, red leaves, — many a spray Rich with the flying tints of autumn gay, Or blossoms in dense woods of summer sought ; — Blue hyacinths and crocus-petals fraught With spring, and spikes of frost from winter grey. Slowly my song grows. To each word a year Of patient and of earnest thought I give, If haply, when the world's last leaf is sere, Thy songs may still be spring-sweet, lady dear ! If haply, in pure music meet to live, I may immortalize thy laughter clear. SONNET XI. FIFTEEN. When first I saw thee, lady of my dreams, And watched love's sunrise shed its ardent gold O'er hill and valley and wild purple wold — The golden light which once superbly gleams, Then fades for ever ; when, beside the streams Of that fair Northern many-tinted sea, Thy girlish tender presence shone on me, But fifteen years had crowned thee with sunbeams. And Dante's Beatrice was but fifteen ! And her sweet deathless eyes were soft sea-green When first she stood before him in the way ; — So wast thou girl-soft, simple and divine, When first thy young yet timeless glance met mine, — Green, mixed with soft sea-shadows of brown-grey. FIRST LOVE. 9 SONNET XII. THE EARLY SWEETNESS. A rose was blooming as I passed along The gentle roads of youth towards early toil : A perfect flower it was, without a soil, And round it all the gracious scent was strong. To gather it thus early had been wrong, — So, well content, I hastened on my way, Devoting till the evening of the day All thoughts and passionate labour to my song. But in the evening, when I thought the hour For holy gathering of the fragrant flower Approached, — rude other hands had robbed the stem ; Yet though these grasp the crimson rose mature, Her fragrance in life's morning, strangely pure, Was given to me, thank God ! — not given, to them. SONNET XIII. THE OLD VALLEY. Ah ! still the old waves upon the gold sand breaking, And still the old windy cliff-side and the sky, Unchanged from the old lost days when you and I Clasped in sweet dreams too sweet and soft for waking Wandered, — and watched the salt free sea-wind shaking The tufted heads of clover and of grass. Now what is left us, as towards death we pass ? Sorrow, and flowerless days, and lone heart-aching ! Ah ! still the old valley, — and the fern-leaves yonder And all the clustered grace of meadow-sweet ! Do never Winter's spears of snowy sleet Torture the glades ? Are the black wings of thunder Forbidden now to dash the fronds asunder, That all is changeless still though we shall ne'er, Unchanged, be there ! THE SONG OF YOUTH. SONNET XIV. LIFE'S GIFTS. When I grow grey and men shall say to me, " What was the worth of living, truly told? — Lo ! thou hast lived thy life out ; thou art old ; Thou hast gathered fruit from many a green-leafed tree, And kissed love's lips by many a summer sea, And twined soft hands in locks of shining gold :— But all thy days are dead days now, behold ! Life passes onward, — what is life to thee ? " Then will I answer, — as thy gracious eyes, Love, gleam upon me from dim far-off skies, — " Life had its endless deathless charm, — and still That charm weaves rapture round me at my will. Life has its glory : — for I have seen Thee; And roses, — and June sunsets, — and the sea." SONNET xv. VENUS INCARNATE. Upon the old cliff thou stood'st with wondrous eyes Wherethrough the timeless soul of Venus shone ; And I, — I knew myself thy bard alone Till very death turns faint of heart and dies. Thy soul was mingled with the pale-blue skies, And the far dark-blue waters were thy throne, And through thy voice spake Venus' silver tone ; Robed wast thou, mortal, in immortal wise. So thou dost hold my soul for evermore, O Venus-lady, in thy tender Tiands, Which held innumerable souls of yore And swayed the unsearchable and ancient lands, — Now clasping my soul where grey breakers roar And charge along the vapour-shrouded sands. FIRST LOVE. ] SONNET XVI. AUGUST BLOSSOMS. These are late August blossoms. Spring's glad days Lie far behind us ; early dreams have fled. Not for us flames the golden crocus-bed : No tender snow-drops lift their gentle gaze. Roses are round us still, — and lily-sprays Their fierce white fragrance on the warm airs shed ; Not all the flowers of sunburnt fields are dead, Though dead is all the bloom that once was May's. Across the years, across the weary years, Alice, sweet early love, I look to thee, And, gazing through a gathering mist of tears, I watch the flower-crowned cliff, the sun-crowned sea Robed in strange light, thy girlish form appears, And thine eyes draw and thine hand beckons me. SONNET XVII. VENUS. What do they tell thee of me, — that I sing Of white-armed Venus? that in English air I find alone the old Greek visions fair? That love-gifts towards the old dead gods I bring ? Oh, thou art Venus ! Linger ever there, Where the wind touches with light-kissing wing Thy beautiful brown unforgotten hair : Be thou the goddess of the world's first spring | Venus was goddess in the old sweet days, And through the sunlit foam of Grecian bays Shone radiant and divine her tender limbs. So thou art goddess of the days when I, Greek-souled and ardent, laughed to see the sky So blue, and sang to it with marriage-hymns. 12 THE SONG OF YOUTH. SONNET XVIII. GOD'S MESSAGE. And have they told thee that I've ceased to hold The faith in God, — that deadliest war I wage With creeds and Churches in this struggling age, And sing the future's song with lips made bold ? Oh, by the sea, and by the sunset's gold, And by the summer fields of far-spread flowers, And by grey wintry rocks and soft green bowers, By Nature's wealth unmeasured and untold, By all these things, I charge thee, have no fear ! — Is God the less a strong God unto me Because my soul would have him very near, And would be crowned with wild air of the sea — Would in no stifling church his message hear, But where his stars shine and his winds are free ? SONNET XIX. THE CALM OF ART. Nought breaks the high majestic calm of Art : Not storm, nor shipwreck, nor the angry sea, Nor clouds wherethrough the thunders charge and flee, Nor sounds whereat the stricken nations start. — Art sits within her temple, sorrow-free, Unmoved and silent. When mad armies march, Her soft eyes watch the far-stretched rainbow arch, Or tuft of furze coquetting with the bee. All these things move her not. — Yet can she wake, Alive and breathless, all her heart on fire, Her swift hand seeking her forgotten lyre : Alice ! one word of thine hath power to make Art's sweet lips tremble, — as the unruffled lake Breaks into ripples at the wind's desire. ELEVEN YEARS AGO. Eleven years since all the night was filled With thee, and at thy spirit-touch I thrilled, Long years of pain. Ah ! wilt thou never, blossom of my dream, Within the palace of my slumber gleam, Never again ? All seems so far, so long ago, The sweet joy that I once did know ! Thou earnest : and the solemn night was hushed, And on thy face the rose of passion blushed, So pure and fair ; And I was wrapt in ecstasy sublime, And wafted upward towards an unknown clime Of lordlier air ; And yet it seems so far to-day. The heavens were blue. They are so grey ! Thou earnest : and before thy feet fell dead Each sin and terror, and thy queenly head Lay close to mine ; And all the music of our ancient shore Seemed round about our listening hearts to pour A chant divine. O Alice, o'er eleven years The winged thought flies and wakens tears. 13 14 THE SONG OF YOUTH. Thou earnest. — Ah, what days have since been ours ! Thorns I have gathered. Hast thou gathered flowers ? How long and strange The gloomy sun-forgotten years have been, As day passed day and scene succeeded scene With little change. It seemeth now a far-off thing, That night when all the stars did sing ! Thou wilt come ? When the sunset o'er the sea Brightens to solemn gold, wilt thou not be Beside the waves ? When all the flowers of life are pale and dead, Wilt thou not stand beside the last flower's head With touch that saves ? I missed thee at life's dawn. Shall I Possess thee once before I die ? Thou wilt come. Surely when the roses die, And never more the lily's laugh is nigh, In autumn days, — When the great red leaves burn with autumn fire, As I with lifelong measureless desire, The woodland ways Will smile to see thee pass along, And, almost, wake to summer song ! FIRST LOVE. 15 Thine eyes of old were wet with tender love ; Passion fell like an aureole from above Upon thy brow : How is it with thee now long years have seen Our forest haunts devoid of bard and queen, Most songless now ? Wilt thou for ever tarry, sweet ? Is it not time that hands should meet ? Thou earnest through the night. Wilt thou not come When all the blossoms of long labour bloom Around thy path ? Lo ! for the eleven long years I, day and night, Have laboured, Alice, for thy soul's delight, And faced the wrath Of time, and conquered time, I deem : Make love's truth sweeter than a dream ! THE IMMORTAL PAST. The gold-brown ripples curling by the banks Of Esk ; the meadow-sweet in tufted ranks ; The vast eternal ocean's moonlit swell ; The purple heather broidering moor and fell ; The green rich grass j the blossoms by the way j All that Love saw in Love's one perfect day ; The yellow laughing corn ; the fern-lined vale ; Each summer gauzy cloud ; each ship's white sail ; All these for ever in my song abide — The grey or brown cliffs sloping to the tide ; The great black prows that clove the yielding deep ; The clustering stars that climbed the heavenly steep ; The moon that rose behind the mystic towers ; The gentle ghosts of each day's gathered flowers ; All these are in my song, — and thou art there, Tender to me alone, — to all hearts fair. 16 ONE LOOK. Have not I been as Love through all these years, and given The bloom of flowers and light of stars to thee ? Have not I raised thee high within song's bright-blue heaven? What hast thou given to me ? Lo ! flower on flower and star on star the glad months bring thee, And songs on songs have floated o'er the sea. My harp were traitor indeed, if ever it failed to sing thee : What wilt thou give to me ? The flowers of fourteen years, and all their love and laughter j The singing leaves of every green spring-tree ; These have I given, — and more. And now what cometh after? Just one swift look for me ! Just one look from the eyes that smote my youth and slew me ; That now will leave not even my manhood free. Just one swift flash of light that, lightning-like, darts through me: This, — and no more for me. For songs and flowers and love, and pain that Christ might covet, — Pain deep as fathomless eternity, — Thy face to see once more, with hardly time to love it, — This, this is given to me ! For limitless strong love, and shoreless wild devotion, What meet reward, love, think'st thou can there be ? What can the river give to the white-crested ocean ? Trust ! Give that trust to me. d.-s. * c. II. LYRICS AND BALLADS. I. LOVE-LYRICS. i. THE STAR AND THE SEA. I wandered along the meadows ; The buttercups were bright, And over the stream the swallow Dashed in his headlong flight. The reed and the iris blossomed, The thrush and the blackbird sang, And over the golden pebbles The ripples danced and rang. The world was full of sunlight, And full of a dream of rest ; The bright sun gilded the lilies And the dragon-fly's glowing crest. But my heart was full of anguish ; In vain the flow T ers were fair j In vain the light stream rippled — It only said " Despair." For my love was far— oh, further In heart, so I thought, from me Than the tiniest star is distant From its image in the sea. Dark thoughts had come between us And divided her heart from me, And taken her further, oh, further Than the star is from the sea. II. TO A CHILD. happy child whose laughter Rings down the lanes of May, Thou hast the whole hereafter Spread out for toil and play. 1 envy thee thy May-time Of griefless joy and rest : My manhood has no playtime ! Your boyhood 's much the best ! As thou advancest slowly Along the brightening way, Fair love, white-winged and holy, Will meet thee, on a day. I envy thee thy treasure Of love that is to be, For love left out the pleasure, But kept the pain for me ! Yet there may come a season When, spent with joy and grief, And tired of love and treason And summers sweet and brief- - A time may come, my hearer, In years that are to be, When, longing death were nearer, Thy heart will envy me ! III. IN AUTUMN. If thou and I indeed must part, If even the sweetest days must close, If time that severs rose from rose Must also sever heart from heart, — Oh, then not let our parting be In Spring, that were too hard to bear ! For then the copses ring with glee, A thousand blossoms scent the air. When Spring's glad myriad voices Sing love-songs of the heart, When every bird rejoices, It were too sad to part ! If thou and I must face the night, The darkness where hopes earthly end,- ^If, having called me " sweetest friend," Thou yet must vanish from my sight, — Oh, then let not our parting be In Summer, that were worse to bear ! Such glory rests upon the sea ; This world is then so wondrous fair. When every hour discloses More fully Summer's heart To Summer's countless roses, Twere sadder still to part ! IN AUTUMN. If thou and I must face the fate So many souls have faced before, And, having met, must meet no more, And, having loved, have loved too late, — Oh, let our maddening parting be In Autumn. If we part at last, Let it be when the winds at sea Thunder " Despair " in every blast ! When wild red leaves are flying, Each bleeding at the heart, Then is the time for sighing, Then is the time to part ! IV. LOVE'S VICTORY. Love conquers all ! Love conquers all ! Though Fate and Time are strong, In Love we trust, on Love we call, And Love inspires our song. The waves are high, the storm is fierre, And starless seems the night ; But Love can bid the clouds disperse And change the gloom to light. Love conquers all ! Love conquers all ! Between black prison-bars And over many a prison-wall He sends his silent stars. Deep peace to weary hearts Love gives ; Love conquers grief and pain : Love finds the lost, and parted lives Love joins in one again. If all the flowers of earth were dead, And frozen were the sun, Still Love would lift his golden head And yield his post to none. A thousand foes have challenged Love, But every foe shall fall : Unmeasured victor Love shall prove, For Love shall conquer all ! V. "THE BRIGHT YOUNG DAYS." Long life brings many a blessing ; With the years man's wisdom grows : There are world-wide wrongs for redressing, There are noble truths to disclose. Yet ever man's heart keeps turning, With a strange and a fathomless yearning, To the beautiful bright young days When the blue sea laughed in the bays, — When the sunlight gilded the meadows, In the beautiful bright young days ! There is love for the old in their season (Bright gold is the autumn grain) — But the love that knew nothing of reason, Will it ever be with us again ? No : ever man's heart keeps turning With a wild gaze tearful and burning To the love of the sweet young days, For the tenderest laughter is May's, — The rich forest-gold is October's But the rose and its splendour are May's ! So the songs that will perish never, Be the world's age what it may, That will haunt men's hearts for ever Till the ashes of life turn grey, Are the beautiful songs of yearning Where the soul is swift and burning, The songs of the bright young days Ere flowers forsook the ways, — The songs of the days that are vanished, The beautiful bright young days ! VI. "MY QUEEN AND I." We walked the woods, ray queen and I ; The air was bright with spring : Warm was the sun^and blue the sky, And clear the lark did sing. 11 O love, will you be ever true ? " 11 Ay, true till death ! " she said ; " True, till the sun forsakes the sky, Till every star is dead." She spoke, and looked up with a sigh : And then we smiled, my queen and I ! To-day we walked through waving corn ; Our path lay through the gold : It was a perfect August morn, Sweet as that morn of old. We strolled along, my wife and I : " How short life seems," she said ; " How sad to think that love must die, As spring-flowers all are dead." I heard, and looked down with a sigh : And then we smiled, my queen and I ! And one day through life's autumn woods, With golden leaves around, Beneath grey sky my love and I Shall wander, calm and crowned : Crowned, not with summer dreams that melt When sets the summer sun, But with a sweetness only felt When wedded hearts grow one. Our looks will meet without a sigh When we grow old, my queen and I ! vi r. THE LAND EVERLASTING. The fairest things, alas ! are ever fleetest ; How glad, and yet how short, is sunny May : For just one hour the rose is at its sweetest ; The violet's perfume lasts but for a day. For some short weeks the waves are at their brightest ; The stars grow pale within the morning air : One day the chestnut-bloom is at its whitest — The next day sees it wither and despair. And so with love. — It has its perfect splendour, Its summer glory, when the twain hearts meet : Its perfect hour of June, its moment tender, Its sudden rapture, and its perfume sweet. But ah ! it follows the departing roses ; It trembles when the thunder smites the sky : At autumn airs its fragrant blossom closes; At touch of wintry wind its petals die. And yet beyond the days of pain and sadness, Beyond time's seasons full of clouds and grief, There must be somewhere everlasting gladness, — A heaven that sees no red-stained autumn leaf. — The loved souls who have left us travel thither ; Within the gateways of that heaven they stand : Ah, there the roses never pale nor wither ! There is no loveless winter in that land ! VIII. NEVER ALONE. Lo ! thou hast taught me, fairy queen, How bright this world can be ! Love fills with beauty every scene, And lights to blue the sea. The throstle sings of love by day, The nightingale by night : Love was the word that Eden heard When first the dark grew light. If I had never seen thy face, Thy voice had never heard, Could sunshine smile in any place ? Would spring hear any bird ? The loveliest scene were sad, methinks, If thou, love, wert not there : The reeds upon the river-brinks Would whisper, " We despair ! " But oh ! I am not left alone. The lone sun may despair, The moon may seek her lonely throne And find no helpmate there, The stars may set, but never yet Will true love cease Ao reign : When love is true, each morn anew Sweet love is born again ! "I LOVED HIM OxNCE." " Yes, I did love him very much " — Are any words so sad? The flower that loved the sun's bright touch, That evermore was glad, — The flower that loved the golden morn Is pale and sad at eve : In place of sweet love enters scorn ; The sun's heart can deceive. " I loved him once. But now, ah ! now, My heart has sorely changed. We seem apart, I know not how ; Divided and estranged. Ah ! once the merry sea was blue : It seems a long time past ! I thought the joyous tints were true ; I thought its calm would last." Oh, say not so ! Can love not heal The wound love's hand has wrought ? Will love not list to love's appeal ? E'en love once set at nought. — " I loved him once ! " Oh, love him still, And by long loving save. Love with a love no time can chill, And love beyond the grave ! AUTUMN WAILINGS. When youth is gone, and love is gone, What lights the woodland way ? October's sunset, chill and wan ; The light of Autumn grey. When youth is gone, and love is fled, For us the world might well be dead ! When youth is gone, — as dead leaves go Along the autumnal blast, — Then first ourselves we seem to know What all shall know at last ; The autumn weariness of life, Past love and labour, zeal and strife. When love is gone, — as blossoms fade, Fade swiftly one by one, — > Our tired hearts tremble, as cold shade Replaces summer sun. When youth and love alike are fled, The brain lives on, the heart is dead. XI. THE SAME FOR EVER. The lilies shed their petals At every set of sun ; The weary grey dust settles Upon them, one by one ; And still, as we grow older, (Yes, so it sometimes seems !) Heart after heart turns colder ; Love only lived in dreams. And yet this darkling message Most surely is not all ? A sign, an ominous presage That every flower shall fall ? — Love mocks pale Time's endeavour, And woman still is true ; Her heart's the same for ever, Be life's skies grey or blue ! The lover knows, and clearly. That endless suns may rise, But only far more dearly He loves the changeless eyes. Lives blend and grow completer While dying summers gleam, And late love 's even sweeter Than first love's tender dream ! XII. THE TEARLESS DAYS. Was it sweet to have lived, I wonder, In the days when the world was young? When, parting the boughs in sunder, In the forest the wood-nymph sung ? Was it sweet, in the woods' recesses, To mark 'neath a moonlit sky The glitter of Venus' tresses As the queen and her train swept by ? She must have been grand and peerless, Queen Venus, with Love in her train. Then the eyes of the world were tearless : Will they ever be tearless again ? Our woods and our groves are chilly, The goddess is no more there : 'Mid our rocks and regions hilly We mark not the light of her hair. But still on the hedge there are roses, There is light in our true love's eyes ; In the woods there are wild-flower posies, And the sun still smiles in the skies. Not a dark cloud threatens, with thunder, Not a white storm-wave gives tongue : Shall we ever grow old, I wonder, While the love in our hearts is young? XIII. CHANGELESS LOVE. The bloom is fair upon the hawthorn hedges ; The throstles sing from many a budding spray ; Blue ripples laugh along the river-edges ; The blue sky seems to whisper, " It is May ! " And yet the thought of tawny-leaved September Dismays the fancy with a touch of gloom : Ay, and a mem'ry of old wild November, Whose storm-winds trumpet forth pale Autumn's doom. When love is at its sweetest, in its season, When it is full of summer joy and mirth, There sometimes comes the thought, "In love is treason : Not always Summer sways the green-robed earth." The bloom is bright upon the garden roses ; Their red lips whisper, " Love is king to-day " : Man's heart upon love's word in faith reposes, Yet even love, so trusted, can betray. Oh ! is there not some heart which never changes, Some sympathy eternal and divine, Some love that time nor weakens nor estranges ? O sweetheart, let such changeless love be thine ! Then, whether storm-winds wail through wild November, Or whether August splendour floods the sky, Glad past all words it will be to remember That, come what will, sweet love can never die. XIV. PAIN'S CONSTANCY. When the thought of our joys forsakes us The thought of our sadness clings. Its lovers and friends grief makes us, But joy is a spirit with wings. The place where we met is forgotten Though the marvellous rose grew there j But the meadow-sweet where we parted Wins its sweetness from despair. The stars of the past have a lustre Outshining the light of the sun : The dreams of our youth will haunt us Till our life's whole race is run. Ay, ever in pale December, When the fires of Christmas glow, The dream that our hearts remember Is the dream of long ago. There is friendship in countless faces ; There is true sweet love in a few ; There are blossoms in endless places ; Each summer brings skies of blue : But the flowers our young hands gathered Are the sweetest flowers that be, And the faces we love for ever Are the faces we never shall see ! XV. TOGETHER. They were young and glad together In the dawn of life's first May, When in bright and sunny weather Sang the birds from every spray. Clear the heaven shone out above them ; Blue and radiant were the skies : All things living seemed to love them, And the Spring gleamed in her eyes. Through life's Summer still together, Hand in hand and heart to heart, They have borne the sultry weather And have watched the days depart. Still she is to him the maiden Who stepped daintily of old Through the grass, her apron laden With bright buttercups of gold. Still together, still together, They will face life's autumn hours : In the grim November weather Love will strew their path with flowers. For their love has ever brightened Since the first long loving day, And their happiness has heightened, Though their hair is growing grey ! D.-S. XVI. "A YEAR AGO." A year ago we stood beneath the temple-pillars white, And watched the star-ships slowly sail across the purple night. He asked me, "Did I love him?" Oh, the answer that I gave ! A woman loves but once on earth, but once beyond the grave. A year ago ! a year ago ! He has forgotten quite. But I remember every word of love we spoke that night. A year ago ! a year ago ! A little while it seems ; And yet 'tis long enough to prove that woman's hopes are dreams. I stand again to-night beside the blue ^Egean wave : Again the stars shine out — they seem to shine above my grave. For oh, a woman loves but once ! When once her soul is given, She cannot love again on earth . . . she cannot love in heaven. To-night, perhaps, 'neath other stars, beside another sea, He breathes into another's ear the words he spake to me. The cold stars sail across the sky, the cold blue ripples break : I loved the stars and wavelets once . . . but only for his sake. O love, my tenderest hopes were dreams, and now the dreams depart : You gave me passion for an hour, but I gave you my heart. - university OF XVII. "IF WE HAD ONLY KNOWN!" " If we had only known in time, All had been different then ! " So goes the old unceasing plaint Of women and of men. "If only we had known the heart Our cruel coldness broke ! If we had known what words can do, Before we spoke ! " " If I had known ! " so says the shower In sorrow to the rose. But what use is it to the flower That sank 'neath cruel blows ? " If I had known ! " the stormy wind Says to the scattered spray. " If I had only known ! " each heart Laments to-day. O love, love, love, if I had known, If you had known as well, How happy might each heart have been, — Glad past all power to tell ! — If only human hearts could know, Could read the future plain, Peace would be regnant here below Instead of pain ! XVIII. "ONLY A DREAM!" I dreamed I was walking with you, love, By a wonderful summer sea : The laughing waves were blue, love, And oh ! you smiled on me. But when the morning came, love, The morning's cold white gleam, The vision had vanished, had vanished — Behold, it was only a dream ! Then all sweet things seemed dreams, love The life of the flewers and the trees, The light of the moon that gleams, love, The song of the summer breeze. The scent of the rose was a fancy, The green grass glittered in vain ; The royal robe of the pansy Was only a purple stain. But now I am walking with you, love, Though only along the street : No wonderful sea is blue, love, No scent on the airs is sweet. But yet I am walking with you, love, Your dark eyes softenlind gleam ; If I asked you to give me your heart, love, Would it be only a dream ? XIX. THE BIRD AND THE BUTTERFLY. Over the garden blossoms In young life's early hours A butterfly flew, and his wondrous hue Outglittered the fairest flowers. White, and red, and velvet-black — So were his grand robes wrought : I never had seen such gorgeous sheen, It dazzled and outstripped thought. Again and again the bright fly came, But the wonder never was quite the same. Over the blue stream-ripples In young life's early days A bluer gleam flashed by like a dream, And it riveted quite my gaze. Just a kingfisher ! nothing more — But I thought, in my childish dream, That straight from the dell where the fairies dwell Came that wonderful azure gleam ; For I never believed the earth could bear A thing so pure or a thing so fair. Kingfisher, butterfly, never again Will their glory seem the same ! The fairy gleam was in that first dream When each for the first time came. — So it is with all sweet things on earth, And with all the joys we plan j Love once shines bright — then it vanishes quite, And it never comes back to man. Light as a butterfly, swift as a bird, Away it flashes .without a word ! XX. "ONCE: THEN NO MORE!" Once falls love's sunlight o'er the laughing billows ; Once shines blue heaven upon youth's golden shore ; Once love finds Eden 'mid our oaks and willows ; Once : then no more ! Once perfect passion wakens sweet emotion ; Once heaven is stormed, we tread the jewelled floor; One glimpse we gain of an immortal ocean, One glimpse — no more. One glance beyond death to the region deathless ; One marvellous dream of life, then life is o'er ; One gasp of joy that leaves the spent soul breathless, Just this — no more. XXI. FOR EVER. The silver clouds will ever bend Above the grass, whose tender green Will ever glow and ever lend The golden springs their softer sheen. Beauty of hill and lake and tree Will wax and wane for evermore : Young eyes will watch the same blue sea Break on the same white shore. But, sweetheart, what of you and me ? Time presses on us, we grow old. We are not fadeless, like the sea, Nor deathless, like the sunset's gold. New cheeks will flush with love most sweet When time with silver streaks our hair : New eager love-lips will repeat Love's tale, and find life fair. What is immortal ? not the kiss Of passionate love, though this be fond, But something deeper — even the bliss Of faithful love that looks beyond. True love can see beyond the gloom, Can pierce the depths of frozen sky : True love begins its summer bloom When false loves fade and die. XXII. SADNESS. The fruit once fallen is nothing to the bough : The seed once shed is nothing to the flower. Where golden corn once waved, now grides the plough. The loveliest rose or face lasts just one perfect hour. The sweetest moments pass. Another sun Shall shine upon the joys that are to be. Green leaves shall glitter, when our life is done. The stars shall worship still the snowy-crested sea. Life is immortal. But the lives of men Are frail and weak and fugitive indeed. They wither like the dry grass in the fen, And other lives are born, and other loves succeed. XXIII. "IF ONLY THOU ART TRUE!" If only a single Rose is left, Why should the Summer pine ? A blade of grass in a rocky cleft ; A single star to shine. — Why should I sorrow if all be lost, If only thou art mine ? If only a single Bluebell gleams Bright on the barren heath, Still of that flower the Summer dreams, Not of his August wreath. — Why should I sorrow, if thou art mine, Love, beyond change and death ? If only once on a wintry day The sun shines forth in the blue, He gladdens the groves till they laugh as in May And dream of the touch of the dew. — Why should I sorrow if all be false, If only thou art true ? XXIV. A DREAM OF A FLOWER. I dreamed a wonderful dream of a flower. On the hillside green it grew : But the tongue would fail, nor has brush the power To paint that flower for you. It scented the hillside far and wide, And scented the fields of corn : Its odour was sweet through the tall gold wheat, And sweet on the airs of morn. And when I woke, I marvelled : My soul seemed breathing still A fragrance never lavished On mortal grove or hill. And never, till love came down from above With its rapture and despair, Did I know what it meant, — nor God's intent When he sent that dream so fair. T was as if God said, " The flower so sweet That upon the hill did gleam Was love ; for love is my tenderest flower, And only blooms in a dream ! " And still I see the blossom, And still the scent is there ; And sometimes it brings gladness, But oftener despair. XXV. "THE WORLD WAS FAIR BEFORE WE MET." The world was fair before we met, The mountain-lakes were blue, The sun in golden glory set, Soft fell the silver dew ; The stars came glimmering one by one And made all heaven divine, Till flashed again the monarch sun Upon the ocean-line. But, when you came, how fairer far Was every sunny gleam : Love thrilled the heaven, and every star Became a passionate dream. The rose stole colour from your lips ; The lily-buds were fain To match those fairy finger-tips ; The song-birds sang in vain ! And now, if you must pass and go, , What is there left to sing ? Would life be glad, without the glow Of green leaves in the spring ? O angel with the woman's face, Bid not sweet love depart ; Let time's hand sever stars from space, But never heart from heart ! XXVI. CONSUMMATION. Life was full of sweet emotion When the spring of life was fair : Bright blue shone the summer ocean ; Songs of throstles charmed the air. Passing through the fields one day, Every hedge was rich with may, Sweetening, silvering, every spray. Followed fast the summer's glory, Sheen of lily, flame of rose : Flower by flower took up the story, Till the tired eye claimed repose. Though the summer's touch could thrill Flower and leaf and wave and hill, Something sweet was missing still. Ah, my queen, my sovereign sweetness, When thy fairy glance I knew, Life attained its full completeness And the rose its tenderest hue ! All things waited, pale, undone — As the stars his heart has won Watch the sea-line for the sun. XXVII. TWO ANGELS. I would not have thee an angel, dear ! Thou then wouldst leave ray side : Thy wings would carry thee far from here Through starlit skies and wide. I would not have thee an angel quite — At least not yet, my own ! Thy wings might carry thee out of sight, And leave me here alone. An angel — oh, that would be dull ! No rides together then ! No picnics by the mountain pool, Nor strolls in the moonlit glen ! An angel's face might beauteous be, An angel's glance most bright : Away with the foolish thought ! Give me Thy soft eyes' loving light. O woman's face, turn not away To heavenly skies and far, But be upon earth — yes, every day — My heavenly one sweet star. Then, when death comes, as come it must, Our souls shall not despair : We'll love once more in heaven, I trust, And both be angels there ! XXVIII. "TWENTY SUMMERS AGO." Twenty summers ago, my darling, Twenty summers ago — All was beautiful then, my darling, Light and rapture and glow. You were my own sweet first love, darling, Queen of the long ago, Twenty long sad summers behind us, Twenty summers ago ! Still the waters are blue, my darling, Still the old streams flow : Green leaves wave in the woods, my darling, Whither we used to go. Have you quite forgotten me, darling ? Nay, it is hardly so. Twenty summers are nothing, nothing — Sunbeams that come and go ! Think of me once to-day, my darling, As in the long ago. Think of the suns that shone and vanished Twenty summers ago. Dream once more of our youth, my darling, Dream of it tenderly. Oh, Sweetly we dreamed — was it really, darling, Twenty summers ago ? XXIX. BLACKBERRY PICKING. How happy we were in the deep green wood, Picking blackberries, you and I ! Round us the heather and tall ferns stood : Over us shone the sky. Rich and ripe in the bramble-copse The tempting blackberries gleamed : In the dark-green feathery fir-tree tops The wood-doves cooed and dreamed. Far away is the deep green wood And the silent ferny glen Where happy and hand-in-hand we stood, Craving for nothing then. Far away that happy day Seems in the sunlit past : Why will never a pleasure stay ? Do only the sad things last ? Yet in your album safely dried A heather sprig I see : The delicate purple tints have died, But it blossoms still for me. For the joyous past is never dead, — No, still the blackberries gleam, And still in the fir-trees overhead The wood-doves coo and dream ! XXX. TRUE LOVE. Why did we quarrel, sweetheart mine ? Have not the long years found us true ? Can summer sunlight cease to shine ? Can heaven put off its robes of blue ? Would it not be yet more absurd That you and I, so long allied, Should part in anger at a word, — We who have faced Fate side by side ? True love can ne'er be treason j True passion cannot cease : Through change of time and season True love brings lasting peace. A hasty word will be forgot, But all the deeds of love abide : Love's sacred memories haunt each spot ; .Love's blossoms last when June's have died. Call back to mind that night we met Beside the blue Lake of Lucerne : The mountains loomed out black as jet ; Through heaven the gold stars seemed to burn. I asked your heart for ever : You gave that heart to me. Shall anger part us ? Never ! To all eternity. XXXI. RED LEAVES AND GREEN LEAVES. What is the whisper of the leaves Round ruined turrets reddening fast, Or nestling under cottage-eaves While autumn winds go sighing past ? " Life is sorrow," they whisper, " Life is only a dream : The sky seemed blue, but it was not true ; The sky is as grey as the stream ! " What is the whisper of the heart When love and life have ceased to please, When passion's fairy dreams depart And cold winds rustle through the trees ? " Life is trouble," it whispers, "Trouble and wild despair : Once love seemed bright, but at morning light Love's face was no more fair ! " Yet autumn leaves and troubled soul May hardly read life's tale aright : Green leaves shall crown the elm-tree bole, And love's joy shall outlive the night. " Green leaves," the red leaves whisper, Fast falling one by one : When night's stars die, behold the sky- Laughs out to see the sun ! D.-S. II. BALLADS. i. SAILOR AND SOLDIER. Said the sailor, " Ours is the life to choose ! We traverse the boundless deep : We mark the infinite sunsets' hues, And we watch the pale moon's sleep. From night to dawn, and from dawn till night, We travel the ocean-way ; The sails of our ships, like sea-birds white, Flash over the waters grey. Strong and long the wind may roar, But it only frightens folk ashore." Said the soldier, " Ours is the life that charms The heart that is true and bold : We conquer the world by force of arms ; Earth's kingdoms we remould. Your ships must carry us^o'er the deep To the wished-for shore, 'tis true ; But when we land, the soldier's hand Must carry the fierce work through. Steel must heal the world's deep wrongs ; They cannot be cured by shipmen's songs." SAILOR AND SOLDIER. 51 Said England, " Peace ! My thousands dead, Who perished for love of me, Whether they died in blue or red, I honour — by land or sea. Clothed in scarlet, or clothed in black, Or in labour's homely brown, If ye toil for the land with brain or hand, I love, and honour, and crown. England says to each, ' Well done ! ' Taking account of her every son." THE BRIGHTON COACH. A young girl stood by the garden gate As the Brighton coach flew by ; The horses tore by the rose-wreathed door, They passed like a breath, or a sigh. But there just was time for the girl to see A lady with bright gold hair. — " If only I were as rich as she, As happy, and half as fair ! " That was her sigh as the coach swept by, As it passed like a lightning gleam ; But the lady fair, with the bright gold hair, Had also her longing dream. — " I'd give the world to be young like you, Ay, all that the world's wealth brings, Beautiful girl with the eyes of blue And the bonnet with bright green strings." So each heart longed. It is always so. For riches the young heart sighs ; But the world-worn heart is ready to part With the empty golden prize. "Oh, to be there on the beautiful coach, Riding in silk and state ! " " Oh, to be you with the eyes of blue, Girl at the garden gate ! " III. THE OLD RED COAT. Merely a tattered coat of red, With ominous stains on the sleeve. It belonged to a soldier long since dead ; He has gone on the long long leave. He has left the old red coat to his sons — It is all he had saved, maybe ! The red coat, black with the smoke of the guns, And pierced by a bullet — see ! And yet, in the unseen days gone by, How proudly the wearer walked Through green lanes, under a summer sky, With his sweetheart ! How they talked ! Bright eyes have gazed at that old red coat, And moistened a bit, perchance. As the scarlet gleamed, how the sweet eyes dreamed ! How proud was the maiden's glance ! And then again, in the battle's front, 'Mid the clamour of Waterloo, How the red coat shone, as our squares, alone, Stemmed the torrent of charging blue ! Poor faded coat on the cottage wall, Bright scarlet in days gone by, You seem hung there to remind us all That the brightest things must die ! IV. I WONDER WHY SHE J4NGERED ? I wonder why she lingered Alone, unmarried, long ? The blackbird in the laurels Took up her sweetheart's song; White may-tree sang to may-tree, The king-cups wooed the sun, Bright season followed season, The bells rang out in none. For still she lingered lonely ; I wonder, wonder why ? So many lovers sought her With word and look and sigh. Within the farm-house lonely She lingered, lingered long — Her sweet eyes never weary, And on her lips a song. So years passed slowly onward, And grey hairs streaked the black j Unwedded still she lingered, Her eyes kept looking back : New suitors sought Jher dwelling, New spurs clinked in the hall, But she — she loved the old love, The old love best of all ! V. "SHIP AHOY!" Through waters blue the gallant ship Raced swiftly on its way, Kissing the waves with iron lip, And churning up the spray. Young lovers laughed and sang on board, And watched the moon at night, Or dangled over the stern a cord To snare the mackerel bright. Each ship they passed they hailed with joy, And the sailors sang out, " Ship ahoy ! Ship ahoy ! " They came to the Cape, and the wind fell dead, And the glassy waters gleamed : The sun glared down with its eye of red, And the windless blue sky dreamed. There was never a sail on the ocean wide ; Not one white speck was there : Not one light rope in the rigging sighed In the sultry silent air. The ship seemed fixed like a painted toy : There was never a voice to shout, " Ship ahoy ! Ship ahoy ! " ss 56 THE SONG OF YOUTH. But at night the strength of the wind up-sprang, And the sea was lashed to white : The strong spars rattled, the cordage rang, And the thunder smote the night. And then there came a spectral ship, Fast galloping through the dark ; Ashen-grey grew the helmsman's lip, For through the midnight — Hark ! ' Came the phantom pilot's weird shrill cry, " All who meet the Phantom ship must die : Ship ahoy ! " VI. THE SEA'S LAUGHTER. Within their good ships' walls of wood, On many a stormy day, Our fathers and forefathers stood : They held the world at bay, Singing, " Let the nations rule the shore, And sway the corn-clad land ; On the blue sea's floor for evermore Old England's foot shall stand ! For the great sea laughed, ' Ha ha ! Ho ho ! And the Spanish fleet to the bottom did go : 'Ha ha! Ho ho!'" To-day our ships are iron-wrought, „ And there are those who hold That England's strength will come to nought, Sapped by her love of gold. But still we sing, " Let others place Their trust in fortress-towers : Our ships will o'er the billows race ; The pathless sea is ours. For the great sea laughs, ' Ha ha ! Ho ho ! ' At the fleets of the nations and all their show : ' Ha ha ! Ho ho ! ' " OF THE UNIVERSITY 58 THE SONG OF YOUTH. When, it may be, we have to meet, In close-locked deadly fray, Some giant iron-armoured fleet That plunges through the spray, Still we will trust the billows blue That Nelson loved of yore ; The sea to England will be true, Ay, true for evermore ! For the great sea laughs, " Ha ha ! Ho ho ! I'll crush their fleets at a single blow ! Ha ha ! Ho ho ! " VII. ONE DAY IN A LIFE. Just one day in the hay-field, One perfect wondrous day. The azure sky above her ! Round her the scent of may ! Poor little London sparrow — Just one day 'mid the green, And then the alley narrow, The squalid room and mean. Six hours amid the clover : Six hours among the lanes : And then the whole thing's over The rest of life remains. And what a dreary lifetime That may be, child, for you, — Passed under smoky rafters, Not under sunny blue ! One day ! this is the sadness. The childish eyes grow wide With wonder and pure gladness At the sweet country-side. One day — oh, give them, give them, These exiles from the sun, Give all one country airing, And give them more than one ! VIII. ACROSS GREY BILLOWS. The great ship outward-bound Steers past Tintagel's steep : The sea-gulls' wild cries sound ; The white waves foam and leap. Lo ! at the vessel's stern One stands with eyes that yearn ; His whole soul watches the receding shore. He leaves the land for years, And thinks with silent tears Of one sweet face that he may see no more. Last night they sat and spoke Of days and things to be Beneath a green-leafed oak — To-day, the wide grey sea ! " Where is she now ? " he thinks. The far land dips and sinks, And somewhere past that misty line is home ; And he must win his way, Must toil from day to day, Toil on, for her sweet sake, beyond the foam. Five years have passed away ; His lonely task is o'er : He lands again to-day Upon the English shore. And who is this who waits Behind the pier's white gates ? The sweet face dreamed of under alien skies. — Thank Heaven, the dream is past, And she is his at last ! The long years vanish, as he meets her eyes. IX. SISTER ROSES. " O sister," the white rose said to the red, " Could only my face be as bright as thine ! I am pale. Could I only be pink instead, I would lift to the sunlight my beautiful head, And never be weary, or weep, or pine ! " " O sister," the red rose said to the white, " Could only my face be as pale as thine ! I am doomed to be gathered to-night, to-night, — I shall faint at a ball in the hot gas-light, While you will be glad in the cool moonshine." " Ah ! sister," the white rose sighed to the red, "You are wrong, you are wrong, and the truth is mine. Far better than life in the dull flower-bed It is to be worshipped, and then to fall dead Where live hearts flutter, and gay lights shine." X. SYMPATHY. Shot through the heart in a battle ! The smoke and the lurid skies Around, and the muskets' rattle, The hoarse-toned shouts and cries ; The black war-horses leaping Up to the cannons' rim ; The dead man fallen and sleeping ; Does any one grieve for him ? Struck through the heart in a ball-room ! The glitter of lights around ; Gossiping throngs in the shawl-room ; Laughter, and music's sound. Dead in the midst of the laughter, A girl-face, beautiful, white ; Gone to the lone hereafter Straight from the crowded night. How did it happen, I wonder ? No one can understand. Why should the battle's thunder Echo from land to land ? An officer dead in the^battle ; Death 'neath the opera-cloak. — Love is the key to the secret : They died by the self-same stroke. XI. LOVE ON DECK. " I never loved you much," she said, " But I wanted to pass the time. The hours pass slow on a ship, you know, In a lazy tropical clime. Have I hurt you much ? Forgive me then, If I own that I was wrong. Cure the smart, and heal your heart, By writing it all in a song." The waves flowed free, and the waves flowed wide, As they sat and whispered side by side. " I never cared much for you," he said, " But I wanted a subject fit. I'd verses to make, and I thought I could take Your heart, and model from it. Have I pained you much ? Forgive me, dear. A ship is a dreary place : It is wrong to flirt, but you aren't much hurt, And you have a lovely face ! " The waves flowed free, and the waves flowed strong, And the good ship bore them both along. Each looked at each. They did not smile : The tears were in either's eyes. And the cliffs of England rose the while From the waves, a white surprise. Hand sought for hand — "Shall we gravely end What first was a freak of the heart ? Shall we meet once more on the English shore, But, this time, never to part ? " The cliffs rose white from the sunny seas, And church-'bells sounded on the breeze. 63 XII. OVER THE WAY. Over the way is a lark in a cage, And he sings from morn till night. Along the street his song rings sweet, And it brings the woods to sight. Through London smoke green thickets of oak And hazel-copses gleam ; And I wander along, as I follow his song, The banks of a silver stream. So I went one day, went over the way, The lark singing loud the while, And said to the owner, " Your bird is a donor Who gives in a princely style." But the owner said, " Your creeper red With its clinging crimson sprays Has given me hope, when hope seemed dead, In the dismal autumn days." Thus each brought blessing in its way. Of the country one heart dreamed, As the lark sang to him day by day : On one the creeper gleamed. — The lark sang on : the red leaves shone Through rain and darkness blinding : In what we heed not, other hearts Their comfort may be finding. XIII. SPRING AND AUTUMN. " The rose-tree longs for its beautiful rose, And sighs till its bloom is there : So life will never attain repose Till love its exquisite blossom blows In the beautiful scented air." These dream-sweet words from a poet's page A girl to her mother read ; And the young girl smiled, while the eyes of age Watched softly the fair gold head. But the mother's eyes were dim with tears, While the daughter's eyes were gay ; For the mother thought of the long-past years, And of dead sweet hopes, and of sighs and fears, But the young heart dreamed of to-day. " And why are you sad ? " the young voice said, " For reading of love is sweet : O bright-eyed Love, with the lips so red — I would fall at his darling feet ! " Then the mother said : -" Dream on, my child, For love is a beautiful dream j And truly the earth were a desert wild, Had never the eyes of sweet love smiled With their wonderful magic gleam. Smile on : but leave their thoughts to the old, For the poet's words that bring Delight to the young, and a hope untold, Full oft on the older heart fall cold. Mine are the grey locks : yours are the gold ! I am autumn : you are the spring ! " D.-S. XIV. AFTER DEATH. It was not death that hurt me — it was this. On a June evening sweet with balmy air I gazed from heaven, and saw two lovers kiss, And heard the man protest, " My one thing fair ! My blossom rare ! " Then all the air of heaven turned freezing cold : I shuddered, — and I died again indeed. The face was that sweet face I loved of old. How could her ears to this man's words give heed ? Was this love's meed ? His hand stroked gently that black hair I knew — Knew, worshipped, loved, past human language well. Then thunder-clouds swept over heaven's wide blue : Yea, heaven was there no longer, only hell. I swooned and fell. XV. LIFE'S STREAM. Along the golden meadows Beneath the early morn The bright stream lisps and ripples, Beside the fields of corn. The streamlet, oh ! the streamlet, It has not reached the town j Its epoch of pollution Lies lower, lower down. Then lo ! again our river. It washes wharf and pier : No more its willows quiver ; Another stream is here. But yet it carries steamers, Poor river, city-bound ! If other streams were dreamers, This makes the mills go round. And then, far onward glancing, You'll see the stream emerge, Until with blue waves dancing It meets the ocean surge. — So, life must start in gladness, Must watch that gladness flee, Until, past grief and sorrow, It mixes with the sea. XVI. SHOREHAM CHURCH. Storm and sunshine, summer glory, August thunder, wintry snow, Many a human sweet love-story, Many a tale of wrath and woe, — Hours of dark funereal anguish, Hours when 'neath the summer sun Even the flowers he loves must languish, Hours when autumn's peace is won — All of these the church has known, Gazing from its tower of stone ; Watching gladness change to grief, Golden to the faded leaf. Witness here to something holier Than our cares and strife, it stands. Round its turrets time creeps slovvlier Than across the changing lands. Fields of corn in blood may welter, Human cities reek with crime, — Here is blessing, here is^shelter From the sins and shocks of time. Human race succeeds to race, Still the tower stands in its place. " Tremble," cries the wild wind's tongue ; But it answers, " I am young ! " SHOREHAM CHURCH. 69 Many a lightning-flash, half-grazing, Threatens, — still the tower, upright, At the morning sun is gazing, Scathless, at the stars by night. Though the soul of man may darken, Still that grey old tower of stone To the sunrise-hymn will hearken, Stand erect, alert, alone, Facing seasons soft or grim, Watcher when man's eyes grow dim, Guardian of man's hopes and fears Through another thousand years. XVII. A BALLAD OF WINTER. Said Winter to the Rose : " When first my cold breath blows, Your gentle reign is done." But said the Rose quite fearless : " New splendid buds and peerless Are waiting for the sun." Said Winter to my love : " With fur and muff and glove Guard thou thyself, or die." But said my love : " What folly ! Though flowers be dead, the holly Is bright against the sky." Said Winter unto me : " Take heed, arise and flee ; Thy strength is spent. Beware ! " Said I : " My love is near me ; Her bright eyes soothe and cheer me ; Lo ! June is in the air." XVIII. THE GOLDEN ISLES. Wonderful golden islands Of old, so the fable ran, Lay in the Western Ocean, Closed from the vision of man. Wonderful cloudless islets, Set in a stormless sea ; Splendid with banks of coral, Blossom and fruit and tree. Wonderful magic islands Ever before us gleam. Ever we strive to reach them : Ever they melt in a dream. Ever we struggle onward Over the lonely seas : Never the islands glitter, Never their fringe of trees ! So it goes on for ever. What will the issue be ? Oh, will our vessel never Traverse this endless sea ? — If we can reach our dreamland, What will be waiting there ? Rapture of noble passion ? Pallor of white despair ? XIX. THE CITY'S SADNESS. I heard of the city's greatness, And I came from afar to see The wonderful place called London, And its splendour dazzled me. Miles of beautiful shop-fronts ! Glitter and warmth and light ! The place seemed busy the livelong day, And merry the livelong night. It seemed like the palace Aladdin built, All marble and jewels, painted and gilt. But I closer looked, and the glory Faded ; it was but a show. Black fog fell over the city In lieu of the sunlight's glow : And I saw, in the mist-clothed places Where all had appeared so bright, Weary and half-starved faces, Sorrow by day and by night. The city that once had shone so fair Seemed full of a horror of fierce despair. I looked yet again, and a measure Of hope returned to me. I saw, and I took deep pleasure In a blossoming lilac tree. And I saw two lovers sitting Side by side in the Park : Then I saw the red moon flitting Over the Thames in the dark, And I knew that even on London town The stars and the beautiful moon smile down. XX. "IF I WERE AS OLD AS YOU!" " If only I were as old as you," So said a child to me, A child with eyes of fearless blue Bright as the morning sea. " If only I were as old as you, With a great big beard and a hat " — " Yes, my darling, what would you do? " " I'd buy an owl and a cat ! " " I'd buy an owl and a cat," he said, " And a string of amber beads, And a soldier's suit of splendid red, And do tremendous deeds. I'd buy a ship, and a new toy-gun, If I were as old as you, And a helmet flashing like the sun, With a plume of lovely blue ! " Such simple things ! In later days Does anything bring the joy That a ship and a gun, or a cracker's blaze, Brings to an eager boy ? Whatever / buy, I hear that cry, " If I were as old as you, I'd soon have a helmet like the sun, With a plume of lovely blue ! " XXI. THE COMPACT. " If only I were a man," she said, " What wonderful deeds I'd do ! With a general's plume, and a coat of red, I'd harry my foes till my foes fell dead, And I'd travel the wide world through. Sword in hand, I'd traverse the land (How I hate this ivory fan !) — Hearts should ache, and hearts should break, If only I were a man ! " " If only I were a girl," he said, " How pleasant this life might be. Lovely dresses of Indian red ! Beautiful bonnets and caps on my head ! Beautiful men to tea ! How I would flirt, at dinner, dessert (Head-dress of ruby and pearl !)— That would be brave. What a time I would have, If only I were a girl ! " They looked at each other, and laughed outright : Brown eyes laughed into the grey. Then he said, "And why should the dream take flight? Marry me, darling, and we'll unite Our powers,— the world we'll sway ! " Grey eyes smiled back their " Yes " to the brown (And she played with the hated fan) — " I think that I'm glad 1'jn a girl," she said, " Now I'm loved by a love of a man ! " XXII. CROSS-PURPOSES. " I would have given you love," said I, " Flowers of the earth and stars of the sky : Thoughts like stars, and love like a flower, Blossoms fit for a queen's own dower, Gifts that a king might long to see " — " Buy me this diamond brooch," said she. " Dreaming still of the earth ? " said I. " You — why I thought you came from the sky ! Thought you a fairy, deemed you a queen ; Earth for your footstep seemed too mean. You to ask for a brooch from me " — " Buy me that necklace then," said she. Star-dreams flash through the poet's head : Woman looks at the shops instead. The lover dreams in his lady's eyes ; But the lady does not dream — she buys. " Brighter than stars are your eyes," thinks he — " Eighteen and threepence, dear," says she. XXIII. BIRDS AND BLOSSOMS. " Love is a beautiful thing," she said, " For a poet to sing about ; And the dreams that haunt a poet's head Are beautiful dreams no doubt. But what is the value of love to me, If it bring not wealth in its hand ? I like a present that I can see, And a gift I can understand ! " So she said — and the skylark ceased in his song, And the lilies' heads hung low : The birds and the blossoms knew she was wrong, But they could not help her — No ! She went her way, and she drank her fill Of pleasure the world's wealth brings ; Till at last she grew old, and she hated her gold, And she hated her diamond rings. "What did he speak of? " then she said ; " What did the poet say ? Did he speak of a love that is never dead ? Can I win that love to-day ? " And again the birds and blossoms heard, And they sighed from hedge and spray, For never again can you win true love W T hen once you have thrown it away. XXIV. THE GOLDEN CARP. Fishing ! fishing ! fishing ! The old man sits in a dream ; Wishing ! wishing ! wishing ! Watching his float on the stream. Minnows and roach and gudgeon Lie in heaps by his side ; ■ But he scowls like an old curmudgeon, He never seems satisfied. So I passed through the open gateway, By a copse of larch and fir, And I asked the old man straightway, " What are you fishing for, sir ? " And he said, with his features working And a keen look strange and sharp, " Do you see in the rushes lurking That monstrous golden carp ? " And I looked, and I saw the willows, And I saw the rushing stream — I marked the blue swift billows, But I saw no golden gleam. Ah me ! he has fished for ever (And we all of us do the same) For a prize that glittered never, For a carp that never came. XXV. AUTUMN LEAVES. What do the red leaves whisper ? What do the wild winds say, When they wail and roar o'er hill and shore On a stormy autumn day ? 11 The past was sweet with flowers, And beautiful was June ; But now on leafless bowers Looks down the lonely moon." What do our sad hearts utter ? What do our spirits cry, When autumn hues at length suffuse Vale, hill, and wood, and sky ? " Love's summer heart was tender, But summer glory goes, And Love forgets the splendour He once loved in the rose." XXVI. "SHE WAS BUT A CHILD." She was but a child, I know it, A woman and child in one : A woman with childlike sweetness, And gold hair like the sun. She was but a child, so I thought her, In spite of her wedding-ring ; So I treated her half as a daughter, And half as a useless thing. She was but a child in feeling, She was but a child in heart ; She gathered the red corn-poppies, She cared not a whit for Art. I watched her, and yet in my madness I never could understand Why she sometimes sighed for sadness As her warm hand pressed my hand A snowdrop 's only a snowdrop ! A rose is only a rose ! Each easily fades and withers If ever a rough wind blows. So, softly the child's heart faded ; She never was strong, you see ; And I — I shall never be able To show what she was to me. XXVII. HARROW HILL. O green old slopes of Harrow Hill That countless hearts remember, Those hearts are often near you still j Bright May can touch December. O Harrow Hill, green Harrow Hill, What thousands April-hearted Have paced your slopes ! They love you still, Though young dreams have departed. O green old slopes of Harrow Hill, Which English elms environ, One deathless shadow haunts you still — The mighty shade of Byron. The soul in him to greatness grew Upon your greensward dreaming ; Though Harrow skies then little knew The star within them gleaming. O green old slopes of Harrow Hill All change and storm outliving, In hearts of those who love you still What memories are surviving ! O fair green slopes, so bright with hopes By countless young hearts cherished, Old hearts will still love Harrow Hill, Though countless hopes have perished ! III. RELIGIOUS LYRICS. "THINE EYES SHALL SEE THE KING!" Thine eyes shall see the King. When earth's wild wastes are trod, Thine eyes shall look on God : Winter shall cease, and change to heavenly spring- Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty, Thine eyes shall see the King ! Him shall thine eyes behold. When sorrow's overpast Him shalt thou see at last, And tread with him the heavenly courts of gold — Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty, Thine eyes shall see the King ! Thine eyes shall see the King. The Vision surely waits Beyond death's solemn gates, Awful with light that only death can bring : Thine eyes sjiall see the King in his beauty, Thine eyes shall surely see the King. D.-S. 8l G II. LIGHT IN DARKNESS. Sufferer, though thy path be dark, Though no starlight thou mayest mark, Though the days bring deepening pain And love's old sweet hopes seem vain, Though thine eve belie thy morn, Though thy brows be pierced with thorn, Though thy path lie through the night, Christ thy Lord shall be thy Light ! Youth, round whom the sunlight gleams, Passing through the vale of dreams, Faint the mountains seem and far, Flowers in myriads round thee are. Yet thou needest Christ to guard ! Soon thy pathway may be barred By an host as yet concealed : Then thou needest Christ for Shield ! Youth and age indeed are one : Each needs Christ for star and sun j Christ for shield, and crown, and sword ; Christ's sweet welcome for reward. When the golden gateways shine, Then may Christ with voice divine Say to each, " Thou needst not fear ; We were waiting for thee here ! " III. HEAVENLY WHISPERS. Hardly one sad soul is friendless ; Somewhere glows a kindred heart } Yes, though dreary days seem endless, Though sad springs on springs depart. If the rich man in his garden Breathes the incense of the rose, For the poor man at his window White and pure the snowdrop blows. Ay, if every friend hath vanished, If our silent hearth be lone, Angel-whispers are not banished, Dearer yet the dead have grown. Is there one sad soul who hears not From the land beyond the grave Loving voices, gentle whispers, As of souls who yearn to save ? And if even these we hear not, If the depth of heaven be gloom, If the angel-voices cheer not, Sound not from beyond the tomb, Still no soul is friendless wholly j Each one who the earth hath trod Hath one Friend, one Friend undying, - Every soul is dear to God. IV. CHURCH-BELLS. The church-bells rang, and the skylark sang, On a beautiful morn in May ; And a mother and son walked side by side, And the boy's gold head was the joy and the pride Of the mother's heart that day. They opened the worn old churchyard gate, And a sunbeam shot from the sky, And its glory was shed on the boy's gold head And it tinted the daisies tipped with red And the buttercup-fields hard by. Long years passed by, and the boy became A soldier of fortune bold : Through the East his fame flashed on like a flame, - He feathered his nest, and he played his game, And won renown and gold. But his hands were stained with sin and crime, Ay, red with blood, some say : 'Neath the Indian sun wild deeds were done, And a dark and an evil name was won As the gold hair grew to grey. The church-bells rang, and a skylark sang, On a beautiful morn in May ; By a tomb-stone white in the morning light Stood a lonely man, and the sun was bright Not on gold hair now button grey. His swift thoughts flew o'er the fifty years, And a sunbeam shot from the air As he stood by his mother's grave in tears ; And the church-bells whispered in his ears, " It is never too late for prayer ! " THE PAST AND THE PRESENT. In the olden days Christ walked on earth ; He gave the blind their sight ; He changed man's sorrow of heart to mirth ; He spake : the dark grew light. He lifted man to the heaven above, And brought God down to man : He showed that all things worked through love, Revealed creation's plan, " But now," we cry, " no Christ is here To help our world along ; Without his hand at the helm, we steer Through billows dark and strong. Our sad ones sigh. No help is nigh : When will our blind folk see ? Was all the love that flows from above Reserved for Galilee ? " Nay, 'tis not so. Love cannot die ; Christ visits every land : To the sufferer's couch through the moonlit sky He comes with his healing hand. Wherever faith and love are met, At morn or at evening dim, A seat for a heavenly Guest is set And true hearts wait for him. VI. THE SEA'S MESSAGE. Far from the inland regions Where flowers in myriads grow, In pale or rose-pink legions, With robes of flame or snow, Far from the forests shaking Their gloomy crests inland, We seek the sea-waves breaking Along the golden sand. To all whose souls are weary, To all whose souls are sad With piteous days or dreary, To all whose hearts are glad, The great sea's soul has spoken, The great sea brings release ; And even hearts half-broken Win something of its peace. The weariest-hearted mortal Finds somewhat of repose, When through the brain's tired portal The kindly sea-wind blows. To mortal goal it tends not : Its blue waves tell the shore Tales of some life that ends not, Ay, life for evermore ! VII. GOLDEN SHEAVES. Through spring and summer we toil and slave, We suffer and strive and dream ; Our ships fly over the sunbright wave, Far, far as the waters gleam. We struggle and wrestle for wealth and gold : Though many a hope deceives, Yet some men triumph as life grows old And gather their golden sheaves— Sheaves of silver and sheaves of gold, Glorious golden sheaves ! But what is the sheaf that ever abides, That never can fade or pass ? That perishes not when Time derides The blossoms and sundried grass ? Love is the beautiful golden sheaf That grows with the autumn leaves : Yes, all true lovers, when Time slays grief, Shall gather their golden sheaves — Beautiful golden sheaves of love, Beautiful golden sheaves ! When sheaves of silver and sheaves of gold Shall crumble and rust and die, Love's beautiful sheaf shall ne'er grow old, — It is garnered and stored on high. Faith delivers the heart from fear, And the righteous soul believes That all who have toiled in the corn-fields here Shall gather their golden sheaves — Shall gather their golden sheaves in heaven, Infinite golden sheaves ! VIII. LITTLE THINGS. Art thou powerless, friend, for much ? Every heart can bless ; Every loving look and touch Makes life's sorrow less. Psalms are in the ocean's swell, But the brooklet charms as well With its laughter light. Life and love pursue the sun, Yet what starry work is done In the purple night : Stars complete his task begun Through the purple night. Every little helps along, Cheers and lifts and speeds, — Note of wren and robin's song, Lisp of river-reeds. Not so much the queenly rose Gives the wearied heart repose As the daisy trim. Is the road the Master trod Over-hard for less than God ? Thou canst gaze at him : Where he triumphed, thou canst plod Humbly after him. IX. A FAIRY GARDEN. Life was all a fairy garden When we walked in childhood's ways,— Starlit nights of happy dreaming, Sunshine through the golden days. But the moments passed, and left us Somewhat weary, every one ; And each year of life bereft us Of some further gleam of sun. God had given us in our childhood A pure angel from his skies To watch over childish footsteps, — And his love beamed from her eyes. Ah ! how many an angel-mother Here has tarried for awhile, Then has left us, — and no other Has the sweetness of her smile ! But another angel finds us : God will leave us not alone. Somewhat of a mother's sweetness Soundeth in a younger tone. God, who knew our childhood's dangers, Knew the weariness of life, Sent the child the mother-angel, — Sends the man the angel-wife ! X. LIFE'S PATH. Life's path winds ever upward ; 'Tis no use looking back : The flowers we love and long for Are further on the track. Not in the old green valleys Our haven can be found, But where the North wind sallies Across rough mountain ground. Then ho ! for noble climbing. Life's work is not yet done Our work will not be over Till the last peak is won. Yes, ho ! for noble climbing, And effort pure and high. The green seductive valleys Fade out from heart and eye. The mountains, ho ! the mountains — Our path lies over these ; We quit the valley-fountains, We quit the flowers and trees. We struggle ever upward : Upon the mountain's crest, But never till we reach it, Our weary souls may rest. XI. "HOME AT LAST!' Long years of grief and sighing ! Wild seasons of unrest ! Hope blooming, — straightway dying On Winter's frozen breast ! Through storm and strife God steers us, Till storm and strife be past : This one thought ever cheers us— We shall win home at last, Home at last ! God's dice are always loaded. — Not fruitless is the pain Of one flower-bud corroded By harsh November's rain. God brings the singing season, And tunes the thrush's lute, In spite of Winter's treason Who gazes blank and mute, Blank and mute ! Through all the storms God leads us, And leads the years that wane : The Love eternal heeds us, And changes grief to gain. Time lines and grooves our features ; Pain wears our spirits fast : But God will bring his creatures All safely home at last, Home at last ! . XII. THE VOICE OF THE RIVER. The river was ever a siren : It sings to the reed-fringed shore ; It sings to the floating lilies, And they love it more and more. When the autumn leaves are golden It gathers them all to its wave : It takes, but it never tells them That its waters are deep as the grave ! And it sings with a siren sweetness As it eddies to and fro To fairer things than blossoms, With its tempting cold dark flow. And some there are who listen, And they plunge in the cold deep wave One moment the gold locks glisten — But the moonlight cannot save ! But oh, there are voices sweeter Than the river's siren tone ! Not even the saddest outcast In the moonlight stands alone ! For the face of Christ in the moonlight Shines out over the wave, And he saith to the saddest of mortals, " It was you that I came to save." XIII. LIFE'S LAST GIFT. A thousand gifts life brings us, And some are passing fair : What perfect flowers it flings us When June's breath scents the air ! Yes, life begins with pleasure : The year begins with glee ; With golden blossom-treasure And stormless azure sea. Then how the prospect darkens :— Hearts fail us, and betray ; Death glides amid our loved ones, — Steals one by one away : Life, which began in glory, Grows sombre towards its close, For old age chills our pleasures As autumn chills the rose. But one thing life will bring us In autumn days and cold : October's lips can tell us What August never told. Life's latest gift is fairer In that all past gifts cease ; Life's last gift is supremest, For life's last gift is peace. III. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. DEATH. The mantle of a vast exceeding peace Over the lonely wandering poet fell : The noises of the worldly war did cease, And all was well. Some understood him better, now that death Had folded round him its embrace secure, And breathed upon him with its awful breath, Most sweet, most pure. The women who had followed through wild ways With love and longing in most tender hands, Brought him his roses and his wreath of bays, Plucked in lone lands. But over him fell sweet unbroken sleep, And rest divine that nought could change or mar ; One woman watched his grave with great grand deep Gaze like a star. Nought moved her from his grave. His other queens Sought other pleasures — bought and sold and slept; But still, where over him the grey stone leans, This woman wept. They found her there one summer morning dead Beneath the solemn marriage-sealing sun, To his live endless deathless spirit wed,— So these were one. 94 ^ OF THE UNIVERSITY OF UNCOMPANIONED. At war with all the human race, Where shall I turn my tired-out face ? The meadow-sweet hath sun and air : What hath the poet ? Grim despair. The sea hath wind and storm and light What hath the poet? Starless night. Woman hath love and roses' breath : What hath her poet? Pain and death. ONE WOMAN. They knew him not. — Do blossoms understand The hand that plucks them and that finds them fair ? Do the waves apprehend the steadfast land? The birds, the air ? They knew him not, although their tender eyes Seemed sometimes with soft passionate haze to swim ; Although with gracious words and gentle guise They followed him. What can the blossoms understand of fire ? The gentle doves of swift devouring flame ? But one great heart was great as his desire : One woman came. One fiery spirit smote his own with light, And stood before him and was not afraid ; Most passionate, yet most pure ; most strong, yet white ; Divinely made. They mingled each with each in awful sleep, And knew each other's very inmost soul ; Then parted — like great sundering waves that leap Lone to the goal. But still they bore away the flame and fire Of each ; through each the other's force was poured. The one was strengthened with sublime desire, Renewed, restored : The other's heart was softened as he lay Within the woman's arms so grand and pure ; And one white rose of love he bore away, That shall endure. * # 9« ONE WOMAN 97 And ever in sorrow this great woman's heart Was with him, when the others fled and failed. Hard at him lunged grim pain's remorseless dart : She never quailed. And when his hair with all the night's harsh dew Was wet, she stood beside him in the field ; Stood, till once more heaven's midday cloudless blue Burned on his shield. And she would wind about him tender hands, And bring him blossoms fairer than a dream, And lift his spirit towards immortal lands Where great suns beam. Her heart was not as common hearts that glow, Then in one day the ephemeral rapture fades ; But she was one with him through joy and woe — Through sunlit glades And through the dark defiles of sin and death She helped her singer on his perilous way, Making the lone vales blossom with her breath, Making night day. For she, immortal and of ceaseless charm, Knew how to wake to might or lull to sleep : Ever within the circle of her arm Was rapture deep. Red bloom of sin and terror drove her not From the sad singer's weary side in fear : She cleansed his life from fleck and stain and spot, With many a tear. Nought severed, — but the eternal souls were one, And shall be, while the ages speed or creep : Through flight of moon, and race of fiery sun ; Till all stars sleep. D.-S. H ARTS MARTYRS. O queen of all Art's martyrs, who bestowest Their more than mortal crown And ever in their inmost spirits glowest, Be gracious and look down. Look down upon thy toiling sons and daughters, And lend thy holy aid ; For lo ! we struggle, tossed by wild white waters, And perish in cold shade. Yea, for a season thou our queen art gracious, And then the vision grows Dimmer and more dim, and thy woodlands spacious Made sweet with breath of rose Fade slowly, and thy sacred golden portal Is closed, and all dreams sleep ; And we who in thy presence were immortal Are chained in darkness deep. Grant us thine help unfailing and redeeming, Support us through the night ; Shine thou upon us with thy soft eyes dreaming, And with thy bosom bright. To every rose thou art the sweet white sister, To every flower the bloom : No lily is white but thou more white hast kissed her, — % And lent her heart-perfume. And we who are ofttimes weary and heart-broken Lift up our souls to thee. Though all men scorn us, yet we have for token Thy smile and thy blue sea. ART'S MARTYRS. 99 Thy waves we have, and all thy winds and seasons Of snow and rain and sun : Clothed round about with these, we face man's treasons Till all our race is run. Thou touchest us, and all the tumult ceases, And we are rocked to rest : Our foemen's swords are snapped in helpless pieces, — Shorn is their every crest. Yea, though the day be long and full of labour, At even give us light : Though pain to weariness be closest neighbour, And friends and lovers smite, Yet grant us silent hope and endless patience ; Be with us in the gloom : More than reward for speechless tribulations Is one breath of thy bloom — One sound upon the waves of thy soft laughter, One vision of thy feet Upon the enraptured shore, — though death leapt after That deathless vision sweet. Ours be the thorns and thine the flowers, but love us, Forsake us not, O queen ! Bend in thine holy midnight sky above us, And in thy white clouds' sheen j And in the murmur and rush of many waters When the autumn breezes smite The seas, speak thou to thy sad sons and daughters Who struggle towards thy light. And strengthen us, that nought may move or turn us From Art's one holy way ; Though cold nights chill and blazing noontides burn us, And* dark foes seek to sway. ioo THE SONG OF YOUTH. Yea, though we stand forlorn of mortal aiding, Yet are we not forlorn, Nor wholly left to man's malign upbraiding And senseless ceaseless scorn ; For, though alone, we are not alone when splendid Thou shatterest with thy might The darkness round us like tomb-sides extended, And lo ! the dark is light. And lo ! the music of thy coming lingers Like dawn upon the seas, And at the touching of thy tremulous fingers Thy harp sounds through the breeze. And we are saved, and all our hearts are gladdened Through which the world's spears sprang ; We who were mocked and disbelieved and maddened, Though still we fought and sang. But now more heavenlike than the heaven of heaven Wherein God sits with thee Thou springest forth, with breath more sweet than even In summer o'er the sea, And power as God's, O Beauty, and full measure Of joy within thy hands That shed repose and sleep, like poured-out treasure, O'er sleepless seas and lands. And o'er us too falls in the old sweet fashion A sorrowless soft dream Wherethrough, intense as God's, divine with passion, Thine eyes, most fiery, gleam. "HE WILL NOT KNOW!" He will not know, — not if he holds her fast With stalwart straining arms about her cast, He will not have the heart to be aware, — He will not know them, as my soul divines, Though absent, all the white throat's tender lines, And fondles in a dream the dark pure hair — He will not know ! He will not know, — as my desire has known The soft inflection of each silver tone, And heard it at a distance on the breeze. He will not answer her unspoken thought, Because through very love his soul has caught The sense of hers till with her eyes he sees — He will not know ! He will not value over-much her face, Save for the simpler more apparent grace That any passer-by can apprehend. One petal he shall pluck — the perfect flower With all its scent is mine till life's last hour, For love shall tarry steadfast to the end, Love shall not go ! UPON THE PIER AT NIGHT. I watch the silent night fall o'er the sea. — Is this strange sombre mantle, Death, like thee ? Doth this dim starless void Whence the faint breath of summer air floats meward Hold all the souls whose wings have travelled seaward, By the awful deep decoyed ? Where are the myriad souls who went before, — Who watched the same seas break on the same shore, Then trusted Death and went ? Sometimes an army on the golden beach Encamps, with hum of multitudinous speech : The next day, not one tent ! The next day not one white-topped tent is seen : Only the white-topped billows dark and green, And the dark threatening skies. The foot-prints of the host are on the shore, But the bright-armoured warriors mix no more ; No shouts, and no replies. Can there be room in the celestial fields For such a concourse of gay swords and shields ? Would all the stars provide Home for the increasing countless ranks of these, — Or all the untravelled dark-blue billowy seas Of heaven, from side to side ? UPON THE PIER AT NIGHT. 103 Nor only human souls have gone. — The flowers Have sent their delegates from woods and bowers To try the land of death : To bring back tidings whether sister-stems Within that land wave petalled diadems, And mingle fragrant breath. Armies of blossoms past all mortal thought Since sinless Eden's stainless bloom was wrought Have dared the fatal track : And of these blossoms not one single rose Breathes answer to our doubt. No harebell throws One faint blue petal back. The winds of night come scented from afar, As though from worlds where deathless blossoms are : Their souls pervade the breeze. But never flower from that far land returns ; No violet-messengers, no risen ferns, No flushed anemones. And yet the land where these dead blossoms meet Must surely be beyond all gardens sweet, Beyond all woodlands fair. The land whereto our loved ones, smiling, passed Cannot be lonely. Though the land be vast, We shall be welcomed there. TEN YEARS. Ten years of flowers and songs and seas : What profit hath the soul of these ? What spirit of gladness in the trees Abideth ever ? What hath the soul the force to clasp In swift undying eager grasp, — Yea, hold though death's rough fingers rasp, And part with never ? What hath the soul the power to take, As new bright crimson mornings break And in the breeze the rushes shake And laugh for gladness ? What lingereth of the loves who went Adown life's valleys well content, And with the sacred sunsets blent Their share of sadness ? Now all the suns have passed away And left life's valleys gaunt and grey, What word of hope is left to say, What word of greeting ? Ten years of bowers and rose-sweet days, And sorrow's tears in hidden ways, And tender honey-suckle sprays — How swift, how fleeting ! TEN YEARS. 105 Ten years have passed : their flowers have fled ; Their every gallant rose is dead ; Not one now lifts a laughing head, High gazing sunward. The blue seas shine, — but not the seas Which rippled 'neath the ten years' breeze : The green leaves quiver, and the trees Pass sunlight onward. But what remains of flowers, or sweet Gold crowns of tender clifT-side wheat ? What white hands for our hands to meet, Hands sweet as clover ? What bowers of beauty yet remain, Unsmitten by the ten years' rain ? What lips for eager lips to gain, Now all is over ? Death looms in front. What loves behind Breathe passion on the balmy wind ! What shall our further footsteps find Of splendid passion ? What rose sublime upon the track Waits, nobler than the flowers we lack And yearn for, burn for, gazing back In eager fashion ? No days had value, save the days When love's foot trod the flowerful ways : No flowers are sweet, save those that raise Soft heads resplendent Towards love's caressing subtle hand Which brings delight to sea and land, Adorns with bloom the barren strand On love dependent. io6 THE SONG OF YOUTH. If this be so, what future waits Our heart beyond the ten years' gates ? What new loves, passions, sorrows, hates, Swift disappointment? What tenderest resting through the night On very love's soft bosom white ? What climbing towards a kingly height ? What proud anointment? The hand of death, it may be, gleams, Ending all loves and hopes and dreams, Where some not far-off morning beams ; Death's hand there lingereth. Eager, a foeman sinewy, tall, He summons without bugle-call ; And while he grimly waiteth all, His sword he fingereth. But there are fingers sweeter far Than death's cold grisly fingers are : Beneath no sun, beneath night's star, The soft hand waiteth. It toucheth like a touching rose, And sends the tingling blood in throes Past speaking sweet through heart that glows As pain abateth. And there are flowers that blossom still In green secluded vale, or fill With sweetness all the thymy hill, Though gone for ever Are ten years' buds and ten years' bloom — Swallowed within the unopening tomb, Whose fierce lips seize each year's perfume And yield it never. TEN YEARS. 107 And there are faces tender yet, Though gone past hope are those we met When still the morning dews were wet On fern and daisy. Though now life's noon sucks up the dew, And cloudless burns the midday blue, Love's bloom of face hath sweeter hue Than morn-tints hazy. Oct 20, 1880. PHASES. Our spirits progress by phases. We see for a moment — out The red sun suddenly blazes : Then darkness closes about. — But the phase is not the completeness ; The portion is not the whole ; Man's sorrow is not God's sweetness ; Man's spirit is not God's soul. However lovely the morning, It may be dark at noon ; Clouds, without word or warning, May strangle the white-throat moon. — But God is beyond the changes : Ay, ever beyond the phase His infinite fancy ranges ; He lives in the coming days. He takes delight in the flowers Of glad Junes yet to be : When the black cloud frowns and lowers, He watches the bright blue sea. We stand by the beach in our sorrow ; We mark the tossing ship : God sees the sun to-morrow Fondle the lily's lip. So ever it is. — Our phases Are personal, mortal, small. God's thought is a^ose to our daisies ; It ever transcends them all. In the light of our pale moon-neighbour Half earth's work is done : God, beyond sorrow and labour, Lives in the light of the sun. LOVE-SONNETS. SONNET I. THE POETS MISSION. Be gentle with me ; for thou knowest not yet The utter need there is in me of love. Oh ! though the poets' brows, bay-crowned above, Shine famously, — look close, their eyes are wet. The sorrow of all the earth God's hand has set Upon them for a wreath, — and in strange fashion To understand in soul earth's every passion : For this it is that earth is in their debt. What the slow heartless lover cannot feel, The poet feels for him ; and tear-drops steal Adown his cheeks when others cannot sorrow. What wonder then if sometimes in his heart There is a yearning he cannot impart, And sweet would seem a night without a morrow ! THE SONG OF YOUTH. SONNET II. LOVE'S ENDLESSNESS. More, more, had I the power, my soul would do. — Am I content, — till all thy soul is bright With God's own passionate unearthly light, And on thy forehead all God's heaven of blue Set like a jewel ? Lo ! I would renew Thy soul, long-lost amid the pathless night, — Be thine eternal champion in the fight, — Turn thee from false ends towards love's purpose true. O love, thou knowest me not ! My love hath lightened From end to end of heaven, and heaven hath brightened ; It is a tender gift : — it is a sword To cut all chains and armlets that surround thee. Astray thou wast, — but lo ! thy love hath found thee. Rise. Thou art free to meet thy rightful lord. SONNET III. THE UNION IN NATURE AND IN MUSIC. Thine own soul is of Nature's realm a part, And so we meet within that wide domain : Our lips touch in the ripples of the rain, Ocean's is our own ever-beating heart. — Thou crownest me with love. I with mine Art Crown thee, and with the music of my strain, And with my inmost soul's thorn-crown of pain, And with the dreams that through my spirit dart. Beneath the sacred stars our spirits meet In union wonderful and calm and sweet ; But most of all when music floods the place With its strange amorous rapture passing fair, I feel the touch upon me of thine hair, And sink into thy soul's superb embrace. L VE-SONNE TS. in SONNET IV. . SUPREME DESOLATION. If thou wert dead, O love, — if thou wert dead, — How could one summer sunset dare to gleam Above the ripples of the rosied stream ? How could one rose blush into mocking red ? If death's wreath whitened round thy dear dark head I feel that I could never sing again ; For thou art as the fountain of my strain, Whence buoyant waters towards the plains are led. If thou wert gone, O love, — if thou wert gone, — How could the thoughtless heartless sun shine on ! How could the same chant fill the sea's dull soul, And thy same crested waves without thee roll ! Would not life's last and sweetest hope have fled, If thou wert dead, — O love, if thou wert dead ! SONNET V. COMPENSATION. We give to others — give them day by day Of our hearts' best : we strengthen and make whole : — We soothe the sorrows of the weary soul j We pour our spirits in eager help away. But for the strength our stronger souls convey To theirs, what do they bring? What glad return Of strength is given us when our own hearts burn, — When we lie sleepless till the morning grey ? If we shield others, God behind us stands, A strength perpetual, a surpassing power, And guards us with invincible great hands : He seeks us out in sorrow's loneliest hour, And gives us, for our fellows' sympathy, The sun's kiss,and the friendship of the sea. THE SONG OF YOUTH. SONNET VI. THE GLORY OF SUMMER. The glory of Summer with its banks of rose And fields of blossoms, and its moonlit night Flooded with marvellous entrancing light, And dewy plains whereover Love's foot goes, Is as our sacred love — wherethrough there glows Passion, divine, and limitlessly bright : Passion which deepens as the hours take flight ; Passion which scorns the pale thought of repose. In all the life of Summer we are one : One in its splendour and triumphant power ; One with its every star and leaf and flower And moon and wave and cloudless heaven and sun j One with it in its most luxuriant hour, And in its sorrow, — when its life is done. SONNET VII. THE CALM OF AUTUMN. Then Autumn comes, — and the wild woods retain, Sighing, their golden splendour for awhile, Maddened at heart for lack of Summer's smile And all the reckless glory of her reign. Calm settles down o'er valley, hill, and plain, And quiet meadow and red-leafed defile, — And fair blue glimpses in the skies beguile, Nor yet the first frost stiffens in the lane. The calm of Autumn rouncLour brows we bind, Love, for a circlet. Not the summer day Brought more of peace than this sky cold and grey And this soft-whispering faint unfiery wind, And, in the West, the sunset's tender rose, Wherethrough the soul of all past passion glows. L VE- SONNE TS. 113 SONNET VIII. FAITHFULNESS. In what strange places have our spirits met ! — Sometimes upon the green downs high and bare ; Sometimes amid the tossed sea's stormy air j Sometimes in gladness ; often in regret. Only one thing has happened never yet, — That I should call, and thou shouldst not be there ! Desire, — and find no answer to my prayer ; — I owe thy faithfulness a ceaseless debt. Such woes we have conquered, and such barriers scaled, And after such defeats have risen upright, That, if hell's fiery storm-bolts round me hailed, I should expect thee to divide that night, And, vainly by the lurid ghosts assailed, To bring me, with thyself, the old delight ! D.-S. ODE TO DEATH. When all the pleasant days of love are past ; When in life's autumn garden lo ! the last Red wind-swept rose doth blow j When death stands in the austere gateway saying,— While round him strains of music weird are playing, " Thou shalt no further go ; " Oh, what shall then the former days be worth, And all the gladness of the green old earth, And all her white may-trees ? Will all be new and strange, in regions far Beyond the fire-gleam of the faintest star That rides the heavenly seas ? When in the city of solemn death we stand, Lip touching pale lip, pale hand touching hand, What shall be waiting there ? — Shall we meet poets true who went before, Whom we saw landing on the fatal shore ? Shall we find lost loves fair ? Shall we find all the flowers that fill the land Of sweet death waiting for our outstretched hand, — Or find no flowers at all ? O spirits who have passed us, where are ye ? We left you on the margin of the sea, Where blue waves rise and fall : ODE TO DEATH. 115 We left you there upon the golden sand, And turned one moment, just to gaze inland And smell the hayfields' bloom. When we looked back from cliff-tops to the sea The waves were there (but grey), and where were ye ? Gone, through the deepening gloom ! And then against the last gold sunset-bar We marked a white sail outlined, faint and far, Upon the horizon dim. Slowly we turned, — and up the valley-glade We walked alone, alone, through beeches' shade, With tightened lips and grim. And we have never heard one word as yet, Though we have watched so many a gold sun set Upon that ocean-marge : O'er the wide channel comes the silvery laughter Of winds and waters, — but no word flies after ! The distances are large. O men of our own century who have gone Across the strait, and made the waters wan For sorrow that were blue, What have ye found within death's fair green France ? What loves of subtle sweet undreamed-of glance ? What passion-raptures new ? As ye crossed o'er the channel-waves of death (Was it by night ?) did all the sea's soft breath Mingle with your swift dreams ? Did the white moon upon the water shining Thrill your life-weary souls, new life divining In her prophetic gleams ? :i6 THE SONG OF YOUTH. What found ye in the land beyond the sea? Is there in death-land any fair city That waits, — as Paris waits, — To welcome travellers from our sunless shore, And cherish life's pale myriads as they pour Within its glittering gates ? Will you who leave life's England journey on Till Southern seas before your eyes have shone, And some grand Rome at last, Some central city of death beneath the blue That burns Italian-wise the white streets through, By no clouds overcast ? And will you find within this city fair, Full of the fragrance of all Southern air, Delights superb indeed ? O English spirits who have lately crossed Death's channel, by one spring's same grey waves tossed, Has each soul won its meed? Darwin, Rossetti, Longfellow, — ye meet Perhaps to-day in death's chief city sweet, The Rome we see not here : And there Mazzini welcomes you who come From the free land that gave his heart a home Through many an exiled year. And Dante takes his English namesake's hand, And leads him through the flowerful unseen land Where we one day shall be. O keen strong thinker, and ye poets fair, The land of death is filled with holier air To-day, and death's eyes see ODE TO DEATH. 117 A kinglier flame of triumph gleam along His waters, now that your pure triple song (For is not Nature's lore Searched out by loving eyes a poem indeed ?) To the great songs of history may succeed, To sound for evermore. Death's Roman streets to-day three English hearts Enter, — and forth the soul of Shelley starts, And Keats is ready there To welcome these, and all the city is bright With garlands green and red, and garlands white, And full of gracious air. While we in black-robed Westminster to-day Mourn the great thoughtful spirit passed away, High souls are glad afar : And through the blue heavens bending o'er our isle Not all cloud-folds to-night shall hide the smile Of a new deathless star. And the broad fields wherethrough the great dead roam Shall welcome two new-born dead poets home ; For they win those we mourn, And the same wind that carries us to death Is the exulting loud-tongued breeze that saith To them, " A bard is born." Ap. 27, 1882. THE SONG OF YOUTH. II. Another day ! another great soul dead ! * With the white wreath of high thought round his head The pure-souled Western seer, The prophet of vast eras yet to be, Has passed into his immortality And left us lonelier here. Couldst thou not wait when Longfellow was gone ? Must still the tide of cold death circle on ? Oh, o'er the Atlantic's waves Our sorrow reaches ! When our souls were young, How through them thy fair voice of warning rung, Bidding us leave old graves ; Bidding us dwell not even overlong By that far Lake whose blue waves' tender song Sounded in Jesus' ear : Bidding us look towards other skies than those That folded round with their clear sunsets' rose That Teacher dread and dear. Oh, thy true voice was of the modern time ! Thou didst dispel old mists. In prose and rhyme Like Parker lion-hearted, Thou didst proclaim the glory of days to be ; Thy soul was winged and confident and free ; Free-souled, thou hast departed. * Ralph Waldo Emerson died on April 27th, 1882. ODE TO DEATH. 119 The day will come when those brave hearts and few Who through this clamorous century tarried true To centuries yet unborn, Will win their fitting meed. They pass away : But their pure words and golden with us stay, And outlive wrath and scorn. Thou art the fourth great soul this spring has seen Pass ; yet her mantle is as fresh and green As ever. Not in black The Spring shall robe herself, nor will the sea Storm round our wind-blown shores less joyously : For Nature ne'er looks back. In one more day the first sweet May-kissed hedge Will blossom j soon our rivers' thymy edge Will lure the yellow bee : The dragon-fly will dart the reeds between, Clothed in his wondrous mail of azure sheen ; The moon will kiss the sea. And we too, thinking on the changeless way Of Nature, temper sorrow as we may ; We give our dead to God : Then follow as best we can along the path That they through wintry storms and thunders' wrath With dauntless footsteps trod. Ap. 29, 1882. HYMN. When our bitter foes surround us, Father, be our stay ! When in chains our sins have bound us And our follies have discrowned us, Shine thou on our way ! Starlike through the darkness gleaming, Father, lift and save ! Strengthen us through youths wild dreaming, And when age's wan moon beaming Slants upon our grave. When fierce passions would betray us, Father, safeguard be ! Rose-crowned pleasures would delay us, Cares and griefs of life would slay us, Were it not for thee. Though rich flowers fill all life's garden, Thou art more than these. Thou canst soothe and heal and pardon, Soften the wild hearts that harden, Bend the stubborn knees. When our closest friends have failed us, Thou canst hold us fast. Friends who in life's morning hailed us Now as foes have oft assailed us, But thy love doth last ! HYMN. Lo ! the grave's cold hands are taking Mother, wife, or child. What can dull the soul's lone aching, Save man's maddened heart from breaking In its anguish wild ? Nought can aid us then but knowing, Father, that with thee Our dead dear ones live in glowing Tender new life, ever flowing From thy Being's sea. We, alive, would trust thee ever, Father, sweet and sure ; Knowing that no death can sever, — Knowing that the grave parts never, — In thy love secure. HYMN. Through the foaming white-lipped surges, Great All- Father, steer us on. Pain behind us stings and scourges ; In the sky the sun gleams wan. All our lives are blent with sorrow ; Not one heart doth understand. When we sleep, we dread the morrow ; Stretch thou forth thy strong right hand ! Songs and flowers and sunsets fail us And the sweet God hidden in these. When pain's barbed red points assail us, Worthless is the singing breeze. Helpless is a rose to aid us When our feet grief's wild ways tread ; When despair's fierce spears invade us, And the hopes of youth fall dead. Lift thou then, thou great All- Father, Thy majestic helping hand ! All our weary spirits gather Towards thine own eternal land. Not one flower's exceeding splendour Helps a torn soul on its way : Thou, than all flowers far more tender, Change the darkness into day ! HYMN. 123 O'er cold mount, through moonless hollow, O'er lone seas, our footsteps tend. God, thy banner we would follow ! Yet is death the awful end ? Past the peaks where stars wax breathless, Past all heights man dimly knows, Lift us : blend with ours thy deathless Fathomless divine repose. TO A YOUNG AMERICAN LADY. We met upon the pier, and parted, That August evening fair : I pass the same spot, weary-hearted j You are not there ! The continent will soon receive you ; Paris will hold you fast, And lure your love, and never leave you One vision of the past. And Switzerland with snowy mountains Will rise upon your sight, And by the Rhone's green swift-foot fountains You will forget that night. We might have done so much together, If Fate had kinder been ! Paced summer woods in still blue weather, My grey-eyed stranger-queen ! I English and an English singer, You from America, If time had had the heart to linger, Had had so much to say ! But lo ! the chance was missed. I never Asked even of your name. And now the eternal time-waves sever, And you I may not claim. TO A YOUNG AMERICAN LADY. 125 Bat take this song, and let my yearning Across far skies and seas Fly winged, and reach you slowly turning Through moonlit orange-trees. And let me say how through the flying Swift years that are to be I still shall bear in mind that dying Gold sun across the sea. That sun we saw, and star that lightened Above the calm blue deep : — New dawns have flamed, new sunsets brightened, — But still you haunt my sleep. You come in dreams, and will come ever While wind and sun and sea Are still the same. I know that never Your image quite will flee. Just twenty minutes' talk, — then parted ! So life and love are spent : But I am always heavy-hearted ; And are you quite content ? Aug. 9, 1882. THE BRIDEGROOM OF VENUS. Not with the autumnal leaves so red and golden Nor with the autumnal light Crowned art thou, Venus, when strong suns embolden Thy coming yet more bright. Thou art not spring-like, nor of mortal seeming, Nor must thy bridegroom wear The buds of April, tender, soft and gleaming, Within gold spring-blown hair. Thou art as summer. When thy June around thee Burns splendid through the blue, We know that then the fervent year has found thee Robed in thy raiment new. And then thy bridegroom, weary of the daughters Of earth though sweet they be, Yearneth for thy gold locks beside the waters Of thine own amorous sea. And he must mix his soul with summer glory, — Not craving for cool shades, Or autumn hues, brown, radiant, gold and gory, Or spring-like colonnades. Thy mouth is summer : and thy bridegroom knowing The flower so strange and fair Must kiss the amorous gorgeous petals glowing Against the torrid air. THE BRIDEGROOM OF VENUS. 127 Not ever again can common loves content him : This is his sad great doom ! Now that thine arrow of golden love hath rent him, Point-poisoned from thy bloom. But evermore, until his spirit find thee, He wanders and must seek, Weary and mad till love again may bind thee : Weary and pale and weak. Thou liftest up for him thy soft long lashes And gazest in his eyes, And o'er him the wild sense of summer dashes And light of summer skies. Thou holdest him in arms that know no limit To pleasure of embrace : — With mouth that hath nor age nor death to dim it And deathless queenlike face Thou liftest him to regions past man's dreaming And makest him sublime j Inspiring all the swift thoughts that whirl streaming Along the tides of rhyme. Equal with thee in majesty of yearning Must he, thy bridegroom, be ; Loves lesser than thine awful one love spurning Like the contemptuous sea. This is the doom of him who, loving summer, Knew not the summer's charm, But thought to hold her like a frail new-comer By f6Vce of mortal arm. 128 THE SONG OF YOUTH. Not knowing that the sweet June's very favour Is death to him who breathes The intoxicating sweet month's flower-fed savour, Or dallies with its wreaths. For Venus in the sweet air spreads her pinions Whose plumage sways and flows, And flowers she hath for ministers and minions, A slave in every rose. So that her breath, enchanting and entrancing, Saddens and hurts and slays ; Man cannot bear her shield of sunlight glancing Across the bright-helmed days. Autumn we bear ; but not the summer's brightness, And not the summer's bloom. Sorrow we bear ; but not love's perfect whiteness And tender close perfume. So, truly, when the queen of all love's splendour, Venus, takes in her arms, More than all earthly tenderest women tender, A mortal spirit and charms And chains him, he must reach through strength of passion And kingly force of will, Loving in limitless immortal fashion, Heaven's heights, — or love must kill. But, whether slain or unslain, let love find us And with her sunlike hair Enchant and ravish and pervade and bind us, — For love alone is fair. QUESTIONINGS. 1. If God be dead, and life be void Of hope that lifted us and buoyed, — If heaven no more in front may shine, — Chorus of the sons'] . and daughters o/ v Yet have we lovt rs own wreaths to twine / men. — ) If all be passed and over soon, And soulless gleam the stars and moon, And heartless the triumphant sun, — Chorus. Yet have we toil, till toil is done I If ne'er the dreams that once so bright Laughed golden-winged in April light A heavenly fair reward shall find,— Chorus. Yet have we rose-breath on the wind ! If every joy be smitten hard, And pleasure's rigid gates be barred, — If all the old gods with God be gone, — Chorus. Yet Lo7>e 's firm foot 'step labours on I But there came answer through the nightj Loud thundering from the mountain-height And whispering softly o'er the sea : "I am, and thou art part of me." The great seas caught the sound, and mirth Rang through the sunlit vales of earth : O'er heathery hill and gold-flowered lea God's voice came — "These are part of ' me." D.-S. I29 K 130 THE SONG OF YOUTH. And lovers' souls no more were dead, Nor faded the sweet rose's head : They all were gladdened with strange glee ; God said to each, " Thou art part of me" The lonely spirit, whose pathway dim Seems full of foes who encompass him, Has caught the sound and feels that he Is saved, since God said, " Trust in me." The sinner feels God's tender glow Of pity about his dead heart flow : It flowers, as flowers a barren tree, For God said, "Son, believe in me." O live strong God, make me a part Of thine unmeasured mountain-heart ; Pure like the sky, strong like the sea, A spirit of boundless love like thee ! "AND YET!" All seemed forlorn. Bright hope had died away, The waves were grey, And sullen waters on the shore-banks beat ; The heaven I once desired had vanished quite, And all its light — And yet the world was sweet ! Never for me the angelic white robes now, Nor crown for brow, Nor God's hand for my helpless hand to meet ; Yet on our fair earth through eternity Woman will be, And woman's touch is sweet ! No hope for weary man beyond the tomb ; Nought now but gloom ; Not even hell's wild light of fiery sleet. Yet round the world for all eternity Will flow the sea, The sea's breath will be sweet ! Lips meet in love. — Alas ! love ends so soon. How short is June ! One day the lilac scents the London street : One moment from Time's grudging hands we win : Delight is sin — Yet some sins are so sweet ! 131 132 THE SONG OF YOUTH. Hold thou thy loved one through the summer night j Soon 'twill be light ; The armies of the stars will own defeat : The sun will frighten love from out the skies, With flaming eyes : But yet the night was sweet ! The velvet lips that rested once on thine, With touch divine, Turn elsewhere. Will love pause, though tears entreat ? Through all time, never ! — Yet in days gone by (Yes, one swift sigh !) Those lips to thee were sweet. One hour of rapture, and the sun's warm breath ; Then sunless death ; Death for the poppies and the golden wheat : Death for the larkspur gathering pearls of dew, And pansies blue : Yet pansies find life sweet ! Places where love in the old bright days was fair, And joys that were, Have one same sombre message to repeat ; The grass will shortly wave above our tomb With green wild bloom — And yet the grass is sweet ! The honeysuckle in the hedge last year Loved to be near Those lovers whispering on the garden-seat. Divided are those loving hearts to-day ! Sundered for aye ! Yet was not last year sweet ? "AND YET!" 133 The fierce-eyed sun has risen, and we look back Upon love's track : Were ever starlit tender moods discreet ? Could ever flower of fragrant passion bear The morn's keen air? (Yet passion-flowers are sweet !) The summer mocks us with its wealth of blue, And wondrous hue, And fervent fierce unsympathetic heat ; The blossoms mock us with their wealth of sheen, Gay 'midst the green — Yet starlit nights are sweet ! Love and all tender joys will soon be o'er, And we no more Shall thrill at the approach of woman's feet ; Quiet we soon in the chill earth shall lie, My love and I — And yet my love is sweet ! " HALF-SEEN ! ■ girl who turnest down the street, Over-slow yet over-fleet, Half-seen, Thy face was fair and soft and sweet I ween ! Never through all eternity Shall I thy full true beauty see : Thou art lost For ever now alas ! to me, Crowd-tost. It is so strange and sad to think That just one sudden broken link Snaps all. Our dreams are light-beams. Through a chink They crawl : Then something passes and the light Is quenched, and all again is night. So now Thou art gone, O clear of gaze and white Of brow ! Thou art gone.. — Yet, wholly felt, half seen, A haunting grace was in thy mien And air ; And soft as Helen's might have been Thy hair. Even the colour of thine eyes 1 ne'er shall know, more than of skies That beam Next year. In vain e'en fancy tries To dream ! "HALF-SEEN!" 135 For fancy dreams of many things — Of bird that flies, and bird that sings P the snare ; But finds the bird with swiftest wings Most fair. We love the thing we cannot gain ; And most of all what brings us pain We prize. I love, because I love in vain, Thine eyes. In unseen bower, on unknown day, Thine eyes will dream (be it brown or grey, Thy glance !) — And what Love wins, he'll cast away Perchance. And I, who could have loved thee well, Shall never know what thing befell, — Nor see Thy moment's heaven, thy life-long hell To be. Only the stars that watch thy sleep Will know if thou dost moan or weep, Or where Thou singest, or dost sink in deep Despair. What thou art, I shall never know.- — One moment's pang. Then let it go, The pain ! This dream-born flower can never blow Again. SUMMER'S DREAM. The summer flees away, and who shall find or follow Her footstep, or discern the green-browed hollow Wherein fair summer seeks to rest, With flowers upon her breast ? The summer flies. — Perchance her restless heart grows weary ; Perchance she finds earth's love-tales waxing dreary ; Perchance she tires of praise, and longs To escape men's lutes and songs. In forests weird and strange, she would be followed after By Jove's deep voice or swift Apollo's laughter ; And would be gathered, like a rose, Into sublime repose. She would be seized from heaven, and in the flashing splendour Of the god's white arms wrapt, in sacred tender Ineffable supreme embrace, And know Love face to face. In the dim forest-deep, among soft blossoms sleeping, She dreams the golden-bowed keen god comes leaping Along the pink-flowered woodland ways, Upon his brows the bays. == She dreams the white-browed god, her fiery-hearted lover, Comes, swiftly pressing through the tangled cover, And that his burning kiss falls light Upon her bosom white. 136 SUMMER'S DREAM. 137 But when she wakes, behold ! the frost has touched the larches : She gazes now no more through leafy arches. The wind has changed. Tis keen and chill. Grey is the emerald hill. Apollo's harp is hushed. Lo ! summer was but dreaming : Cold in the sky the unroyal sun is gleaming. Closed now are August's golden gates : Hard by November waits. Ah ! woman too can dream. She dreams of Love for ever. Does Love fulfil one sweet old promise ? Never ! Love stoops from heaven one single day — Then wings, and he's away ! The maiden dreams of Love. As Summer sought Apollo, The maiden would find deep-eyed Love and follow : Till the eyes of very Time grow dim, The girl would follow him. But will he wait for her ? Will Love delay his flying ? Never ! not for ten thousand wild hearts sighing. Love kisses once, and then he goes To seek an unkissed rose. So vanish all the dreams ! So woman's heart is broken ! She moans, " Would soft-voiced Love had never spoken ! Would Love had never seemed so fair — For Love's name is Despair." TWO SONNETS. I. Representative Sounds. A young girl's perfect ringing silvery laugh ; The strange slow sullen plunge of waves that break ; The ripple of leafage which the June winds shake ; The lisp of rivers which the breezes quaff; The flapping of the flag around its staff; The subtle hissing of the sinuous snake ; The sighing of reeds upon the mountain-lake ; The salmon's fierce splash, bleeding from the gaff; — The cheer of legions thundering through the breach ; The songs of children, and their thoughtless glee ; A woman's heartfelt moan of dull despair; The strong man's deep groan when the surgeons reach The rankling bullet ; crash of falling tree ; The light soft sound of heavy back-flung hair. II. Representative Colours. The sunlight glinting on a space of bright Green grass within a wood ; the blue-green leaves Of the sea-poppy ; the rich amber sheaves ; The sea — grey-blue, or brown, or angry white, Or Southern blue against broad Southern light ; A woman's hair — blue-black, or golden-brown ; The sudden flash of jewels in a crown ; The depth of purple-black vast starless night ; — The subtle blending in a woman's eyes Of green and brown ; a soldier's scarlet coat ; A woman's white form, — nobly, fully, bare, Save for the shadow of chin upon the throat Shadeless ; the red sun seen through fog-bound skies ; The carmine seaweed that green waves' lips tear. 138 "TOO SOON!" One moment ! Then you passed away, And all the sapphire sky turned grey In June. Why wait not, when 'tis close of day So soon ? I caught a glimpse of laughing eyes, Bright-coloured like the laughing skies Of June. They passed. Why is it summer dies So soon? Farewell, clear eyes that flashed and gleamed, Then left me lonely, having dreamed Too soon. When you had passed, no more it seemed Like June ! Farewell, swift feet that down the street Passed just too soon for eyes to meet — Too soon To make a sweet night yet more sweet In June. LOVE-SONNETS. SONNET I. A SUDDEN PANG. It smote across me with a sudden pang, The thought that you must die. It shall not be ! If there is soul of passion in the sea, Or in the moon whose white orb used to hang Above the wild plains where thy spirit sang Its girlish love-song to infinity, — If there was love in sun or flower or tree Or river whose soft voice beside thee rang, — If there is love in the Unknown Power or me, — Thou shalt live onward through the viewless years. Oh when death calls thee, and thine eyes' bright light Fails, send for me. If I can see for tears I'll use my sword once more, and death shall flee, For love that dies not can put death to flight. LOVE-SONNETS. 14] SONNET II. REST. O spirit, O love, canst thou bestow on me — Me who have wandered through the sable night For lonely ages, — who have watched the flight Of clouds from God's hand through eternity, — Who saw the stars when they began to be, — Who marked the first sun launch its golden light Upon the stormy blue, — whose weary sight Followed the breakers on the first grey sea : — Canst thou, O love, O spirit, on me bestow The one thing I am most in need of — Rest ? I'd give my very soul to end the quest Eternal, agonizing, dark with woe. Sorrow has been my bosom's inmost guest Since Eden laughed in its first sunset's glow. SONNET III. LOVE'S YEARNING. If I die first, I would unbar the tomb And fill its gateways full of flowers for thee If such a gift in mortal love might be : I'd make for thee the iron meadows bloom, And scatter with my winged songs the gloom That now pervades and chills eternity. I'd touch to blue the sable-crested sea Whose waves through night's dark arches peer and loon\ But if no longing may give love the power To ope death's gateways for another soul I would leave with thee these few songs in flower That, when my feet have passed the songless goal, Death who would rush with harsh tread through thy bower Destroying part; may not destroy the whole. i 4 2 THE SO KG OF YOUTH. SONNET IV. "JUST ONE STAR." I would give of my being unto thee, As God gave of himself with love supreme And filled the bright world with his every dream And made his thought incarnate in the sea And in the blossom of the red may-tree And in the tropic mystic white moon-gleam And in the lily floating on the stream And in the passions of humanity. So I would in my humbler measure bring : Not having all the suns and stars to take Wherewith thy spirit's fiery thirst to slake As slakes creation's thirst creation's King — But having just the power to love and sing And just one star to bring thee for love's sake. sonnet v. GOD. Thou needest God. — Yes, he can conquer death For thee, and open the eternal gates. For more than man's love thy sweet spirit waits And for far more than the one small rose-wreath That love can give thee. When love's mortal breath Flags, thou dost need the breath that renovates The laughing flowers when darkness' strength abates And the sun flashes from the black night's sheath. Yes, woman needeth God. I know it well. Because I know that I have not the whole Undying force to satisfy thy soul I love thee more than I can ever tell. — Woman needs man. Man needeth her. And each Needs God's heart, — smiling ever out of reach. L VE-SONNE TS. 143 SONNET VI. GOD IN MAN. And yet we seek the human. — When we tire Of God's great loving limitless embrace And of the features of the endless face, — Yea, when we weary of his passion-fire And of his stern implacable desire, We turn with longing to some grassy place On earth, and 'mid the lilies for a space We rest, and listen to the earth's old lyre. The human love is very very sweet, And there are seasons when the highest rhyme Of kingliest stars would strike as less sublime Than love-songs sung where the brown waters meet On earth, or where rose-tendrils cling and climb. — When God fails, listen for Love's human feet. THEE FIRST, THEE LAST. Because thou wast the first To waken passion's thirst, When all the morning youthful air was sweet ; Because, while skies were blue And fern-fronds fresh with dew, Thine eyes were morning's eyes for me to meet, Thy name first, last, in song-land I repeat. Because the seas were fair With breath of morning air, — Because enchanted sunlight filled the bays ; Because in vale and dell Young spring-like petals fell And dreams were sweet in many a woodland maze, Thee first, thee last, in song to heaven I raise. Because the woods were green, Because thou wast my queen Long ere pale Sorrow haunted with sad eyes The autumn desolate rills, And thunder-smitten hills, And wild moors which the purple heather dyes, Song's light outlives the sunshine of the skies. Because thou wast my Bride, Young, beautiful, soft-eyed, Long ere the voice of other woman spoke ; Because thou wast the flower First sent in life's first hour, White as the seas that round our footsteps broke, Both first and last I bow me to thy yoke. THEE FIRST, THEE LAST. H5 Because no woman's face Had, then, the same sweet grace, Nor had the eyes of woman magic then To lead astray my heart ; Because the crown of Art Thou wast, and my life's mission among men Thou madest plain, I hymn thee, love, again. I hymn, sweet lady, thee, With voice of our old sea, With passionate surge of song-wave on the shore Of fast-receding time ; I seek thee in my rhyme, Beautiful, tender as thou wast, once more. I loved thee in silence. Now my songs adore. Because in the early glow Of morning thou didst throw A glamour o'er my life that never yet Hath faded quite away, Though shades of evening grey Are in the West, and cold years must be met, Upon thy brow this wreath of song I set. I bring thee, love, again A soft memorial strain ; A memory as of morning o'er the sea : Pale flowers for thee to wind, With love-glance flung behind, Within thy tresses, ere swift years that flee Banish the morning thoughts, and thoughts of me. d.-s. L 146 THE SONG OF YOUTH. Thee first, thee last, I crown And lay my singing down Just as of old for blessing of thine hand ; Again, in dreams, a boy, Full of love's fiery joy, Watching the sea-shades of thine eyes I stand, While miles of meadow-sweet scent all the land. THE LAST FAREWELL. A long farewell, a strange farewell, I send thee, The last farewell of all — Not death's farewell, but life's. — All joys attend thee Till life's last red leaf fall ! All gifts be thine, all flowers bloom round about thee, All bright suns shine for thee ! Summer adores, Spring cannot smile without thee ; All things thou swayest but me. Mine heart thou swayest no more. A brave heart finds me, A stronger soul than thine. New chains of love are woven. A new love binds me, And makes its sweetness mine. For years and years thy wondrous beauty held me, A captive at thy feet : To song and toil thy grey clear eyes impelled me, And love of thee was sweet. Thou hadst not heart to meet supreme devotion With love as pure and strong ! Love's waves fell back in their own soundless ocean ; No soft voice answered song. I sought for perfect truth, — for love I pleaded, Faith mocking years that flee : My eager prayers rose answerless, unheeded j Hear now love's word to thee : — 148 THE SONG OF YOUTH. " Farewell ! farewell ! My strangest saddest greeting, My last, to thee I send : Just the last sound of singing waves retreating, Our sea's wild poem's end. " The wind's last whisper 'mid our ferns and heather And many a mountain-pine ; The last blue gleam of old sweet August weather, The last song's sad last line. " My youth's last voice. — My manhood turns not hither, It turns away from thee : It turns with tenderest love and yearning whither Thou canst not follow me. " It turns towards other eyes — eyes truer and sweeter, Eyes yet more bright than thine ; Towards love whose soul is sure, whose feet are fleeter To watch and follow mine. 11 So this last time I turn towards the old palace Of youth and love and song ; Turn once to thee whom all my youth loved, Alice (And love's last look is long !) " Farewell ! farewell ! — Yet forceless for estranging Is the lute-voice of Art : Love's last farewell, eternal and unchanging, Rings from the altered heart." BOOK II. THE SONG OF MANHOOD. i. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 149 SONNETS. SONNET I. THE OLD EARTH'S SWEETNESS. Yet sweeter and yet sweeter as we pass Towards bitter death that slays all songs and flowers, Becomes the scent that hovers o'er the bowers Of youth j yet lovelier the bright green grass ; Yet tenderer fair passion's burning hours ; Yet softer all the varied songs of love ; Yet bluer the clear spotless heavens above ; And yet more manifold life's glorious powers. Now for the first time human life is fair In that there is no life beyond the grave : Now for the first time shines the morning air With true delight, — now first the branches wave In genuine glee,— now first the roses wear In perfect calm those tints no power can save. 152 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET II. THE POET'S DOOM. This is the poet's doom : to love all joys, — To mark them fading, and to mourn them dead. To see the rose at daybreak blushing red : At night to watch the wind with wanton noise Scattering the petals from their perfect poise, — Strewing with pale pink gems the brown cold bed ; To marvel at some woman's curve of head, Till Death both body and carven brow destroys. This is the poet's doom— far more than others To feel the life, and so the death far more : To sing for the sweet sake of tuneless brothers The beauty of each shell upon the shore : To see too deep ; to love a rose too much, — And so to mark it fading at his touch ! sonnet in. LOVE'S DESPAIR. Oh infinite delight, when never more The white seas shine before us on the sand, — When at the touching of Death's calm sweet hand Colour forsakes the hills, and light the shore ! Yes : then shall all life's wild fierce pain be o'er. Nought shall arouse us from our perfect sleep : Not woman's touch, — nor woman's glances deep, — Nor ripples of the stream, nor ocean's roar. Whom woman cannot rouse^s more than dead. Death's infinite peace shall fall upon each soon : Then in the timeless land where star nor moon Glitters, — nor rose of white nor rose of red, — And where no woman's figure thrills the air, We shall find rest from love, — and love's despair. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 153 SONNET IV. SONG'S IMMORTALITY. Shelley is dead, and Keats is dead, — and who Will take to-day the poet's harp and sing ? Whose voice shall make the mountain-summits ring Or sound at night beneath the moonlit blue ? — Great souls are dead. Must English song die too, Die out and perish, — while our sea-waves bring Still their same ceaseless chant, and ceaseless spring Robes the sweet English flower-filled vales anew ? Ah ! while one English rose blooms red at morn Still shall fresh English deathless song be born, Pure and untrammelled as the English skies : And while one English woman still is fair, Music shall sound upon the English air : — Song is not dead, till the last woman dies. SONNET V. ENGLAND. England of Shakespeare, Shelley, Milton, Keats, Burns, Byron, Wordsworth, — hath thine head grown grey, And are the former glories passed away ? Is the heart tired that 'neath thine armour beats ? As year by year with speedy wing retreats, Doth thy strength dwindle slowly and decay ? While yet the world basks in the golden day Is it mist of night that round about thee fleets ? — Rise thou, O England ! Let thy great limbs sleep No longer. Burn upon us with those eyes That blenched not at Trafalgar's blood-red skies, — Nor Waterloo, — nor Alma's thundering steep : — Let not this crowd of mockers round thee leap, While passionless thy giant sword-arm lies. 154 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET VI. WATERLOO. A stormy evening on a far- stretched plain Of meadow-land and corn-land, — and a host Of stubborn red-coats holding every post Against the interminable cannon-rain. Oh, to live through that deathless day again ! The day when the Old Guard he trusted most, Napoleon, — found their world-wide fierce-lipped boast, Valid a thousand times, this one time vain. The blue long lines in motion, and the red Long line as steady as a wall of stone ! — The Old Guard, plunging through that long day's dead, Swept like the mad sea-surges shoreward blown Against the red calm ranks j — then with a groan Wavered, — and turned, — and the whole world's conquerors fled ! SONNET VII. CHRIST AND ENGLAND. Nay ! but our own dear land thou shalt not hold, Lord Christ. Thou hast thy white-walled Eastern town, And thine own endless worshipful renown, And heaven's own sunlit heights, and towers of gold. — Not thine the English wild furze-yellowed wold ; Not thine the breeze that sweeps green hill and down ; Not thine our women, — thee they shall not crown ; Not round thee shall their arms with passion fold. Rest where thou art, lest thou shouldst have a fall. — The storm is in our spirits, and the sea ; The skies' grim armies hearken at our call, And the grey mountain-vapours round us flee, And murmurous ocean girds us like a wall. We are content. We have no need of thee. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 155 SONNET VIII. FAIRY LAND. I fell asleep and dreamed of Fairy Land. — Of cruel monsters with red savage eyes, And yellow snowdrops, and strange twilight skies : A blue-haired fairy took me by the hand And led me towards a Palace where a band Of fays, with locks like the pink fronds that rise Within the sea-waves, danced in gleesome wise : — Then came the Fairy Queen with golden wand. She moved to meet me. When my eyes met hers, I felt along my veins a sudden thrill, As when the passionate young blood leaps and stirs : — I woke : I lay upon a low sand-hill 'Mid gold sea-poppies and the gaunt grey furze — But that Queen's hazel glances haunt me still. SONNET IX. BALACLAVA. Along the valley the wild riders speed. — This is the complement of Waterloo : That showed what English infantry could do : To-day the horsemen win fame's deathless meed. Horsemen and infantry are one indeed ; The horsemen are the English fiery soul Loosened at length from years of still control, — The others are the calm that did precede. When English horse and English foot combine, Who shall withstand that red tremendous line Holding both passions of the English race, — The calm still passion of its pent-up strength, And fury as of the Light Brigade at length Free for that fiery blood-splashed charge and chase ! 156 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET X. THE FINAL LONELINESS. If God be dead, and man be left alone, And no immortal golden towers be fair, And nothing sweeter than earth's summer air Can ever by our yearning hearts be known ; If every altar now be overthrown, And the last mistiest hill-tops searched and bare Of Deity, — if man's most urgent prayer Is just a seed- tuft tossed about and blown : — If this be so, yet let the lonely deep Of awful blue interminable sky Thrill to man's kingly unbefriended cry : Let man the secret of his own heart keep Sacred as ever ) — let his lone soul be Strong like the lone winds and the lonelier sea. SONNET XI, NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA. No more the plains of Europe blushing red Beneath his foot, nor Paris full of flame Of triumph — -ringing with the conqueror's name — •* And the Caesarian laurel round his head. No more for him his countless armies led The countless armies of the world to tame, And necks of kings to bend to lowliest shame ; No more wide moonlit acres of his dead. No more the black plumes of his Cuirassiers, — The Old Guard's white facings, and the breathless glee Of mingled battle, and the glittering tiers Of bayonets, and sword-sheen. Alone for thee, World-conqueror, shine this island's rocky spears, And that grey weaponless unconquered sea. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 157 SONNET XII. THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. At last against the conquerors of the world Nature took arms and fought. The circling storm Was deadlier than the melee fierce and warm, And snow-shafts than fire-bolts against them hurled. Some sank beneath the drift and some slept curled In hollows, till the white cloud hid each form j Some staggered wildly onward arm in arm, With the tricoloured standards dank and furled. Napoleon gazed around, — and where were they, The helmets and great epaulettes of red, Whose sheen and flame through many a bloody day Had been his rapture ? At his feet one dead Drummer lay stark. Then nought above, below, Save black heaven, — and the interminable snow. SONNET XIII. PANTHEISTIC DREAMS. What is the worth of Pantheistic dreams ? — Oh, what avails it at the hour of death To mix our souls with countless roses' breath, Or with the shining June-sky's sunset-gleams, Or with the glory of blue-rippling streams ? What joy is there in groping underneath The soil, to spring in roots of purple heath ? What human rapture in the moon's white beams ? One hour of human life, though it be wild And mad and sinful, is a nobler spell Than long eternities in green deep dell, Mixed with the spirits of the snow-drops mild. Hold to the human form : be not beguiled : Man's heaven is not within the tulip's bell. [55 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET XIV. TO THE "UNKNOWABLE" GOD. O God within the awful voiceless void, — God of the terrible and viewless night, God also of the burning midday light, — God, by whose hand the countless stars are buoyed, And all the golden sunrise-clouds deployed, And all the ridges of the sea made bright, And the far snow-fields limitlessly white, — God whom the green woods worship, overjoyed : We cannot reach thee. Yet can prayer make head Against the glittering tide of stars and suns, And reach thy gracious central throne at once ? Can our lone cry surmount the hill-tops red With fiery sunset ? Can we find thee, Lord, — Or are our groans towards earless heights outpoured ? sonnet xv. ONE CHANCE. One life ; one chance ; one woman to adore ; One rose to worship : — once, and never again, Love to our bosom with sweet tears to strain ; Once to kiss soft lips on some moonlit shore : Once all our soul in music to outpour, And once to enter Passion's golden fane, And once to launch upon the foamy main Of wild Romance where poets sank of yore : — Just once, and then the end ; — one chance we have, One life for singing, — then our lips are sealed, And over us the green grass of the field And the green fern-fronds and white roses wave : One life for music, — then the silent grave, And lands where never morning bugle pealed. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 159 SONNET XVI. MARY MAGDALENE. Of all high crowns and sweet the green earth gave, Or the still height of Galilean air, Or white Jerusalem that shone so fair, Or blue Gennesaret with rippling wave, Not one had grace to charm or power to save As hers who flooded with repentant hair Christ's feet, and brought the ointment soft and rare Of her own broken heart, — as " for his grave." So she first saw him when his spirit rose : — And through all time, through scene on changing scene, Who is there, knowing Christ, but also knows The soiled heart made by soul-deep sorrow clean ? Ay ! half his deathless halo Jesus owes To the harlot : gold-haired Mary Magdalene. SONNET XVII. ON READING " LES CONTEMPLATIONS" OF VICTOR HUGO. First through the early ways of love made bright With tenderest blossoms, holding his strong hand I wandered. Airs of morning soft and bland Played round us ; through the greenwood's dense delight Of tangled flowers and shrubs shone Venus white : — The silver-fringed small wavelets kissed the land ; We mixed with many a laughing lover-band ; The world was fair to touch, and fair to sight. Then came a change. By many a river-steep We passed : the blossoms less abundant grew. Still the same gold stars watched above our sleep, And the same high interminable blue. At last before tjie poet who led and me Following, a grey waste gleamed : — Death and the sea. 160 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET XVIII. LOUIS BONAPARTE. O one great stain upon the English race, That when the Third Napoleon's warriors slew Women and children (though at Waterloo His uncle's men looked strong men in the face !) — • When Paris reeked with blood, and when the base Came to the front, and exiled were the few Heroic souls to love and freedom true — That then this man at our blind hearts found grace ! — That, when the soul through whom the century sings Found nought of help or refuge but the sea, And must for nineteen years an exile be, Guarded by lone stars and the tempest's wings, Our England's statesmen could so low descend As to call Louis Bonaparte a friend ! SONNET XIX. THE TWENTIETH CENTURY. When quiet meadows shine beneath the sun Of the grand twentieth century : when the race Lifts up towards cloudless heaven a tearless face : When the far hills we cannot climb are won, Strange prospects seen, and deeds undreamed of done Look back, — look back, — ye dwellers in the land, To us who at the century's strong gates stand But pass them not — fast falling one by one ! — We sang the future, though the past loomed dread Behind us : sang the morning, though the night Had not yet opened full-fledged wings for flight ; Born in the mid strife of a century red, We sang the advent of a century white : — We sang the living, — knee-deep in the dead. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 161 SONNET XX. THE CITY OF THE DEAD. In early youth how far that City seems ! — When our friends die, they seem to pass away Into some land where all the airs are grey, — Some viewless region too remote for dreams, Where the bold sun of daylight never gleams : — Our own steps loiter onward day by day \ O'er many a dark-blue lake and sunny bay We sail ; we kiss white hands on moonlit streams. We gather flowers : the City of the dead Is still remote. " Which is the fairest thing," We say — " a red mouth, or this rose of red ? " Along the May-bright lanes we laugh and sing. We turn a sudden corner : Lo ! the dread City before us, — in the sun-setting. sonnet xxr. RELIGION AND ART. 1 ' Religion and Art are best kept apart, I think." Ah ! — just so. Keep your God, and give me mine. Keep you your Sunday God, black-coated, grim, — Sever all Art and sweet delight from him, — Sip in his name your sacramental wine. My God is in these carven limbs that shine Upon the smooth blue sea's soft buoyant rim ; My God is in these full rich lips that brim With kisses sweeter than rain-washed woodbine. Beauty is my God : — I am well content. All wonder of form ye see not ; ye are blind. Pursue your road in peace, — ye were not meant The tabernacle of my God to find. Pursue your road with craven looks down-bent, And preach your hideous gospel to mankind ! d.-s. M 1 62 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET XXII. THE WORLD'S MODEL. Not till thine eyes shine, are the sea-waves blue : Not till the beauty of thy breast was born, Did white foam put white lily-cups to scorn : No stars were golden, till thy hair's bright hue Flashed on the planet's morning. Over and through The woodlands sighed no tender summer breeze Till thy voice gave its key-note melodies To every leaf, to every wind that blew. Never an ash-tree bent with supple charm Till thou didst teach the boughs and stem their skill By curve of gracious body or throat or arm : — Till thou didst sing, the bird-choirs all were mute : Thy laughter gave its music to the rill ; And thy lips reddened the yet pallid fruit. SONNET XXIII. THE FIRST KISS. Lo ! the first kiss of Eve when the first night Fell over Paradise, — the blue profound Far heaven of darkness slowly closing round, And silent star-ships steering into sight. Lo ! the first kiss of red lips and of white Breast, whose soft touch gave pleasure beyond bound :— First they had feared the unheard-of dark, — but found The passionate darkness sweeter than the light. Yes : the first kiss. And since that far-off hour Lips tender and innumerable have met ; And lips shall meet sweeter than any yet j But in that star-watched and God-hallowed bower Man's hand first gathered love, the dark night's flower, And when the sun rose, dropped it with regret. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 163 SONNET XXIV. THE LAST KISS. Yes : the last kiss. For there shall come a last. — When the whole race has dwindled, and the air No longer serves us, — dense or over-rare ; When human history hath an endless past, But not one future day : when tired winds cast About for flowers, but find no flowers to wear : When the last rose on the sparse hedge is fair : When the whole living world's flag flies half-mast : — Then there shall come a last kiss. — Shall not it, Full of a desperate sweetness unforeseen, Something of all past history's raptures win, — And shall the woman's wild eyes not be lit With stranger light than of the setting sun ? Will all life die not, when that kiss is done ? SONNET XXV. THE ANCIENT MOON. O moon, thou gazest on our London night ! Thou seest the Thames' black eddies roll along : Thou hear'st coarse vulgar words, or snatch of song : Jealous, thou battiest with the electric light. Thou kissest thine old love, the obelisk white Whom thou didst toy with in the unknown years : Thou markest many a bridge with stately piers : Thou followest steamboats in their throbbing flight. Yet how thou sneerest at us in thine heart, — Thou, most aristocratic of all things ! — Thou who hast seen the Assyrian priestess stand Where pillars white abut on endless sand : Thou who hast watched Gomorrha's black-haired kings, And lent thy lustre to barbaric Art. 1 64 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET XXVI. FIRST LOVE. O first love, — tender holy blind pure phase ! — For then it seemeth to the soul that one And but one woman liveth, — that the sun Finds but one blossom worthy of his gaze. Is it a snow-drop ? — Then by green hedgeways We think no gleaming rose-bush ever grew ! White is our flower, — so never hare-bells blue The sun loved, nor the rich gorse' golden blaze ! Ah !- — Some day blind eyes open, and we see On every side far fairer than the old New blossoms springing, — marvelling we behold Petunia, cowslip, heath, anemone : — As from our heart a sudden veil is rolled ; We revel in Woman's sweet diversity. SONNET XXVII. ENDLESS BEING. If one could live for ever ! — carrying on The life of old Assyria to to-day ! See era after era pass away Yet be oneself,— though all men else had gone. The sun to-day is the same sun that shone On Saul and David : why should man, I pray, Be less long-lived than its fierce golden spray ? — E'en the moon lives, though age has made her wan. O God, to live for ever !— passing through Each age, and knowing the ecstasy of each : The same gaze that to-day, quite youthful, falls On the dim dome and facade of St. Paul's Having beheld the Pyramids quite new And flashed response to Cleopatra's speech. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 SONNET XXVIII. FORGOTTEN JESUS. The world is a coquette. She kissed and clung Round Jesus as an actress clings around Her long-lost lover on a sudden found, — And over him her tearful hands she wrung. For nineteen centuries round his tomb she sung, And her strong passion seemed to know no bound : — Lithe craving supple amorous arms she wound About the throat that on the black cross hung. What was it worth ? — She hath a new love now, A young love, — and she marks within his eyes The far-off light of summers of new skies, And flowers unfaded ring his lineless brow : — Christ and his centuries pass, — and, laughing, she Flings white arms round the Twentieth Century. SONNET XXIX. THIS CENTURY AND THE NEXT. This century knew Napoleon, — and it knew Byron and Wordsworth, and its heart has heard Measureless Hugo's century-equal word ; And it has seen the smoke of Waterloo. It has seen France and Germany bestrew The summer plains with dead : it marked the Third Napoleon drop from empire : — it has stirred With iron keels the sea's untroubled blue. Now, nearing its august and solemn close, It has seen May-time * in the Phcenix Park Shudder at a crime than which no crime more dark Has ever stained May's hawthorn or May's rose : It has seen Revolution's first red spark : Will its child see the towering flame ? — God knows. * Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were assassinated in the Phoenix Park, Dublin, on Saturday, May 6, 1882. 1 66 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET XXX. LOST RICHES. O riches of all the ages we have missed ! — Dark eyes, dark tresses, in old Eastern lands, — Wonderful thrilling of electric hands, — Lips fairer than all flowers, alas ! unkissed. Blue tender veins on Cleopatra's wrist,- — Eyes gazing over Indian thirsty sands, — Eyes watching wild waves break on Northern strands Pine-shadowed ; — oh, the long heart-piercing list ! — And whom of all that long list have we seen ? Poets, who have the eternal heart of Time Mixed with your own in magnitude sublime, Ye have kissed the lips it may be of one queen Of love and song, and crowned her in your rhyme, — One ! — royal lips are numberless, I ween ! ON THE DEATH OF DR. CUMMING. The mighty stars pursue their course And the waves break with ordered force, Heedless of man ; All things flow outward from their source, As they began. One prophet more whose rash weak thought Set law and time and force at nought Has passed away : And still the green bright spring is brought From winter grey. The primrose and the crocus bold Still fill with pale or with deep gold The grass of spring : Still the first sure thrush as of old Starts up to sing. The cowslips yellow and violets blue Drape fields and banks in diverse hue ; Nought fails us yet ; Each spring's soft head hath glory new For coronet. As surely as summer comes, the rose In all its old rich grandeur blows, And gardens shine, And the fierce tiger-lily glows ; Then comes the vine. 167 [68 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. The prophet who predicted all Should end so soon, himself must fall : The world swings on. Bright months flash by, dull seasons crawl, Till all are gone. But when the fresh clear mornings break On sea or shore or mountain-lake The same sun's might Bids still the same sweet flowers awake And bathe in light. The green immense smooth-curling seas Shake lions' manes before the breeze And no man stays The vast advancing files of these : They go their ways. The rash-tongued seer himself is dead ; But no rose blooms to-day less red : No bell less blue. More light upon man's path is shed Than his thought knew. He passes : and the stars awake, And not one lessens for his sake Its wonted fire ; Still hearts will bound, and hearts will break, At Love's desire ! Will there be one hour less of bloom, Because he passes to his doom And leaves Love here ? Man's is the light, — his is the gloom, His is the fear. ON THE DEATH OF DR. CUMMING. 169 If there be judgment, 'tis for him Within the death-land dark and dim : This world is bright ; Ay, brighter now that prophet grim Is lost in night. The birds may sing, the sun may shine, The blue grapes ripen on the vine, The hill-tops gleam, The wind may whisper to the pine Its latest dream : The butterfly may love the rose, The red bee in the hive repose Beside his queen, Without one fear lest God disclose Hell's sudden sheen. The emerald flies may buzz and wheel, The lizard through the leaves may steal With sides that flash ; The Last Day's thunder will not peal With sudden crash. The fisher standing by the stream May watch the silver salmon gleam Above the weir : God will not trumpet through his dream, " The end draws near ! " The girl may pluck forget-me-not, — Not dreading lest the stream turn hot, The flowers turn white, As God in anger sears the spot With lightning-light. 170 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. The youth may watch his true love's eyes, Without a fear lest horror rise Therein and dread At sight of hell's fierce under-skies Of angry red. The world awakes ; the prophet sleeps. With laughter in its eyes it leaps Towards newer things : And as its fruited corn it reaps, Its great heart sings ! Not yet its end is. — Many a day Shall the brave world spin on its way Through joy and dole : Through dawns of gold and eves of grey Its wheels shall roll. While woman breathes, the world-heart glows Most young and fervent ; while the rose Each year is red, The world's tired spirit may repose, But is not dead ! fufy, 1881. HARROW v. ETON AT LORD'S. 1881. Just twenty years ago the same shouts sounded. With boyish eager eyes I watched the field : Watched the red ball that o'er the live hedge bounded ; Joined in the merry cries that rang and pealed. Would any, knowing his fate, live on I wonder ? On the same hillside where my young dreams grew The wave of Byron's life that burst in thunder First gathered force, 'neath skies of stormless blue. Would he have lived ? Would any, knowing the sorrow And all the pain that love's near future brings, The boyish life once spent, endure the morrow — Not pass, content with games and boyish things ? O Harrow fields that Byron loved, and splendour Of Harrow skies, I think of you to-day ! Then sorrow softens to remembrance tender, And blue sky breaks through London's chronic grey. To-day I hear the shouts. My spirit glances Straight back o'er twenty years. I hear the sound As then I heard. My heart with pleasure dances, When a grand Harrow hit o'erleaps the bound. But then with sense of speechless desolation The years weigh on me, like a mount of stone : Years that began with songs and exultation, Then left me in the starless dark, alone. 172 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. And through them gleam the eyes that first impelled me Along love's road, and changed me to a man : Led captive all my soul, and charmed and held me ; Inspired each thought, and guided every plan. How strange to think that these boy-hearts awaking To life to-day, are ignorant indeed ! Yet that on each love's pitiless morning breaking Will change the hearts that sing to hearts that bleed. No spirit shall shun the love-doom waiting ready, Ready to seize and shape to newer things. All shall be whirled around Fate's frothing eddy, Helpless as are i' the stream a moth's white wings. Ye cannot pause. Meet ye your fate, quite fearless. Here standing, after twenty years, again, Watching as I with stony heart and tearless, Confess that life is love, and love is pain. ii. Ye know so little of what shall surely follow : Your clear gaze centres on the cricket-green. You Venus touches not, nor great Apollo ; Nought is to you the golden-girdled queen. Nought are her white arms eager for embraces — Eager as ever, though her shrines may fall. She waits. She peers into the young fresh faces. She wonders which heart first will heed her call. She wonders who will chant afresh her praises, Gathering wild garlands from the wind-swept wold, Crowning her now with fern or pink-tipped daisies ; For silent are the lips which sang of old. HARROW v. ETON AT LORD'S. 173 Nought is she to you. — Yet than rivers clearer Shall ring some voice whose music waits afar. Daily Fate brings the destined moment nearer, As evening brings the sky its certain star. Sweeter one day shall sound a girl's soft laughter Than laugh of comrade brave, or trusty friend. Theirs is one hour : but hers is the hereafter. They triumph now : she triumphs till the end. Touching her hand, ye shall forget to covet The whitest flower that in earth's garden grows : Hearing her voice, ye shall for ever love it : Touching her lips, ye shall forget the rose. Far sweeter things there are than ye are dreaming In this strange world, where love is linked to pain ; Eyes with a lovelier light than summer's gleaming. — We mortals vanish. But the stars remain. The stars of love for ever shine resplendent : They lighted Byron on his lonely way. They still abide, in love's train still attendant, And they shall light you. Ye shall have your day. Some years for Harrow toil and Harrow pleasure — Short years, glad years. Then as for him, for each One hour of rapture maddening beyond measure ; Fruition, so it seems, within your reach. Some years of Harrow labour, Harrow gladness ; Clear skies of spring-time, summer's sumptuous light j Then frenzied passion— then despair and sadness — Then twilignt, gathering darkness. Then the night. A POET'S LETTER TO HIS SON. So you would be a poet ? Well, if you Have in you the true fire and strength of soul It will in the end find egress, doubt it not. But first of all there may be many a road Full hard to traverse, and full many a night Of weary watching, and full many a pang. To be a poet is the greatest thing On earth, and, being the greatest, the most hard To compass. Truly wise-browed Wordsworth said, 11 Great is the glory, for the strife is hard." And this strife shows itself in various ways : If you have in you the true secret force And fiery inward yearning, they will lead Your spirit forth from the thick ranks of men, And you from early days will be alone. Alone at school you will be, and alone At college ; or, if not alone in fact, Alone in the recesses of your heart. Remember you are not as others are — And this will show itself in little things As well as in large things : the sunset-fire Over the Nuneham woods, the Oxford towers, The bright marsh-marigolds7will not ever be The same to you as to your friends around ; This is at once your glory and your doom. The ripples of Isis, or of Cam, will seem To you not as to others : o'er their flow Strange dreams will brood, and draw you after them. A POET'S LETTER TO HIS SOW. 175 If you have in you a true poet's heart, Woman will be to you from the very first Sacred, and all the poems you will write In after days will fall short every one Of fully expressing what she is to you — What most of all she was when, young and fair, And bearing first love's blossoms in her hands, She burst upon you sweeter than a dream. Ah ! that pure dream of first love. You will date From this your flowing tide of songfulness And your fierce search for fame ; all poets do. For years it will be just your one desire To crown one bright-eyed fairy English girl With the green bay-leaves of eternal fame : Your daily thoughts, your nightly dreams, will be Ever of her, and you for years will hold That she can have no equal in the world. Oh ! let the sweet and sacred fancy last Long as it may, — for ever, if it will, — For never through all time will any gift So full of saving guardianship be yours. Are you upon the silent midnight sea, Sailing ? Her face smiles at you from the stars. Are you upon the solemn mountain-peaks, Where the high thunders and the lightnings brood And the blue gentian blossoms ? There again Her spirit is with you, pure and strong and sweet And motherly almost, for first love hath In it such holy power as mothers have Over one much-loved son. — Or are you set 'Mid coarse companions whose light jests ring out Discordant ? * Then the pure girl-face again 176 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Rises before you, and it shields you quite, Like some pure golden sacred sunset-cloud, From rude companionship and taint of soul. Yes : just because you have in you more power Of seeing beauty, — beauty of form and face, True beauty of eye and waist and lip and hand — Beauty besides of flower within the hedge, And crest of wave, and quivering blade of grass, And crimson foam-flecked sea-weed — just because These things are more to you than unto them, And woman most of all is more than all, You will encounter from your rougher friends Endless misunderstanding. This indeed All poets have to meet and battle with. Ay, you will find it more than hard to bear That, when Queen Beauty to your poet's heart Is just the simple type of all things pure And holy and sweet and seemly, and the embrace Of love the fitting and eternal type Of the true deathless blending of the soul With God, and woman's form the noblest form That ever yet the sculptor-ages reached — You'll find it bitter and hard to agony point That friends, and some friends too who mean you well After their fashion, should step in with their Prosaic cursed common commentary, And turn your love to lusVyour passion high To carnal low desire, and your true songs To orgy songs, — transferring into all Themselves, their nature, and their character. Yes : this is hard — and beyond bearing hard You'll find it when you, seeking God himself A POET'S LETTER TO HIS SON. 177 Within his heaven of blue or in his night Of moon and stars, or on his boundless sea, Are called a sceptic and an atheist. When you have tried to point beyond the church, And far beyond the priest, and to exalt The thoughts of women to the God who lives Outside the barriers of our mongrel creeds, Then to be called a godless faithless bard (Because, forsooth, you struggle as you may To follow in Christ's own fearless creedless steps), This is exceeding bitter ; bitterer Than ever if, as it too often is, The taunt is flung from women whom you love, And for whose souls' true welfare you would die. But you would die to lift them closer up To God and truth and liberty, and not To tighten their church fetters — God forbid ! 'Tis love that you would die for : not a creed — The very spirit of justice : not a church. And you will find in you a mighty power Of love which never can be satisfied. This is your glory, and your peril too : — For you will weary of one lovely face And long for others, loving still the first ; And your quick sympathy will spring to life At the mere slightest touch of woman's hand. Women will seek you — women always do Seek poets : they will bring their griefs to you, And you will sometimes find it hard to say Where the strict perfect path of duty lies. For you will feel with your quick poet's heart That God matte flowers all different, and made D.-S. N 78 THE SONG OF MANHOOD: All women different, and that their charm Lies chiefly in contrast (like the charm of flowers) — So that (no quibbling ! I'm in earnest quite) You'll feel you cannot with full force of love Love number one, save with the tender help Of number two : and here again you'll find That what is pure and noble unto you Will be degraded by your listeners. It must be so : one sees it must be so. Each reads himself into the poem he reads, And brings back what he came with ; nor, perhaps, Can any save a poet apprehend The spiritual divine surpassing help That woman gives, — yes, that each woman gives If she be noble and great, and gives because She is herself and not another soul. Never, perhaps, will any understand, Save only poets, the soul-agony — Deep sorrow of soul it is, and not of flesh — Of being pent with one, however fair, Pent in a prison, though the walls be gold And window-bars bright silver ; therein pent, While just outside the summer airs are sweet (So very sweet !) and green trees toss and wave And faces (such sweet faces !) pass the bars, With smiling mouths you'd give the world to kiss, And souls you'd give the world to understand. " Ah God ! the golden golden hair," you say, " The golden gracious hair — but there is black, And there is brown, and lo ! that woman there With the new wondrous subtle changeful grey In her deep eyes, and such a soul in them ! A POET'S LETTER TO HIS SON. J79 Lo ! now this other with the Spanish mien And eyes like clear brown waters in a well : Oh God, I am so tired of golden hair ! " So you will, in your golden prison, say. Well, well, these passionate yearnings you must face And give to God j they have their meaning — yes : And some will be fulfilled, but more will not. The heart of man — the heart of woman, too — (These yearnings visit women's hearts as well) Can never be quite satisfied in life. Life is so short, a wretched meagre thing, For human aspiration's infinite, And no explorer, be he worth the name, Would ever find our planet large enough : No, if a traveller had a poet's heart, No central Africa would e'er content, But he would long to sail the airy heights, Traverse the ether, visit star on star, Thread the wild woods of Sirius or of Mars, And pitch tents in the hollows of the moon ! And then you feel — this you will surely feel — That you could give high gifts, as well as take, That you could help and be helped : every soul Finds in another soul a mine of wealth, And there are sacred mines in poets' hearts That open not save only at woman's hand, — And special mines that need some special hand, And if untouched by this open not at all. And so it is with women : mine on mine Of sacred untold wealth they year by year Store up, and often death comes ere the hand That might have won the wealth is sent by God. i8o THE SONG OF MANHOOD. This world is very lamentable : yes — Of all its cruel bitter grievous things The cruellest and bitterest and the most Grievous it is that souls who might have helped Each other past the reach of mortal words Here never meet, or if they meet at all, Meet just to part. You catch a moment's glimpse Of some fair face, and see the silent soul There waiting untouched, deep within the eyes, And then the carriage or a railway train Whirls the fair face away, and you are left So much the poorer through eternity. " Have faith in the next world," the preacher says. Ah ! yes — " have faith, have faith " — 'tis easily said : But not so easy is it to have faith That will result in action, or in hope. Shall I, for instance, find amid the mass Of bright angelic wings and heavenly harps That somebody to whom I spoke seven words About the weather at a cricket match, Yet whom beyond all skies and clouds of time I shall remember — yes, each shade of the eyes When they turned towards or further from the light, Each shade of these, and every curve of cheek Or throat, and each inflection of the voice — Shall I find her in heaven ? Never : though From side to side I hunted, passing through The gleaming corridors with watchful eyes. " Have faith." Some faith you must have, it is true No great poetic work can e'er be done Without a faith of some sort, be it but A faith in love's high possibilities. A POET'S LETTER TO HIS SON. 181 And in this age of Science, when the stars Are analysed, and the sun's garment rent That we may pry into his heart of flame, And when we test the jewels on God's throne And in his crown, and cry out eagerly, " Here's a false diamond — mere paste after all ! " — In this our age, when atoms are our gods, When Providence becomes an atom-whirl And man's free-will one wheel of a machine, We need a faith, if true work would be done. But what's the faith to be ? A faith in man ? A faith in God, a proud faith in ourselves ? A faith in Herbert Spencer ? Or a faith In Art and in nude sculpture ? Or a faith In Arthur Roberts and the last Burlesque ? All these we have, but they are strangely mixed. Or is it to be the faith that Wordsworth had, The faith of Hugo, Dante, and of all Great deep-souled poets — a great faith in God Apart from creeds and churches ? God, who has The voices of the seas for ministers, And for his robes the sunset's far-stretched fires, And for his throne this universe of things. To come to details. — If you would win fame, And fame not merely transitory, seek To avoid the tricks of language of the day. Put trust in the great English language used By Milton and by Shakespeare, and the rest Who came before you : do not think a girl Is all described if you have called her " white " And " sweet," with " overflow of fragrant hair " And " flower-soft breast " and "ardent amorous hands." iS2 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. You may love roses ; but you must not love Your mental rose-garden to such excess That they crop up in every other line (Though roses are like women, I admit ; A poet cannot do without them. Still " Be temperate in all things," even these). Seek for new epithets ; but follow not Too far the realistic modern craze. Keep Zola's manner out of English verse ; It won't improve it — though it has its power. Don't talk of "great sweet sunsets," or of flames That " burn and yearn j " and if those rose-red lips And rose-red cheeks of modern verse must come, Why use them sparely — yes, I beg it of you ! u Blown hair " is very wearisome to me : " Blown air " I always felt was incorrect (Though very popular with certain schools) For how the thing which blows can thus be blown I never understood : but let it pass. If you could write a poem without " foam " Ever occurring — why, it would be new ! " Supreme " and " great " and " subtle " and the like Are very tempting, very perilous, words. So are French metres, Ballades and all such j Upon the whole, they're always best in French And will not bear transplanting : then again, Above all things avoid the Browningesque Swinburnian and Rossettian complex style, For this begins by being obscure, and ends By "wide white wanton foam-crests " and "blown hair." Choose your own style — it should be part of you, Choose you perhaps, rather than you choose it. A POET'S LETTER TO HIS SON. 183 Let it be one with the meaning. Sonnets are The safest vehicle for amorous thought, Sonnets and Lyrics. Keep the thundering Ode For large occasions and immense events. For swift half-conversational speech and thought You'll find blank verse the most convenient, And take it all in all the supplest far Of all the English metres, — and it has (Like the French Alexandrine in great hands) An almost infinite expansive power. Heroic couplets never quite forget The clank of their own fetters ; they are bound By coupling-irons, and are aware of it : Most free they are sometimes when they may add Another iron, and use to clinch a thought A slashing triplet for a good wind-up. But, on the whole, in Lyrics and blank verse You'll find the English language most at ease And (so you but steer clear of " sweet " and " foam ! ") In these you'll get full room to evolve your thought And hurl your passion into melody. The poet singeth " best who loveth best," And never was great Sonnet written yet Or noble Lyric sung, but some fair face Looked o'er the singer's shoulder at the lines, And, as he wrote, he felt his lady's hand Rest light upon him, and the task was sweet. For, if a poet once has loved with deep First love, whatever the result may be, He bears away with him his lady's face Pictured and fixed for ever in his heart ; And, ever after, he can see her eyes i8 4 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. And hear her voice,— and when he sings, he sings.- As unto her — and every book he writes He dedicates to her within his mind, And wonders, " Will she read it ? Will she know 1 love her still, and will she be displeased To know I love her still ? " He sees, perhaps, With his mind's eye upon some summer day His lady seated on a brown oak bench Within some Rectory garden, while behind The Church stands out against the summer sky, Tall standard rose-trees and green shrubs around — He sees her sitting there, his last new book Within her hand, cutting the rapid leaves, And wonders, " Will the love-songs move her now, And will the soft tears gather in her eyes, And will past hours be with her ? " — so he dreams. Well, dreams are dreams, — but sweeter than the truth Full often, and Romance whence springeth love In poets' hearts and in most women's hearts (Women are poets all, potentially) — Romance hath never aught to do indeed With marriage and its tame accessories. The heart of woman, and the poet's heart, Loves everything uncommonplace : a swift Elopement, with the family coach in chase Splashing the rainy pools upon the moor ; A brigand lover (Hernani — not the king !) ; The window for an entrance to the bower Of sweet young love — the window, not the door, The commonplace and knocker-hung hall door ! Love in disguise ; a dainty secret route To the flower-haunted assignation-place Far in the forest — not the open road, With farmers' carts upon it. Love forbid ! A POET'S LETTER TO HIS SON. 185 Struggle against despair : the spirit of it Is rife in this our age of subtle thought. Follow not in the steps of him who wrote " The City of Dreadful Night " — a genius-soul Who has passed to Death's dim City since he wrote And found it fairer than the City of Life It may be : follow not his darkling road. In spite of all despair, we still must own How great a thing it is to be alive ; To see the roses (yes, it must be said !) — To see the roses, and to feel the sun ; To see the very simplest common things — The flies that dance i' the sunshine, and the fish That hurls his gleaming body from the pool, And the grey-blue sea-thistles on the shore : These all are fair to see. A girl's gold hair, Bright in the sunlight, is a lovely thing, And sweet it is the breath of life to draw To-day, although to-morrow we may die. Yes : even sad things, sorrows of our past, When far-ofT win a crown ; old loves are mixed In some strange way with fragrance of dead flowers And glory of far-off sunsets, and they pass Into some strange unutterable calm. Music redeemeth all things — it restores The past, and washes history's stains away, Making all life dramatic and even crime Subservient to its sceptre. If you be True bard, the sound of music's sudden notes — Ay, even the sound of music in the street Sometimes, when there's a witchery in the air — May have the power to hurl you centuries back 186 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. In vision, and to set you dreaming fast Of Egypt's dark queen, or the towers of Troy, Or Sinai with the people camped below. All history to the poet is one page, And all loves to the poet are one fair Wild dream of love, as unto God they are : God, who uplifting poets by the hand Shares with his poets his eternity, Draws unto him the universal life And revels in its vast triumphant tides. And, having thus the universal life For sea to sail upon and air to breathe, Be not surprised or over-much disturbed If the mere partial poor life of to-day Gives little recompense and crowns you not. You have before you endless scope and time, Even the far future's unsailed boundless sea And skies no stars have lighted, — where the dark Silent abysmal solemn lampless void Hath not yet trembled at the high God's hand. This is before you, where your song may shine E'en as a star, and win new tracts to light. Sonnet. TO PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. O thou who seeing not with thy mortal eyes Yet hast the sacred spirit of sight to see The soul of beauty in Nature more than we ; Yea, thou who seest indeed the sunset skies And all the blue wild billows as they rise And summer sweetness of each bower and tree, — Who seest the pink glad thyme-tuft kiss the bee — The silver wing that o'er the grey wave flies : We hail thee, singer who hast sight indeed If to see Beauty and Truth and Love be sight ; For whom the soul of the white rose is white, And fiery-red the fierce-souled red sea-weed ; We hail thee, — thee whom all things love and heed, Pouring through thee their music and their might. March 7, 1882. Sonnet. l£on gambetta. This is his title of honour. On the day When, dealing out across the circling snows Their countless fierce-tongued cannons' iron blows, The German hordes around his city lay; When ravaged armies knew not whom to obey, And half the Imperial Guard in red repose Slept in the meadows, and no man arose With any voice save only of dismay : Then he stood up, and with clear scornful glance Defied the intruder. Now he lieth dead, Smitten by keener than the German lance : Yet by our sons' sons shall it not be said, " This man alone, when all men's hopes had fled, Despaired not of the Republic, or of France." /an. 4, 1883. VENUS AND THE EVANGELISTS. Gathered upon the beach one day I saw A group of preachers. — They had made a square With four green common benches, and they stood Within the square — just ordinary men, Shopkeepers, tradesmen, grocers, what you will. They stood within their green-bench-guarded square, With the wide grey indifferent sea behind, And preached their rendering of the word of God. And with them stood some stumpy servant-maids, Sallow, ill-dressed, and awkward ; and they sang With help of these their hardly sweet-toned hymns. And then along the beach there came a form Slender and graceful, robed in quiet black, A woman, — one it may be of the band Whom some call "gay," and some "unfortunate." She listened to the hymn, and soon received A hymn-book from a stumpy servant-maid, Red-cheeked, red-handed, and red-ribboned too. She stood there, leaning on the green top-bar Of one of the four benches, just outside The hollow angel-guarded preachers' square. — A myriad thoughts flew through me as I watched. "Lo ! here is Venus, just outside the heaven Of these the Galilean folk," I thought ; " And yet her grace of mien and attitude Hath surely something in itself of heaven." She leaned against the bench, and every limb Took of itself the right most fitting pose ; VENUS AND THE EVANGELISTS. 189 She seemed a sudden message sent from Greece, And round her the weird gospel-music rang, And that top-bar of the dividing bench On which she leant seemed like God's judgment-bar, Or like a gulf between the righteous fixed And stately Venus on the other side, And all the ages' strife seemed symbolized By those gaunt preachers safe within the square, They and their women-followers, and the slight Poor fair sad woman in her black silk dress And white straw hat with flowers of lavender Who leant with such unconscious grace of form Against the bench, — against it, but outside. "And yet," I thought, "is God within that square, Along with those gaunt-eyed repulsive men And sallow stumpy women, or is he Perhaps outside the bench-square sometimes too, — Just as the grey-waved calm far-stretching waste Of water yonder hath but little heed Of these four benches ? Is not God outside As well as inside — with his grey-waved sea And this grey-eyed poor woman ? Surely, yes ! " SOPHIA PEROVSKAIA.* Blue-eyed, fair-haired, a girl in outward seeming, With lips, men held, that only cared to sing, When thy foot passed along the meadows dreaming Soft dreams and tender of the gold-haired Spring — When other maidens dreamed with longing wonder Of love, thou crowned with Spring's most loving light Beneath blue skies wast dreaming of the thunder, Beneath the morn wast dreaming of the night. High-born, thou didst forsake the lordly places ; Thy young heart thrilled at Freedom's trumpet-call : Thou wanderedst forth, a light for poor men's faces ; Love, wealth, repose, — thou didst surrender all. And has not yet from our free isle resounded One song, one hymn of passionate love for thee, Who, when the tyrant's red-stained deeds abounded, Didst say, " One soul in Russia still is free " ? When thou didst strike, were all our singers staggered At thy vast force of soul that none could say, " A strong god at a touch turned pale and haggard, A Czar before a girl's stroke passed away " ? I would not die without one true word spoken Whereby, if but for one short moment's space, The English chill grim silence may be broken : I love, who never looked upon thy face. * See note A, at end of volume. 190 SOPHIA PEROVSKAIA. 191 Singing, I hail thee from a land that never For all its errors, countless though they are, Stooped to endure, nor will it stoop for ever To endure, the smile or sceptre of a Czar. The message of our English ringing fountains, The message of the fells, to thee I bear : For thee speaks once again from cloud-crowned mountains The voice at which world-tyrannies despair. The greeting of our English oaks and willows, The greeting of our flowers, I send to thee ; The royal love-song of our kingless billows, And our sun's song, wherewith he loves our sea : The solemn kiss of England's pure-souled daughters That should have been, that one day will be, thine ; The song of stars that gleam o'er English waters ; The song that makes the enchanted night divine : The song of English cliff and gold-flowered hollow ; The chant of poet-souls as yet unborn, Whose stronger footsteps on my step shall follow ; The love-song of the winds that woo the morn : All these are thine for ever. — When Love hearkened With listening heart and tearful eyes to thee, Thou then didst choose the loveless road that darkened ; Beloved by Time, didst choose Eternity. Behind, a thousand flowers of varied pleasure ; In front, the scentless air, the starless gloom ! A life that might yield joy in sumptuous measure, Glad rainbow-hopes, behind. In front, the tomb ! Yet thou didst choose the tomb. With stern lips firmer Than hers by whom foul Marat's fate was planned Thou chosest death. Thou diedst without a murmur, Thy white hand* locked in Charlotte Corday's hand. LOVE AND TIME. No true love passes. — Does the night Steal all its glory from the day? When once the sun is put to flight, Are all the heavens for ever grey ? Nay ! through the heights and depths of space The fiery-prowed wild star-ships race, The Armadas of immensity : The waves gleamed blue beneath the sun, But, now the golden day is done, The silver moon may kiss the sea. There is no end to time or space. New suns beyond our sun will rise : Age cannot alter true love's face, Nor dim the glory in love's eyes. Love is eternal, ever-new : Just as the waves each morn are blue ; Just as the skies each morn are fair ; Just as each autumn's golden sheaves Shine out afresh, and golden leaves Glitter each autumn through the air. But all else passes. Thrones must pass ; The lordliest shrines and temples fall : Death's sickle gathers in the grass j No loiterer can escape his call. The gods whom man has made and crowned Lie pale, dismembered, on the ground : Man bade them reign ; Time bids them flee ;- Where once were prisons, now is corn ; Where blossoms smiled, are wastes forlorn ; Where rivers rippled, roars the sea. LOVE AND TIME. 193 The Roman Caesars had their hour : The Roman legions poured along, Beheld the English woods a-flower And heard the English billows' song. Where are they now ? The waves that saw Their legions land with little awe, Watch iron-armoured fleets to-day : The waves reck little for they know That nations, like the whirling snow, Melt into nought and pass away. The Gallic Caesar's empire rose ; The whole world trembled at his tread : He gave the thunder no repose ; At his sole word the streams ran red. He changed his sceptre for a sword ; He longed to say, " I am the lord Of every land beneath the sun. There were two Rulers — God and I ; We threw with dice for sovereignty ; Jehovah lost : Napoleon won ! " Yet in the lonely sea-beat isle The second Caesar passed away, And once again the world might smile, And once again keep holiday. The corn was red at Waterloo, But there to-day the sky is blue : Two spectres pass. The flowers have heard One whisper, " I am Wellington ! " And one, " I am Napoleon ! " Their soldiers rise not at their word. d. s. o 194 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Time watched pale Cleopatra's kiss Thrill Antony with sweet despair : Time heard the small smooth aspick hiss ; Time saw the towers of Ilium flare. In pre-historic dateless hours Among great white unnamed strange flowers Time saw the kiss of bird and bird : When dying Jesus raised his eyes Fast-darkening to the lurid skies Time caught his last heart-broken word. Time saw the first fair woman's eyes Glitter with love when life was young ; When young stars watched from cloudless skies, And ruby-throated songsters sung. Time saw the first kiss, and the last Will see when passion's moods are past And blind oblivion waits for man — Time, who beheld the pencil seized By God's swift hand when he well-pleased Sketched out our planet's primal plan. Upon the borders of the Thames The wolf once prowled, along the shore : The banks were dense with matted stems Of vegetation rank and hoar. Now, in the sun's first golden hour, The glorious grey old Abbey tower Shines out against the morning skies : Where birds built nests on mount or knoll, Beneath the moonlight sweethearts stroll And dream within each other's eyes. LOVE AND TIME. 195 Town, sweethearts, Abbey, all shall pass : The Thames shall wash a houseless shore ; Shall ripple past wild leagues of grass \ Shall hear no human voice nor oar. Or in far epochs, it may be, The dreary breakers of the sea May roll above the London squares : Where now the lilac waves its plume Of purple, shall be sunless gloom And Arctic snowflakes on the airs. The fair white city on the Seine That heard the chief of poets sing, — That watched the triumph and the pain Of Hugo, and that crowned him king, — That, at the last wild century's close, Watched Revolution as it rose Sea-like with blood-besprinkled surge, — That saw the untrembling guillotine Cleave through the white neck of a queen, And heard the tocsin's cruel dirge, — This city, too, shall change and pass ; Of all things earthly nought abides : Be walls of iron or beaten brass, Yet Time surmounts them and derides. One day the glory of the Czar Was glory as of sun or star, A splendour measureless, sublime : The next day at his feet the shell Burst madly, and the White Czar fell, 'Mid laughter from the lips of Time ! 196 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. But love abides, though all things change Though nations plunge into the night ; Though all around wax dim and strange ; Though aging stars give little light. — We float along our century's stream, We sing and toil, and love and dream, But lo ! we near the ocean's marge : Our river-century soon will end And, swelling into waves, descend Into the sea-waves fierce and large. Then what shall last ? What thing shall be ? What shall the twentieth century bear ? What ships shall sail upon its sea ? What new stars sparkle through its air ? We know not : only this we know, — That love, though wild years come and go, Will wander calm-eyed, gathering flowers ;- A thousand centuries are as one Day to the never-dying sun, And unto love a few short hours. SONNET. THE CRUCIFIXION OF MANHOOD. (For Good Friday, 1880.) To-day, as ever, pale mankind is nailed Upon the bitter cross. — The people go To weep false tears o'er overrated woe, Weeping because one far-off fair life failed. And what of heights of manhood left unsealed To-day, because this piteous farce runs so ? What of the sufferers whom to-day lays low, — At whose lives' torments Christ himself had quailed ? Ah ! shall there be an Easter morn for these, — As through the blood-stained centuries not one day Hath not loomed like Good Friday gaunt and grey Upon them ? When shall mankind's passion cease ? From his dark tomb, barred there since time began, What Easter torch shall light the spirit of man ? ISOLINA. Lines Written on again Reading an old Romance. O Isolina, loved in boyish fashion, Loved when the heart was nobly pure and free, Again I read thy tale of love and passion, Again forget the world and gaze on thee. Romance beyond romance is in thy story : I read the wild tale thirty years ago — Yet still I see the sunlight's ceaseless glory Poured over plains and hills of Mexico. And still, though thirty years have done their tragic Grim work on heart and weary brain of mine, Thy dark-fringed eyes retain their glow, their magic, And mine grow younger as they gaze in thine. The boy grew strong for thee, and manhood's yearning Throbbed through his heart and life became a dream : The man to-day, on his own steps returning, Regains his boyhood as thy dark eyes gleam. Thou filledst boyhood with wild thirst and hunger Of ardent passion, fiery, unexpressed : Thou makest manhood thirty long years younger, And bringest somewhat of repose and rest. I SO LIN A. 199 What are the loves and passions intervening, The passions that we call so real and strong ? Nought — weak indeed — how dull, devoid of meaning ! The boy's first passion is the theme for song. Thou wast my earliest love-queen, even far earlier Than she who swayed my heart by Northern seas ; Thou smiling under skies more blue and pearlier, And wandering 'mid strange tropic flowers and trees. When life flowed on, when the boy's heart grew older, Was any riper passion half so wild ? As life progresses, our tired hearts turn colder : The boy loves best, while still in part a child. So, queen of high romance, take this song smiling At the old tale — yet smiling through its tears. How few real loves, for all their soft beguiling, Have held a poet's heart for thirty years ! Not even the waves round English white cliffs dancing Allure me, like that sunlit land of thine : The land of silvery speech, and eyes swift-glancing, And limbs whose every movement seems divine. O dream-wrought flower which I shall never gather, Flower blossoming sweetly in those sunlit wilds, Take this, song's tribute, — nay, receive thou rather The man's love, even as thou hadst the child's ! POST-MORTEM SURPRISES. If there be any life beyond the tomb, How full of strange surprises must it be For those who, struggling upward from death's gloom, Behold new sunlight gild new shores and sea ! Amidst the gladness will not sadness lurk ? We are so wedded here to our own view, To our own dreams, — Jew, Christian, heathen, Turk— It will be hard to find that nought we knew. The Christian dying, and cursing as he dies The poet who believed that love was fair — It will be hard, beneath heaven's golden skies, To see his Jesus kiss a woman's hair. It will be very hard (our minds are small) For those who worshipped at the Virgin's feet To know she had a husband after all, And found the joys of marriage pure and sweet. And for the man of science strong and proud, Who peered beneath the billows of the sea, And pierced beyond the walls of mist and cloud, And read the past, and read futurity : POST-MORTEM SURPRISES. » The man before whose ardent gaze unveiled Creation shone, — who named them one by one, The stars that through the black night slowly sailed, — Who faced the soulless Force that steers the sun : The man who would permit mankind to sink, Sad soul by soul, unpitied, to its doom, And stand upon the abyss, close by the brink, And gaze with steady eyes far through the gloom : The man whose sombre wish it is to be Alone for ever, with no God to speak ; Alone with darkness on the godless sea, Alone with sunrise on the mountain-peak j Alone with love's high rapture, which for him Would be discounted if a God were there (The sculptor's presence makes each stately limb Of woman to the thinker seem less fair) : The man whose soul, though pride within it lies, Hath something of the greatness none the less Of the vast God whose being he denies, Tempered by man's eternal littleness : The man who, rather than bow down before The paltry God the Churches' hands have made. Finds God within the sunlight on the shore Or in the silent forest's moonlit shade: It will be somewhat hard for him to know That this world was not all ! His one despair Will be to find that God is living, though God left no track upon the starlit air. # * 202 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. It will be hard for Pharisees to own That there is sweetness in a harlot's eyes : It will be hard for kings to leave a throne, And own that flatterers' words were mostly lies. It will be strange to Christian eyes to see Their Lord and Master in a lower place, Perhaps, than thousands worshipped less than he ; To mark some weakness in his soul and face. All will be wild surprise, — all must be new. Yet shall we find, if heavenly life be given, The most unselfish head was wisest too,— The heart that loved the most knew most of heaven. ii. For by our deeds, and by our deeds alone, God judges us, — if righteous God there be. Creeds are as thistle-down wind-tost and blown, But deeds abide throughout eternity. It matters little, so that love be there, Whether you think that legends have their day Then pass, with all they held of foul or fair, Or whether still, Church-pent, you praise and pray. It matters little whether you discern In Venus' limbs a sweetness past man's speech, — Heaven in the rose, a glory in the fern, A million jewels on the sunlit beach ; Or whether you elect to burn and pant For heavenly splendours glittering past the tomb, Heedless that God, withholding these, would grant Your eyes a sight of leagues of furze in bloom. POST-MORTEM SURPRISES. 203 Whether you hold that Christ revealed to man The sweetness of the land beyond the grave, Or that Keats felt as never mortal can The sweetness of the earth he came to save : Whether you deem that Musset felt the whole Of young love's rapture as none else can feel, Or that the wild bright ocean's very soul Was Byron's, past all question or appeal : Whether you worship Shakespeare as God's son And Hugo as God's son, in very deed, Or in the older manner worship one, One God-man only, and nought else concede : Whether you hold that Dante brought to light For man pure love, as pure love is to be, And pierced the darkness of hell's lampless night Retaining still song's tongue, and eyes to see : Whether you hold that Turner once revealed, Revealed for ever, perfect landscape-art ; That through the song of Shelley music pealed, Pure as from pure depths of God's very heart : All matters little. — Worship God in Christ, Or in the blossoms, or within the sun ; Be heathen, Christian — but be not enticed By any creed to leave true work undone. One man will love the pleasures of the earth, Another long for pleasures in the sky j One finds his music in a young girl's mirth, And on her lips his immortality : 204 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Another deems that human love is vain, That only in Christ God's likeness must be sought j Another toils through a long life to gain A scholar's insight into ancient thought : Nought matters save our deeds. — If right we do, God is with us, Jehovah is our friend : If self we worship, though our creed be true We shall be found without God at the end. SONNETS. SONNET I. ON READING " WIND-VOICES," BY PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 11 Wind-voices " ! Yes : the wind's own voice is here, The voice of every wind ; — the voice that goes Straight to the soft heart of the listening rose ; The voice that makes the seamen quake for fear When the grim angry white-lipped reefs rise sheer To leeward ; and the voice that love's heart knows When on the summer breeze a whisper grows Yet more intense, more passionately clear. Here is the thunder of the wind at sea, And echo of the voice of passion's storm, And loving message of the gentle warm West Wind, — and here the North Wind's revelry : And here the voice that makes the midnight strong With love's despair transfigured into song. 206 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET II. TO P. B. M. When the sweet golden unforeseen surprise Of the eternal morning on thee breaks And sudden ripples from the large light-lakes Flood with swift brilliance thine awaking eyes,— When the old weary dream of sorrow dies For ever, and thy soul its pathway takes Through regions where the heart of poet aches No longer, nor the heart of lover sighs : — Then, women thou hast loved will first await Thy coming ; I will stand aside for these. But when their forms have passed outside the gate To greet thee on the outer terraces, That foremost greeting finished, then let none Than my soul sooner, see thee see the sun. sonnet III. " — Waits till the ship already in sight be free To bear him back to his far natal shore, — Back through the darkness and the awful sea." — Philip Bourke Marston. Yes, this is our reward. — Not life's fair dreams, But the new-wakened and majestic sense That after silent years of pain intense Light, marvellous light, behind the hill-top gleams. Not by life's pleasant blossom-bordered streams To find our long-delayed large recompense, But in soul-thrilling joy that through the dense Dark worldly clogging air with golden beams Darts on a sudden downward : — the wild hope That not much longer shall this pain endure, — This agony of fierce desire to cope With all love's foes in wrestle close and sure ; That Fate shall free, ere long, our long-leashed breath For the great charge along the slopes of death. SONNETS. 207 SONNET IV. To P. B. M. IN MID-STREAM. Not to the placid heights of middle age Let you and I with loitering steps ascend. Nay, let us perish in the strife, O friend, Where round the standard most the war-waves rage. If this be life — to move from stage to stage And watch life's passion dwindle till the end And slowly all our power of love expend, life then is poorer for each added page. Nay ! If our love and passion may not grow, And all the fire within our spirits gleam With steadier, stronger, and diviner glow Daily, mere living is a soulless dream. — Love ever : Perish, if it must be so : But perish, buffeting the sweet mid-stream. SONNET V. THE VICTORY. A spirit wrestled through the lonely night With God, — until the cold grey dawn shone clear. — But neither won. They closed again in sheer Ecstatic struggle when the sun took flight. Through the long hours with alternating might They wrestled, till the pale stars shook with fear, And even the morning's clarion in man's ear Doubted to ring, — so mastering was the sight. But when the sun was up, the strife was o'er. For once the human spirit had prevailed, And Jacob was avenged for evermore. — By human love the Godhead was assailed And vanquished. Man and God met eye to eye, And man's was the stupendous victory. 208 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. SONNET VI. A DREAM. In a strange dream I passed beyond the host I led, and stood upon the field alone. — Round me were corpses pale and overthrown ; No living friend, — but many a blood-stained ghost Beaconed in front the fires from post to post : I heard the ringing passionate trumpets blown ; Ten thousand eyes were focussed in my own ; Like endless waves upon an endless coast The enemy's army stretched in front of me. I caught the ravening eyes of all of these Within my own like spears upon a shield And held them till that army seemed to yield Vanquished, as at the cliff's glance sink the seas. — Then I looked round for God. And where was he ? SONNET VII. "FIGHT ON!" Fight on, — until the noonday sun be dead. Fight on, until the sun of afternoon Fade slowly, — till the sun of evening swoon With blood-shot eyes and smoke-wreaths round his head. Fight on, — while rises the fierce wrathful red Disk of the powder-grimed and sword- scarred moon. Fight on : the army of the stars will soon Give light. Fight on, when every star has fled. Fight through the darkness then, with only light Of all the enemy's eyes to guide the way Straight to the enemy's heart. — While sword can smite, While will can still command and arm obey, Fight on. And, falling, first with wild delight See the foe stagger, in the death-dawn grey. SONNETS. 209 SONNET VIII. THE LONELY GOD-KING. The strange relief to God when he at last Touches the walls of empery supreme ! When no stars glitter through a golden dream, But God thanks God that he has made the past. The giant rest to God when through the vast No more white clouds with wings unearthly gleam : When no more moons or suns or comets stream Before his gaze half loving, half aghast. To touch the walls of his own empire : Rest Eternal to the heart that moulded all. To sleep at last within his golden hall, Lost in repose unfathomed and unguessed : To cease for ever from his dateless quest, With heaven's effulgence round him like a wall. D.-S. TO THE UNKNOWN FATHER OF JESUS. A word for thee, thou poor forgotten Jew, Who loving Mary dreamedst not that she (Thy kiss worked wonders vaster than she knew !) Would bear the King of all posterity. Thou left'st within the world its fairest light, Obscure begetter of the Nazarene, Whose casual love-act in an Eastern night Produced the grandest soul the world has seen. Hail, unknown father, undiscerned bridegroom, Who, having passed to regions dim and far, Lost in the ages, buried in time's gloom, Yet left'st within man's world its loveliest star ! A thousand shrines for her, the undefiled, By blue Italian lake, Italian sea ; Wild worship for the mother of the child — But from men's lying tongues what word for thee ? What word for thee, without whom none the less The world had suffered an unmeasured loss ? The Saviour was the fruit of thy caress : Without thy love had been nor crown, nor cross, — No cross, no crown, no Jesus. Not one church Had reared its sacred sign in any land ! And yet no thinker ever thought to search For thee, — no dreamer cared to understand. Thou wast not good, it may be — high nor great : And yet to thee our greatest owed his breath. Thou wast the watcher at his birth's bright gate, As Pilate watched beside his gate of death. TO THE UNKNOWN FATHER OF JESUS. Thee thy son's church has chosen to ignore. The world, with its false sighs and foolish tears, Crying, " Mary virgin ! Mary we adore ! " Has passed thee by for eighteen hundred years. And what of fatherhood it cared to ascribe To Jesus' father, this to God it gave j Dismissed the thought of thee with jeer and gibe — Thou wast a dead man deep within the grave ! Thou hast been wronged. — The mighty God of flowers, Of storms, of sunsets, of the human race ; He whose hand sways all destinies of ours ; He with the unseen ever-present face : He, herder of the clouds, whose right hand drives The sun's gold chariot through the gleaming sky ; Lord of our birth and master of our lives ; He at whose word red battle's millions die : He at whose word the chargers of the waves Leap snowy-maned upon the trembling shore ; Who in the blue gulf digs the great ships' graves ; He whom the stars in all their shrines adore : Could he not leave to Mary and to thee Thy child and hers ? Why must the Lord divorce Father from mother ? Why must purity, Truth, love, all suffer through man's fancies coarse ? The truth is grandest. Years may pass away : . Yet by one night's wild love-kiss thou hast won, Poor Jew, the right through every age to say, "I loved the" mother. Jesus is my son." A RUSSIAN WOMAN /TO A RUSSIAN NIHILIST. I love thy red right hand, thy reckless daring : I love thy patient strength, thy fiery zeal. If thou wert quite alone, thy doom preparing, With lonely rapture brain and heart would reel. The hand that I have kissed with stern grip closes Upon the dagger, tightening for the strife. With woman's hand I gather harmless roses, But thou dost gather with red pruning-knife. My soul is as a stream : past banks of flowers It flows. Ganst thou, strong sweetheart, care for me? My hair is full of scent of woodbine bowers : Thou art the tidal cruel desperate sea. Thou art the sea. I am the calm-souled river ; Calm-souled, yet hurrying onward to my doom. Farewell, green banks where wind-kissed aspens shiver ! Farewell, wild woods where yellow cowslips bloom ! I bring thee down a flower or two with laughter From far-off meads which thou wilt never see : A flower or two which thou shalt wear hereafter, When I am lost, O lover, — lost in thee ! Thou hast God's very strength of will for dower : If God were tyrant, God thine hand would slay ! . God rules for aye : thou rulest for one hour, Superb with godhead for a single day. A RUSSIAN WOMAN TO A RUSSIAN NIHILIST. 213 A woman's love is love for strength exceeding, For power excessive, for transcendent might : The river's love for the blue waves unheeding; The love of darkness for the golden light. Old dreams of heaven and God hold out no longer : Thou art my king, the God whom I adore ! The lord of heaven was strong, but thou art stronger : In thee I lose myself for evermore. TO THE CZAR. O thou who rulest by the might of legions, Lord of the snow-robed plains, the ice-bound sea, Hear thou man's word in far-off sunnier regions Spoken, the thought of thousands who are free. Deem'st thou thy millions trampled down for ages Will never rise in multitudinous scorn ? God clothes thee in darkness, but no God engages That darkness shall not change to fiery morn. Blood cries for blood, and slaughter shrieks for slaughter ; Man's dagger flashes back thy keen sword's light : Wrong is the sire, and Murder is the daughter — She with the crimson hand, and face quite white. Lo ! — with an Emperor's arms to seize and pinion — A woman * dies beneath the ensanguined rod : Her cry, though stifled, rings through thy dominion, — Ay ! past thy sky's cold starlight, up to God. Not only up to God ; — man's soul has shivered With horror, hearing this accursed thing : A woman's cry, as 'neath the lash she quivered King-smitten, becomes the death-knell of a king. Her cry is cry of triumph for the nations, For worn-out dynasties the trump of doom. It shall be heard by hearts of generations ; Our women hear it from the Northland's gloom. * See note B, at end of volume. 214 TO THE CZAR. 215 Here, where we have nought to do but wait and listen Till Liberty speaks fully from her throne, 'Tis well to call to mind, while Spring's eyes glisten, That still in one land Winter holds its own ; To call to mind that one, well born and cherished By many a friend ere this grim deed was done, At the flail's hundredth blood-stroke sank and perished Where Russia's dim vaults still defy the sun. And thou, whom darkness' sable wide wings sheltering Still shield from sword-thrust of the avenging light, Think'st thou that corpses in thy blind gaols weltering Can stain the flags, yet sully not the night? Construct thy walls of sound-proof stern ingredients ! — Erect thy prisons in thy deserts lone ! — • Blood oozes out, for all thy royal expedients, And trickles Westward from thine hells of stone. The shrieks of thousands doubtless have been stifled : Thine iron-barred dungeons drip with tongueless gore : While gold-crowned dynasties have mocked or trifled, Man's blood has rippled on a voiceless shore. That strange Siberian snow-path, full of terror, Along whose dismal track the doomed feet go — Thousands, through royal crime or royal error, Have crimsoned with their blood the silent snow. Their suffering all seems wasted — wasted wholly Their age-long fierce defiance of the Czars : Still o'er that path the hapless troop winds slowly, And still the snow turns red beneath the stars. 2i 6 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. A hundred years have passed since, skyward flaming, The black French fortress owned man's conquest wrought j Confessed its hellish sins, its crimes past naming, — Born of kings' fancies, perished at man's thought. How many years will slowlier pass— not, surely, Another century — ere, gaunt wall by wall, Will flame to heaven the fort that holds securely Liberty bound — the prison of Peter-Paul ? Or — better still — if thou, whose life is terror To thine own self, wouldst ere that stormy hour Fling wide the gates thy fathers closed in error And mix with reason's dreams thy dreams of power ! What is thy life but anguish now? — immuring Thyself behind Gatschina's massy gates, 'Spite of ten thousand bribeless bolts securing, Thou shiverest if one rusty hinge but grates. Chief of a hundred millions, king-commander Of armies cumbering space with lance and plume, Thou art thyself imprisoned, Alexander, — Lord of the earth, yet penned within a room ! The humblest child within thy vast dominions, Watching the free-winged swallow on the breeze Or the glad butterfly's untrammelled pinions, Is happier than the lord of lands and seas. The serf within his cottage calmly slumbers ; He knows that, when he wakes, all will be well : But thou, whose guards are unimagined numbers, Art at the mercy of one fuse from hell. TO THE CZAR. 217 Summer brings nought of change ; in every season Sedition's threats allow thee no repose j — May's flower-sweet air is rank with deadliest treason ; Danger may lurk within the scented rose : The morning sun may guide the assassin's dagger ; Aim may be trustier underneath the moon ; Thou, watching the clear skies, may est backward stagger Struck dead beneath the stars of fragrant June ! Sole despot-ruler of a mighty nation, Yet art thou but the shadow of a king : Thou startest at a green leafs palpitation, As the earth quakes at thy black eagle's wing. Lifting the gold cup to thy lips thou tremblest : Pause — what if subtlest poison should be there ? In face of friends and foemen thou dissemblest ; Long terror changed to white thine Empress' hair. Within the holiest church the bomb exploding, With splinters full of fiery tongues may cry, " Remember prisoners in damp cells corroding ; Remember Bernstein * choked to death— and die ! " The knife may flash forth from the embroidered curtain : Thou, shuddering as thou seest the cold steel shine, Mayest hear a voice that thunders, " Czar, be certain That Zotoff's f bloodless veins must drink at thine ! " Within the night pale countless ghosts surround thee : " Why tarry thus on earth ? " their tongues exclaim ; " Already as lord of hell our hands have crowned thee, Czar of the dungeons lit by ceaseless flame. * See note C, at end of volume. t See note C. 21 8 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. " Priest of the torments in the realms infernal, Prince of the unmeasured leagues of sunless gloom, Pass thou from earth — thine empire is eternal Within the shades, thou Caesar of the tomb ! " These hearest thou, these seest thou, dimly or brightly, By day, by night, thou saddest living heart : Wilt thou not rise— do one deed noble, knightly — Ere Fate, who slew thy father, says, " Depart ! " SONNET. HEART-ACHE. I think of you, my loved one, and I wonder, I wonder whether you ever think of me And send a glance across the seas that sunder, The seas of space that sunder me from thee ? We parted last in darkness and in rain : When shall I see you next, my queen, and where ? In August moonlight shall we meet again, Or when September's storm-blast thrills the air ? — One summer's sweetness ! Then my life concludes ? Will every summer now that is to be Lack somewhat of love's splendour in the woods, Miss somewhat of love's light upon the sea? "Despair" the waves will murmur as they break, And, darling, how my lonely heart will ache ! POETRY AND SCIENCE.* Not all the suns that throng the soundless spaces Are worth the radiance of one loving heart : The least and humblest of all human faces Hath nobler import in the eyes of Art. Gaze through your glass till ye be stricken with blindness ! Peer at the heavens whose bright star-clusters gleam ! One human heart that glows with loving-kindness Outshines the stars, and makes your heavens a dream. Fair Science trumpets her own praise so loudly She fails to catch creation's under-tune ; But listening Art, who walks the earth less proudly, Can hear — while Science quarries in the moon. What is it worth to know the leagues that sever Our green-grassed earth from Sirius or from Mars ? The skies are lampless wastes, if we for ever Must cease to tell our fortunes by the stars ! If darkness' doors were sundered, and we knew them, Gold star by star deploying from the deep, — If we could muster and rank by rank review them, Would it be worth one gift of white-armed Sleep ? Would it be worth the gifts that passion brings us, Or love, who makes the universe so grand ? Not all the gifts cold haughty Science flings us Are worth the warm touch of one loving hand. * This poem is reprinted from the Universal Review by the kind per- mission of the Editor. POETRY AND SCIENCE. 221 Love ruled the past, and love will rule the ages Unseen, unknown, the summers yet to be : In spite of Science' wand the storm-wind rages, But Venus' touch wrought magic on the sea. What is it to us to know that phraseless distance Prevails in space, and dateless years in time ? Without the groping telescope's assistance The soul of man can worship the sublime : We need not Science' barge, slow-sailed and lumbering, To bear us o'er the ocean of the past; It is enough to know that earth, long slumbering, At love's touch woke to passionate life at last. What is it to us to know that giant Saturn, Vaunting his 'scutcheon with the triple bars, Wears still a fiery robe of doubtful pattern, All uncomplete among the elder stars ? What is it to us to know that kindred metals Within our earth and in the planets rest ? Why pause to analyse the flame that settles Triumphant on the light-god's glittering crest ? I'd surely choose, had I the choice, to follow, When morning thrills the dazzled air with pride, Along heaven's heights the footsteps of Apollo Rather than Proctor's, though his path be wide. Of Grimm and Andersen no heart could weary ; We turned to another when each tale was done : But now we yawn, and feel that earth grows dreary, While Norman Lockyer lectures on the sun. 222 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Give me the days of faith, and not of Science ! Give me the days of faith in unseen things ! The days of self-doubt, not of self-reliance : Days when the rainbow flashed from fairy wings. The elves retreat, when Science onward marches. Their banners disappear, no bright robes gleam With sudden splendour through the forest-arches : Titania rides not on the pale moon-beam. Knowledge hath little worth, if dreams are going. Let me watch in the stream the Naiad's hair j Or wander forth when balmy winds are blowing Through sunlit groves, and find sweet Daphne there. To know is well, but not to know is better. 'Tis ignorance that makes the child sublime. To learn new facts adds fetter unto fetter For all the already weary sons of time. We count the stars, — yet dream not what we are losing, Ay, losing all of us, the whole wise race, In that no more among the reed-beds musing Shall we see Pan's half-human wrinkled face. If scientists must work a revolution And upset all we used to hold most dear, Well, let them speak — the Royal Institution Is open— not a soul need go to hear. In fog-land let them reign, but let them leave us Sweet green-haired Dryads safe in every tree ; Leave us the ghosts — no matter if these deceive us !- And leave ten thousand mermaids in the sea. OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ■ IFORg Sftflferar AND SCIENCE. 223 If Comte and Strauss must preach their wild vagaries, Why, let them preach — but not to poets' ears ! Poets would rather help the wild wood fairies To drill the mice to stalwart grenadiers : Then watch them, with a pink-eyed rat for sergeant, March past the carriage of the Fairy Queen ; Their long tails trailing on the river margent, Their bayonets flashing through the rushes green. Poets would rather, when the mountains rumble, Believe that gnomes are cannonading there, Than that mere fragments of waste granite crumble, Or that the levin rives the sultry air. The poet on his magic sword reliant, Wildly enamoured of some captive's charms, Longs to encounter the vast-shouldered giant And rescue trembling virtue from his arms. He longs for the old days, superb, red-lettered, When knights might count on finding 'mid the trees Some noble maiden to a stout trunk fettered, Robed in her hair (and shivering in the breeze). He loves the blue sky that the white clouds mottle : Now any beardless scientist may brag That Tyndall made some blue sky in a bottle, And closed the empyrean in his bag. God, when he shut heaven's door, took care to lock it, Glanced round, then set to work upon the sun ; But Spencer drew his latch-key from his pocket, And entered Heaven, and saw the whole thing done. 224 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Hence all our thoughts are changed — a light intenser Now beams upon the paths creation took. Had Moses had the help of Herbert Spencer, He would have written a far abler book. And yet I have a feeling, stronger growing, That Moses' old-world view was grander far, Though, one admits, he had no means of knowing The laws that govern even a single star : For Moses thought the stars' eternal story Told of a living God's majestic might ; But Spencer thinks the stars show forth his glory, Blazoning his name in gold upon the night. If most of Genesis be hopeless fiction, Yet hath that fiction more poetic worth (This one may say, defying contradiction) Than any scientific " truth " on earth. 'Tis more romantic to believe that Adam Dropped into Eden from the starry blue, Then lent a rib to God to lend to Madam, Than to re-visit our parents at the "Zoo." 'Tis more poetic to believe that heaven Awaits us round the corner when we die, Than to believe that no more soul is given To man than to the grunters in the stye. 'Tis better to believe that sin and apples Got somehow mixed in mankind's early days, Than to possess a mind that proudly grapples With protoplasm's dim mysterious ways. POETRY AND SCIENCE. 225 './Esop was great. That marvellous narrator Made donkeys talk (since then they never cease !) But in these days we need one even greater ; One who can make the donkeys hold their peace. D.-S. OLD LETTERS. Letters mixed in strangest wild communion — Was there ever such a wondrous heap ? There they lie, diverse, in seeming union : Some in faded brown ink, some in deep. Such a strange assortment ! There, collected Through the ups and downs of twenty years, See them lying helpless, — disconnected From the old joys that filled them and the fears. Disconnected are they now for ever From the hopes and fears of early days. They will speak their ancient language never. Can November sing one song of May's ? Can the winter with the spring hold parley ? Can the wild red poppies as they gleam, Flashing through the wheat and tufted barley, Ever of the frozen furrows dream ? No : to-day must face to-day's own troubles. Of the old sorrows, some have past away : Hopes have melted into air like bubbles ; Golden dreams have darkened into grey. Ah ! the twenty years, the myriad letters — Some that pierced my very soul with pain : Some that bound my heart in loving fetters {Would that we could wear those bonds again !) OLD LETTERS. 227 — Some from India, yet with memories in them Of the dear old Isis' grassy banks ! If I once unfasten and begin them, Ghostly thoughts will rise in endless ranks ; Thoughts of Oxford, of young days sun-lighted, Of the swift boats racing past the shore ; Thoughts of early vows of friendship plighted : Sounds will echo as of wave and oar. If I open — Shall I open any ? Dreams are sometimes very sweet indeed, Yet they weaken, when too sweet, too many ; Undermine the present strength we need. 11. Letters some there are in boyish seasons Written, when the unfeverish hours were fair ; Long ere passion's tenderness and treasons Filled the skies of life with burning air. Letters written in the days of rapture, Days of merry gladness all unfeigned ; Days when very heaven it was to capture Perch or roach, or whiting rosy-stained. Days Avhen butterflies before us flaming Charmed us as with flash of fairy light, Robed in magic hues past mortal naming, Lustrous yellow, crimson, snowiest white. # * Some from those who passed through life believing That the spirits of the dead were near, — Deemed that they for ever were receiving Messages from those who once were dear. 228 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. As I read their letters, half I sorrow, Half I smile — to them their faith was grand : Sunlight lacking here they sought to borrow From the summers of an unseen land. Strong their faith was, fierce and energetic. If in fact they saw no ghostly friend, That but makes their life's dream more pathetic, And with them it lasted till the end. Letters some there are that breathe of passion. How their value lessens with the years ! Now we estimate in sober fashion Sighs and kisses, burning words and tears. Passion doubtless had its truths to teach us : Sent from heaven, it teaches every one. Passion dies — we think no light can reach us — Yet God overtakes us with the sun. Stars and sun again for us are shining ; All our sorrow darkens not the sea : 11 Mortal," God saith, " while thou wast repining, See what treasures I kept back for thee ! " While thou dreamedst that the world was over, Starlight, sunlight, storm and cloud and rain, Golden waving corn and crimson clover, All these came again and yet again. " Though thy sullen vision thou wast sealing, On the hedges miles of may were white : Through the silent darkness slowly stealing Came the moon, and silvered all the night. OLD LETTERS. 229 " Let thy dream of passion fade behind thee Like the tossing vapours seaward blown ! Let my comfort breathed through nature find thee : While God liveth, thou art not alone." in. Strange to think that all these hearts' outpouring Will so soon be ashes . . . if I burn ! Thoughts that sought the blue sky wild and soaring : Love that made the answering spirit yearn. If I cast old letters in the ocean, Trust them to the boundless waves to keep, Will the waters thrill to man's emotion? Can I trust my treasures to the deep ? If I fling them forth amid the clover Or the fields where countless daisies grow, Will the skylark care to con them over ? Will the clouded yellow care to know ? Here are letters full of love and tender, Love that made life's morning like a dream — Shall I cast them 'mid the golden splendour Of the buttercups beside the stream ? Oft I think that sacred letters breathing Love of mother, sweetheart, trusty friend, Never ought to feel the hot flames wreathing Round them, ought to find a nobler end. Then I take the letters and I tear them Sadly, gently, tearfully maybe, And I let the loving west wind bear them, Little white-sailed fragments, out to sea ! 230 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Or I cast them on the eddying river, Watch them floating downward, one by one. Some to starlight, trusting, I deliver : Some I give to morning and the sun. But I never can destroy quite tearless What has cost the writers love and pain. Letters of expostulation fearless, Through my soul your accents ring again ! Letters some of love most sweet and simple (These I'll keep for ever, close to me !) — Not a fragment torn of these shall dimple Softest bosom of the sunniest sea. Even the buttercups shall never carry Fragments to their sister-flowers to read Not one word of these shall ever tarry, Adding sweetness to the scented mead. While I tear — and sometimes not with sorrow — Here a poet's, there a thinker's words, These shall dwell with me for many a morrow, . Sweet and simple as the notes of birds. Lo, this canon to the waves I scatter ! Burn this maundering prelate in his pride ! Rend this preacher's homily —small matter ! Love is far too rare to fling aside. IV. But alas ! some writers' souls have floated Farther than the letter-fragments sail. Noble spirits, faithful and devoted, Where are ye ? Man's wondering thought turns pale. OLD LETTERS. 231 Farther than the stars that watch me read them Have the writers of some letters sped : Angel hearts, it may be, love and heed them, But for us they rank among the dead. Past the goals of mortal joy and anguish, Past our winters of the barren bough, Hours of storm or summer days that languish, Past all change of seasons are they now. Some whose power had vanished of discerning God behind his veil of purple air, God behind his sunset-raiment burning, God beyond the flowers he makes so fair, — These have travelled into viewless regions : Now, perhaps, God face to face they see, Find the deathland holds its living legions, Find how crowded is eternity. Much they suffered, these, while life enchained them. God, perhaps, whom they disdained to own, Generous more than they, has not disdained them, Given an audience unto each alone. Others who in the sweet older fashion Trusted Jesus, and who trusting went, Has not God been equal to their passion ? Have they not found blessing and content ? Even if their Master was not ready, He himself, to change the storm to calm, Has not God compelled each whirling eddy, Poised death's ocean in his hollow palm ? 232 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Even if their Master would not waken While the vessel staggered through the gloom, Has not God with hand and heart unshaken Steered each vessel past the shoals of doom ? Has not God in whom their hearts found pleasure, Though they called him by another name, Said to each with love no words may measure, " Heaven was very lonely till you came ! " Has not God to these who loved him solely — So they thought — in Jesus, through his grace, Now revealed himself superbly, wholly, Saying, " Behold his Father face to face ! " As I read their loving simple letters Oft I feel that though their creed was grim They have grown to-day beyond its fetters, Each has found God looking out for him. Each has found that if the soul beseech him Truly, in the tongue of any land, . Ever will its urgent crying reach him, Ever will he stoop and understand. v. But — a sadder thought — some souls have wandered, Though among the living yet they be, Farther than the letter-fragments squandered On the billows roaring in from sea. Farther than the dead souls (love can perish Never, though the loving heaits be dumb) — Souls whom once our own souls loved to cherish, Whom we think of when the roses bloom : OLD LETTERS. 233 Whom we think of when the roses lavish Scented flying petals on the gale : Think of when the autumn wild winds ravish Crimson leaves that down the eddies sail. . Farther than all thought or recollection Even — for their minds have grown apart : Death can bring deep sorrow and dejection, But it never quite dismays the heart. This dismays — that some are near us living, Close beside our threshold it may be, Whom we loved with all our power of giving, Yet between us rolls a bridgeless sea ! Friends whose souls from ours the swift years sever, Friends whose love is lost in starless gloom, These indeed are lost to us for ever, Buried deeplier than in any tomb. SONNET. TO ERNEST BIRCH. O thou who through high Music's golden gate Hast right of entrance to the land divine Wherein the poets' crowns and sceptres shine, Thy coming we, Song's warders, celebrate. Thou art a poet-soul beyond debate : — Thy music thunders out like Milton's line : Thou canst describe in music and design ; Thy music sighs forth love, or volleys hate. Poems are silent till thou layest thine hand Upon their chords. Lo ! then the poems speak, And utter all their souls in music rare. — Thou dost interpret poets to their land, Adding the music-charm they vainly seek,— Making the fairest poem yet more fair. Feb. 23, 1887. TO SEPTEMBER. I love the soft September days. — When summer's ardent life is done, I love to see the red leaves fall And know that death is lord of all ; Lord of the green-grassed flowery ways, Lord even of the sun. As Wordsworth loved and worshipped May, I love the calm autumnal time. The gift most needed at the close Of this sad century is repose : Rapture was for a former day And for another's rhyme. As bright May cheers the buoyant soul And fills the glad with gladder thought, So thou, September, cheer'st my heart ; For in this world all joys depart, And endless effort wins no goal And labour counts for nought. I love thee, pale September, well. The summer flaunted flower on flower And filled the hedges with its bloom, But thou, September, bringest gloom, And gloom is heaven and light is hell In this the world's dark hour 236 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. When Wordsworth sang his song to May, The world had hardly learnt to doubt — God smiled from heaven : he loved us all : Without his will no leaf could fall : But in this later darker day Despair has found us out. We realize that we may be, We human sufferers, quite alone : Created by no conscious will, - Doomed to live on and suffer still, Without a heavenly eye to see Or ear to hear us groan. We realize that star on star May mock us from the depths of space, But that in star or moon or sun There may be none to aid us, none : In regions near or regions far No voice, no human face. We deem perhaps that human life Alone in our star buds and flowers, Here having been evolved alone : No whispers on the night-winds blown Bring messages of love or strife From other worlds than ours. But Wordsworth in that happier day Knew not that ere his century's close Dark doubt so deadly would arise. He watched the heavens with tranquil eyes, And sang his loving song to May And to the summer's rose. TO SEPTEMBER. 237 All ! dark September suits us best. It meets our humour to behold The bright hues fade on flower and leaf : God knows we are most at home with grief. And in despair are most at rest ! We and the age are old. So, sad September, I love thee : The lessening sunshine on the rills, The winds that toss the shuddering leaves, The wind-swept withered sedge that grieves, The chillier sunlight on the sea And on the darkening hills. AN EASTERN YEARNING. Oh be thou just a rose ! Why thou canst kiss, And is not that enough ? If more be given, Something is stolen from swift passion's bliss : If there be " mind," there must be less of heaven. Soul, culture, intellect — What gifts are these ? If woman win them, why should man adore? Is there much " culture " in the summer breeze, Or " mind n in ripples laughing on the shore ? Woman is part of Nature. She was born From the bright sea-wave. She and flowers are one. Can your cold Western culture e'er adorn Her who is taught by sea-waves and the sun ? Oh, God deliver me from Western dreams ! Give me warm moonlight on an Arab tent : Within, the touch that thrills, the glance that gleams j Soft bosom o'er me through the darkness bent. Then am I saved and crowned, — for bliss is there, And perfect bliss is heaven. Whate'er men say, I hold that God set stars within the air That mouth to mouth might find a readier way ! Is this ignoble ? More than sky or flower To love the glory of a woman's grace : To win eternal rapture in an hour, Life at her lips, and heaven in her embrace ? AN EASTERN YEARNING. 239 Ever to find fresh shapely wonders shown (And beauty has unmeasured power to bless !) — Ever to come on some grand curve unknown, Some line of more than mortal loveliness ? To feel — as ever it is deepliest felt At midmost thrilling of the close warm kiss — The sense of form throughout one's being melt, The sculptor's mingled with the lover's bliss ? I hold that God made flowers that man might know That woman's beauty is a lovelier joy. Breathe wisdom on the petals — Down they go ! Woman becomes an intellectual toy. Here in the West sweet womanhood is dead. Woman is master : mankind is the slave. Awestruck, the trembling spouse draws near her bed And claims the rights her condescension gave. But she is master, ruler of the West : The days of fragrant love have all gone by. Ah me, the olden days were far the best ! There were more stars I think, then, in the sky. There was more tenderness in woman's heart, Less cursed Greek and Hebrew in her brain ! Then all she knew (enough to know) of Art Was just the art man's passionate love to gain. Those happier days are ov»er. On the whole I'll start for lovelier lands and bluer seas ! Beauty I'll find : I leave you woman's soul — I like her best without it, if you please. GOD'S SERMON. i. 11 Art not thou contented, mortal ? " Sometimes so God seems to say : " Must I bear thee through death's portal ? Wouldst thou live beyond thy day ? Why shouldst thou aspire to be Sentient through eternity ? " Life and tender love I sent thee, Sunny dawns and silent eves ; Stars and moon and sun I lent thee, Ruby flowers and emerald leaves ; Splendour of the sapphire main : Yet thou cravest to live again ! " Foolish art thou, foolish surely, Clamouring for a joyless boon. If the heaven that shines so purely Now with golden stars and moon Shone for ever thus the same, Nought it would be but a name. " Thou in time wouldst grow quite weary Of the sights that seem so fair ; Even the sunlight would be dreary, Sweet lips not what once they were ; Much have I the power to give, Not the power to bid thee live. GOD'S SERMON. 241 " Thou art part of all that changes, I myself am changeful too : Through new spheres my being ranges ; Other work I have to do Than to keep a moth like thee Plumaged through eternity. "Life I gave thee for a season, Friendship's pleasure, passion's kiss j Heart to love and brain to reason, Many a month of sunny bliss ; But my last gift is my best — Peace from living, perfect rest." 11. " Once thou seest the sun, once only, — Nothing twice is quite the same : Life's supremest joys are lonely, Like the God from whom they came. Only once a kiss is sweet ; Once as one the wild hearts beat. " If in heaven thou took'st thy pleasure Through a course of endless hours, Thinkest thou that thou wouldst treasure As thou dost the wayside flowers ? No : its coming death bestows All its lustre on the rose. "Deepliest sinks the first impression : Even the form thou lovest best Passed into thy full possession On the night it was possest. Woman-, blossom, sunset, sea, Give their beauty once to thee. d.-s. R 242 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. " Craving heaven, thou cravest sadness. I myself would sometimes give All I know of heavenly gladness For the simple right to live On thine earth for fifty years, Sharing human joys and tears. " Woman's beauty I, her Maker, Only in a measure see : But thou art the full partaker, Her whole self she gives to thee. I, who first created this, Half am envious of her kiss. "Though his joy but for one minute Lasteth, yet the mortal gains, For there's more of rapture in it Than eternity contains ! Take thy moment's bliss — then die Happier after all than I." FATE'S EQUAL MEASURE. We need not envy fern and daisy, Nor summer's wealth of bloom : October's days come, dark and hazy, And clothed about with gloom. We need not envy summer's roses : The bleak autumnal wind Sweeps through the frightened shuddering closes And leaves no flowers behind. No lives we see are worth our longing : Through every golden dream The pallid morning thoughts come thronging In one long ghostly stream. Some seem to win one happy season : But envy not their fate ! Sorrow and blank dismay and treason Upon their threshold wait. Are lovers happy ? Not for ever The clinging kiss shall last. A thousand foemen wait to sever : One rapture — then 'tis past ! The blue sea turns to storm and madness ; The still lake boils with foam : Spent is the green-leafed summer's gladness ; Afar the red leaves roam ! 244 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. So envy no man. — Happiest lovers Have death beside their feet. Lo ! what a strange flower-raiment covers The supple snake's retreat. At least in this an equal measure Fate's grim unbribed hand deals, Bestowing pain, and stealing pleasure From every heart that feels. MORAL COMPLEXITY. A lover conquered passion, and he let The great sweet chance slip through his fingers quite. But was he closer unto God, He who with swift feet should have trod The fragrant paths of passionate love that night ? Was there no storm of anguish and regret ? All through that night he tossed about, in dreams Seeing a rose ungathered beckoning him : Seeing the sudden flash of white That gleams upon a lover's sight Above the bodice-lace work's loosened rim : Waking, and grasping just the cold moonbeams. All through that night he wrestled as with grim Despair. He never loved her quite so much : Ne'er in her eyes he gazed so deep As that night through his broken sleep, And thrice he started wakeful at her touch. The morning broke, rainy and weird and dim. Then forth he went and wandered by the sea. The horizon cleared, and the fair golden sun Flashed out upon the answering waves ; They seemed like leagues of mocking graves ; The battle he the previous night had won Seemed like a fierce defeat — such beings are we ! 246 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. " One hour for love, one hour for passion, friend ! " So said the waves that leaped upon the shore : " One hour of limitless delight, One marvellous hour — and then the night That steals the sun whose splendour we adore ; Dost thou not know the tenderest hour must end ? " Next, turning inland, many a wet rose-tree Flung rainbow-dewdrops at him as in scorn. " Lo ! what a glory thou hast missed : Thou mightst have been so softly kissed, As we were kissed by the sun's lips at morn." So said the blossoms, just as said the sea. " And she," he thought — " my rose-bush all this night Of perfect passionate summer left alone ! No kiss for lovely lips or breast ; No amorous waking after rest ; Ah me ! she might have been my own... my own... My darling till the coming of the light. " To-night is left us still : the ways untrod Shall ring to-night to passion's steeds, by heaven ! No more the blossoms and the sea Shall fling their mocking gibes at me : To-night love's sweetest gifts shall all be given ; To-night I'll take this boon, as from some God ! " * * And that night, having sent a letter first, He waited her beside the blue still sea. The summer ripples at his feet Sang, " This is right, for this is sweet ! " The stars gazed down upon him tenderly. Now he was ready — let Fate do its worst. MORAL COMPLEXITY. 247 Now he felt oneness with the passionate rose, For Nature worships joy and nought beside. No self-denial Nature needs ; She ranks our good with evil deeds ; There is no conscience in the ocean wide, And no sin troubles the blue sky's repose. The starlight shines to bless a sinful pair ; The moon will give her blessing to the base : The odours of the summer night Float round about wild lovers' flight : — So this man, dreaming of a woman's grace, Felt unknown sweetness in the soft night-air. He felt a calm like heaven's own peace indeed, For strange peace visits all in their own sphere. God's angel never quite departs But finds a way to all our hearts, And in some mode makes every mortal hear. To last night's storm he felt repose succeed. Then passion grasped his throat with giant strength. " Years have I waited, but to-night, to-night, The golden stars in all the sky Shall pause and watch the old longing die, Dead of an unknown joy, a new delight, And peace shall dwell within my soul at length ! " He turned to meet her, for the hour had come. Then lo ! a carriage by the seaside wall, And into his her eyes once flashed Then on towards Rome the horses dashed. He saw it now, — Last night or never at all :— Ay — never, never, never ! — till the tomb. FOUR SONNETS. THE TWO PROPHETS, i. Bold was the man who ventured to declare " There is no death ! " — when every day which fled Murmured, " I carry with me hosts of dead And pour their souls forth on the soulless air : " When every sunrise whispered of despair, Saying, " Ere to-night thou also mayest be led Along the path thy parents had to tread, Who heard no voice, nor saw the sunlight there." Bold was the man who ventured in the face Of the clear certainty that all things die To announce an endless life beyond death's gloom To cry, " There is a God of love and grace ; There is for each an immortality ; There is a power that can unseal the tomb." ii. But bolder is the spirit who at this hour After so many centuries would revive Despair, to man proclaiming " Thou shalt live For this life only, like the grass or flower. Hope, young imagination's fairy dower, Has passed away for ever ! Toil and strive And love. But one reward the fates can give : Silence. The rest lies far beyond their power." Bold is the spirit who at this century's close Proclaims : " The star that lighted mankind once Now trembling towards the godless dark is driven Save in man's dreams your Master never rose ; The time has come for ever to renounce All faith in God, and every hope of heaven " FOUR SONNETS. 249 THE GREAT CHANGE. Of old the singers spake of loving ways Of God towards man, of wondrous mercies shown : God was the Giver of all things — man alone Received, and homage of high love and praise Was due to God, — altars mankind must raise ; With gladness shout or for transgressions moan.— How changed to-day is mankind's general tone ! God seems to us the sinner in these days. Of old, it seemed, the heavenly eye pursued Sinners who fled from it beyond the light, Cowered in the darkness, trembled at the sun. Now man demands of God : " But art thou good ? Hast thou, Lord God, in every point done right ? Hast thou loved justice? Yea, what hast thou done?" MERCY AND JUSTICE. " Mercy, good Lord," the sea-beach preachers pray : " Mercy for sinful man j for he deserves His doom, and thy great justice never swerves, — Mercy for man in thy grim judgment-day !" So they exclaim, — beside the sea-waves grey O'er which that unconverted sea-gull curves. And some with craven hearts and cowardly nerves Bend to the lurid God their words portray. But I — I stand secluded and apart, And mix my spirit with the sea's great heart, And with the voice, as it were, of all the sea I cry : " Not mercy, — justice, we require; Be thou true-souled, O God, — and be no liar ; Lo ! that much sorrowing man demands from thee." Sept 6, 1882. THIS TIME LAST YEAR. Lines written in Memory of Philip Bourke Marston. This time last year, the sun and stars and sea, Which thou seeing not didst love, saw and loved thee ; The world thou couldst not see beheld thee, friend : We saw the sightless eyes that saw no light, — To whom bright midday was eternal night, And moonlit clear skies moonless to the end. All things that heard thy song, rejoiced to hear ; Thy singing made our dreary world less drear ; Thou through thy darkness led'st us to the light : And yet that light thou sawest not. Even the sea That spake so many a wondrous word to thee Was never blue, the white rose was not white, The storm-cloud was not dark, the sky not fair, Nor golden-bright the flame-filled sunset air For thee, save only through thy sightless dream : Thou sawest not aught. Yet all things saw thee, friend ; The stars and blossoms loved thee to the end ; The blue sea loved thee, and the silver stream. * # And now, perchance — we know not — it may be — Thou dost behold in turn our poor blind sea That fails to apprehend thee where thou art : THIS TIME LAST YEAR. 251 Tis we who are blind to-day, — yes, every one. Blind are our stars, our moonbeams, and our sun ; Blind are our daisies with the golden heart. We cannot see thee. We are left in turn With loving souls and sightless eyes that yearn Towards that far land wherein thy foot has trod ; Not yet can we behold what thou hast seen ; Thou seest us, it may be ; perhaps dost lean Above our struggles like a helpful god. We know not. All is darkness where thou art. And yet, O poet, with the true deep heart, Darkness to us may be strange light to thee ; Thou who wast blind on earth may est now behold Heaven's sky from east to west aflame with gold, Immortal morning on a deathless sea. July 23, 1887. SATAN ON THE CRUCIFIXION. i. I struck too soon. Had I reserved For later days the stroke that slew, From the straight path he must have swerved Alas ! my own hand crowned the Jew. With my own hand I crowned him lord Of eighteen centuries, this at least — And sent him forth to be adored By child and woman, king and priest. I saved him, — I the spirit whose hate Acting through Pontius hurled him down. His death became the very gate Of life, the thorns became a crown. If I had had the strength to wait, The man who died at thirty-three Perhaps had died at eighty-eight Uncrowned, and unreluctantly. Time would have moulded all things well And woman carried out my plan — The queen who changes heaven to hell, - And slays the god-like in a man. Yes : I was over-swift. I wrought, I toiled his earthly life to mar ; And yet — a little further thought — All might have turned out better far ! SATAN ON THE CRUCIFIXION. 253 It was not well to slay the boy While yet his dream of love held true ; His dream of an immortal joy Beyond the heaven of sunlit blue. In but another ten years' time The world so different would have seemed ! His Father's method less sublime : He would not all his life have dreamed. His power of love had faded out With cares the long years would have brought : Heaven is the dream of youth no doubt, It cannot brook maturer thought. For with the increasing years all power Must ever lessen ; love grows less : Friendship abides but for an hour, And passion loses loveliness. The flowers lose fragrance. Though the air Be starlit, can blind eyes behold ? Though woman still is very fair, What are her sweet lips to the old ? Jesus at fifty ! Had he lived To fifty, not one fragment then Of his young teaching had survived, Or wrought upon the world of men ! 11. And yet it was not all in vain. More wrong, perhaps, has been achieved, The man has given the world more pain, Than if the world had not believed ! 254 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Within the living world to-day There is more hatred, more despair, Than if I had let old age's grey Tinge the thinned locks of Jesus' hair. The eighteen centuries have beheld More human beings hated, cursed, Than if strong Reason had dispelled The mists of Fancy at the first. For hatred is the very life, The essence, of the Christian creed. It feeds on hate, it grows through strife : Through lies alone it can succeed. To make the mother hate the son, To make old friendships fail at last, This was the goal I would have won. Did I not win ? Regard the past. Ay, never pagans hated quite With such intensity as these Who look to Jesus as their Light And sink before him on their knees. There was no virtue save in him, There was no goodness save the Jew's ; Without him even the stars were dim ; This was his Gospel's great good news. No marriage tie was pure and sweet Unless their Lord had blessed it first. Young lovers fell before his feet : The old bright smiling gods they cursed. SATAN ON THE CRUCIFIXION. 255 As if ten thousand noble hearts Had not loved well before he came ! As if the world had not been Art's Ages before his mother's shame ! As if no mother loved her child Until his Church was there to bless ! As if man were till then defiled By sight of woman's loveliness ! As if the world so fair, so young, Were hideous till therein he trod ! The world where grey old Homer sung ; The world where thousands trusted God. in. But now the world is growing old : It wins the power to understand That Chance alone can shape and mould, Without a conscious Maker's hand. The world has grown, and now it knows That though youth basks in fairy light The sweet light darkens as one grows, And lessens ever till the night. It knows what Jesus would have known, Or known at least in some degree, Had he survived — had he outgrown His young superb credulity. It feels what Jesus would have felt Had years revealed creation's plan, And to his sanguine nature dealt The blow they deal to every man. 256 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. It feels — whatever else may fail — That evil still is root and part Of life. The mountain needs the vale : The noble needs the sinful heart. The true wife needs the harlot's face That her pure beauty may be seen : She needs the sinner's fiendish grace To emphasize her saintly mien. Remove the sin — the good goes too. Yes : carry out your Saviour's plan And you will make the world quite new, But — change it into hell for man ! The world, were it redeemed from sin And made your fair dream's counterpart, Would be just what the Church has been— The deadliest foe to love and Art. FRUITLESS CREATION. i. The First Star. Upon the stocks the first star-vessel waited. The bright prow flashed and gleamed. Within his soul the great Shipwright debated : He doubted, and he dreamed. " The ship is shaped. The masts and shrouds are ready Its Builder's work is o'er. Soft river-waves around the gold bows eddy ; It yearns to quit the shore. u Yet shall I launch it 'mid the wild commotion Of the outer air and sea ? Can my star-ship withstand the fierce real ocean ? Will it steer back to me ? " When launched upon the seas of space exceeding All measurement and bound, Will it be lost ? Will my star triumph, speeding O'er depths no lead can sound ? 11 1 hesitate. Shall I impart my being To others, less than I ? Shall I send forth this star, — then watch it fleeing Lone through the unkindred sky ? d.-s. 2S7 s 258 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. " The void is dark, and in the gloom is sweetness ; Safety for it, for me. Shall I break up the lampless gloom's completeness, Saying to the first star : ' Be ' ? " And then the Maker's soul within him reasoned : " If, when I make a sun, I deepen night ; if good deeds must be seasoned With evil, every one ; " If, when I send my winds to range the valleys And breathe forth peace and bliss, With passionate force they search the woods' green alleys, And ravish when they kiss ; " If bluest waves must at the storm's hoarse bugle, Arrayed in furious white, Bay round the bows of labouring ships that struggle Through the stupendous night ; " If, having made sweet love, divine and tender And full of purest bloom, Man must attack the flower, and mar its splendour, And plant lust in its room ; " If woman, whom my thought would make resplendent, Whom I will grandly mould, Must change into man's slave, on man dependent, And sell her love for gold ; " If this be so, let not my star-ship wrestle With life and space and time ! Within some creek I had best lay up my vessel, Nor risk the voyage sublime." FRUITLESS CREATION. 259 So pondered God. — Then his resolve was taken. (With what result, we know.) God signalled with his hand, — with voice unshaken Said to the first star : " Go." 11. The Last Star. The thought of God had flowed for years past numbering Into the facts of time. Through age on age God watched, with gaze unslumbering, Sorrow and sin and crime. God watched the grief that follows first love's rapture : From his great throne in space He watched maybe some city's blood-stained capture, Or death-throes of a race. He saw the dead beneath his white moons lying ; He heard gaunt lions roar : He heard the groans and curses of the dying ; He heard ships strike the shore. He marked the doom that weighs down all creation ; He saw love change to shame : He saw death sweep the stars with devastation ; He saw hell's leaping flame. He saw love's bloom forsake each woman's features, As old in turn they grew : He saw disease waste millions of his creatures ; He saw the leper's hue. 2ho THE SONG OF MANHOOD. He saw faith seize its victims and devour them ; He saw mad hatred rage : He saw pure women strive, man's lusts deflower them, From darkling age to age. He sent his Sons. To star on star he sent them, Love's messengers sublime. Mad unbelief rose, armed to circumvent them : Death conquered them, and time. He sent his eldest Son to one doomed city : But him the people slew. Man steeled his heart against Christ's tender pity, And so man's sorrow grew. Ever the same ! As Christ was born of Mary, So other Christs were born. Their various fates in one point did not vary ; Each Christ was crowned with thorn. If in nought else the vast star-hosts resemble Each other, all alike Smote their own Christs with hands that did not tremble, And lifted spears to strike. Wherever genius, born of God and woman, Flashed on a world's dim way, Its fellow-beings strove with hate inhuman To quench the genius-ray. Wherever God appeared, in seer or poet, Satan appeared as well. God's hand, revealing heaven, disclosed below it The yawning gulfs of hell. FRUITLESS CREATION. 261 God pondered long. — Then his resolve was taken. The heavens in darkness deep He wrapped. The voice that bade the first star waken Said to the last star : " Sleep." in. The Second Paradise. Yet, ere that star was quite destroyed, A tenderer thought of pity came : God would not leave the heavens quite void ; There still should burn one beacon-flame. One star should still through leagues of gloom Fling light, though all stars else were dead. For countless mighty suns a tomb ! For one small star new birth instead 1 For one small star another day, And for two human beings as well More life to use, or fling away ; A grander heaven, or deeper hell. " For" — thus God said — " two I will choose, The sole survivors these shall be : For mine own purpose I will use This rearguard of humanity. u They shall rule o'er their star alone, Lords of its wastes of wood and plain : The whole wide earth shall be their throne, Their vast impregnable domain. 262 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. " The past shall perish. Not a sign Shall testify of ancient hours. No ghosts of dead cold stars shall shine, Nor pale ghosts of forgotten flowers. " All shall be new. Ay, once again An Adam and an Eve shall be Sole in the glory of their reign O'er silent earth and sailless sea. " And these shall love me. I shall find In these the recompense I sought In vain, in vain, amid mankind, Born of mine unripe earlier thought. " Man failed, and woman failed as well : I sweep the whole race to their tomb. Man staggered, woman wholly fell ; Tearless, I leave them to their doom. " Two spotless spirits alone I save : These two shall carry out my plan ; Shall live, and grow beyond the grave To perfect woman, perfect man. " But let their love be holy and chaste ! On this one point the whole depends : Let not love's image be defaced, Disfigured, for ignoble ends. "Let them develop onward, up From man to angel, but abstain From quenching at wild passion's cup A thirst whose quenching is not gain. FRUITLESS CREATION. 263 " Let passion perish, — passion slew The whole primeval world indeed ! Now I would make all wholly new, And gift man with a nobler creed. " Grow on to angelhood, — disdain To recreate the lower type Upon this sorrowing earth again : Your star for higher forms is ripe." IV. The Second Fall. The Man. I am as Adam, thou art Eve ; we stand Lonely at last upon a lonely star. The lot of those who peopled earth was grand, But our dispeopling doom is grander far. We form the first link with a higher race : All earth's old passions vanish into air. I see the dawning angel in thy face ; I mark heaven's halo brightening round thy hair. We, letting all old instincts fade and flee, Dismissing all that marred the race's powers, Shall add new glory to an unknown sea, Mix tenderer fragrance with the unborn flowers. For every blossom suffered at the birth Of sin, — the fields took on a sombre hue : Gladness forsook the green old festive earth ; The waves grew grey that once were joyous blue. 264 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Love has to answer for the stormy past : Love, guided well by woman's traitorous hand, Has wrecked the stars — till this, the very last, On which to-day with lonely feet we stand. Thou art the culprit, — thou, with eyes so sweet And lips that seem like pure half-opened flowers, Hast forced the world's Creator to retreat : The power to extinguish love at last is ours ! The Woman. Nay ! 'tis the power to make a new beginning That's ours, to shed new splendour o'er the sea. If love be sin, then very sweet is sinning : Sin shall endure throughout eternity. Was ever rose less pure in that it nestled, Luxuriant, on some bosom warm and white ? When God with Chaos' ebon darkness wrestled, It was to give love never-ending light. Was ever star less brilliant at the casement, Has ever moon with lesser lustre gleamed, Watching some lover in sweet first amazement Kissing the lips of which for years he dreamed ? Wilt thou resume with speechless exultation The passionate raptures of past years untold, See in my eyes the love-looks of a nation, A century's sunshine in my hair of gold ? The flowers of all the past, the loves resplendent That starlike lit old cities, hills, and plains, Are all for thee,— on thee they wait attendant : Lo ! Cleopatra burns within my veins. FRUITLESS CREATION. 265 Holding my hand, quite fearless thou mayest enter Strange bowers of love in many a far-off place : For thee shall Fate with ardent touch concentre All beauty in one incomparable face. Wilt thou consent to make me mighty mother Of timeless generations yet to arise ? Adam begat one world — beget another ! Make fruitful all the dark womb of the skies ! Be father of the years beyond man's numbering ; Propel afresh the life-throbs of the race Along the channels where life pauses, slumbering : Behold new starlight, gazing on my face ! Wilt thou consent to force the Lord to carry Star-torches into regions weird and dim, — To plant new life in ever-widening starry Blue heaven-fields, life that flows from us, not him ? Wilt thou consent, O mortal, firm, unfearing, To crowd the lifeless heaven that o'er us gleams With fleets of planets through the dark waves steering, Lord of a kingdom mocking mortal dreams ? This thou canst do, and more, — the moment fateful, August and solemn, calls thee to decide. Above us loom vast starless heavens and hateful : Around us stretch lone lifeless fields and wide. God cannot bar thy way, for lo ! I call thee. My womb the power of endless life contains. The torrent 6f God's wrath need not appal thee : A stronger life-stream pulses through my veins. 266 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. He who consents to wed me shall be stronger Than God — ay, more than conqueror in the fight. His force shall further reach, and hold out longer : God took six days to toil — take thou one night ! Upon my lips in one sweet night of wonder Seal thou thine image — safe the gift shall be, Though round us rang God's curse in very thunder, Till time exhausted lifts faint wings to flee ! Trust thou the power of fatherhood residing Within thy soul to me — Disperse the gloom ! The winds of winter look to thee for guiding : Raise the dead summers from their darkling tomb. Lo ! at thy word the June-days bright and burning Shall flash their spears once more against the sun : Within new lovers' hearts shall wake the old yearning ; W T in me ! even so our daughters shall be won. New buoyant springs, whose young hearts leap for gladness, Shall fill the warm pure air with scent of may : New autumns, full of soft and tremulous sadness, Feel at love's touch that sadness melt away. Thou shalt be lord of all the circling seasons ; Lord of the summer, as of winter's snows : Ruler and lord of all the dark sea's treasons ; Lord of the love that beckons from the rose. Thou, the creator of the new world's rapture, Shalt share the passionate life that is to be : Preside, it may be, at some new Troy's capture, Hold the steep pass at some Thermopylae. FRUITLESS CREATION. 267 Thou, the creator of the new world's sorrow, Shalt write the tragic drama of the race : On some far-off and unforeseen to-morrow See hope die out in some new Jesus' face. Ay, thou shalt hear anew that cry of terror Pierce to the stars, ere Jesus falls back dead — " Father, was all my faith one vast wild error ? Father — does heaven contain a fiend instead ? " New cities shall be thine, new Londons greet thee ; New fiercer life than that which throbbed of old Along the madding streets surge round thee and meet thee ; New sunsets tinge their skies with stormier gold. What if the sins of many a new strange city Outshine the sins of Greece, the crimes of Rome ? While life and love press on, let no heart pity ! Let generations vanish like the foam ! Ay, like the waves of their own seas let nations Rise into light, flash high, then disappear, — Calm joys succeed to stormy tribulations, And golden springs to many a snow-clad year. New poets, mightier than the great who slumber, Through the broad portals of the years shall move : But all shall sing of me, — of all their number Thorn-crowned, sin-marred, not one shall fail to love. Music shall seek the skies, a form imperial : But, as more skilled time's strong musicians grow, Still must love render the wild strings ethereal ; I sway them, whether their hearts will or no. 268 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. New sculptors, marble-moulding, still for ever Their heavenliest impulse from my form shall take. Shall one curve pass from human memory ? Never ! Dead marble shall be deathless for my sake. Anew the vast cathedrals where love sleeping Waited love's longed-for resurrection morn Shall rise, and hear the sound of women weeping, The passionate prayers of races yet unborn. With kingly wealth impassioned Art combining Shall raise bright palaces in many a land : But ever love's shall be the heart designing, And love's the shaping and adorning hand. Nought shall evade us ! by this sweet transgression, This noble sin, if sin indeed it be, We shall for ever stamp our own impression On stars and sun, and towns and hills and sea. Nor only heaven again in all its glory Thou shalt compel the Lord to recreate : Thou shalt rewrite the legend, the fierce story, Of hell, — reprint man's epic poem of hate. Again shall Torquemada's spirit sinister Flash forth upon the world, blood-stained yet grand ; Ambassador for God, yet Satan's minister, Climbing the stairs of heaven with dripping hand. Again shall many a prelate's voice of thunder Proclaim his own flock saved, the heathen doomed. At hell's Bastille again shall sweet love wonder, And weep for thousands in its vaults entombed. FRUITLESS CREATION. 269 Again shall man, invincible, eternal, With thousand-throated laugh of mocking scorn Roll back the gates barred by the hands infernal, And flood night's dungeons with the sunlit morn* Again shall battle's fierce throbs course and tingle Through ardent souls on many a future sea : Again smoke-vomiting iron fleets commingle ; — Their guns await one signal-flash from thee ! Thou hast to speak the word that hurls an ocean Of sword-points at some far-ofT Waterloo Against calm squares : thine is the intense emotion Of combat, ever-fierce and ever-new. Thine is the fury of battle — thine for ever Love's pleasure j young lips pause at lips most sweet, — Apart, they wait thy mandate. — Wilt thou never Speak the one radiant word that bids them meet ? Thou hast the power to bid wild passion waken ; The power to bid great countless stars arise Upon the night wherethrough with heart unshaken The wife who seeks her lover peers and flies. Hand thrills not hand till thou dost join them — never Without thy will can one glad sin be done. Thou canst blindfold the husband, — thou for ever Canst bring sweet darkness, and blindfold the sun. The woman watching in her moonless chamber Dreads lest love's foot i' the darkness go astray : But thou canst light love's lamp of golden- amber, The summer moon that shows love's foot the way. 270 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Thou hast the power to unbar the morning's portal : Thou canst restore the sun's kiss to the wave. Love, slain by God, will rise up, vast, immortal, If thou wilt summon Love's form from the grave. Say to the drowse'd waters, turning seaward, " Awake ! " — to heaven say, " Let the darkness flee ! " Scatter the soul's deep darkness, turning meward : Lift up thine eyes, thy princely face, on me. Wilt thou consent to be the king-creator On whom the eyes of the ages shall be bent, — Wilt thou, my slave, be to all else dictator, — Wilt thou consent to love me ? The Man. I consent. DEAD FLOWERS.* A tuft of mignonette, a withered rose ! Numberless foolish hearts have treasured such. Now, as I lift them from their long repose, They turn to dust and crumble at a touch — Poor flowers that meant so much ! They meant — pure love and limitless belief In summer's faithfulness, in sunny skies : They mean — one lonely pang of silent grief, Just one true tear that in a moment dries, For even sorrow dies. So with the millions who have hoarded flowers : The frail love-token lasts, the heart's love goes. Man's vaunted strength and woman's boasted powers Are more ephemeral even than the rose, The frailest flower that blows ! A withered rose, a tuft of mignonette — How passing weak must be the human heart, For these outlive even love, outlast regret, Abide even when grim pain, with blunted dart, Makes ready to depart. * This poem is reprinted from Lippincoti's Magazine by the kind per- mission of the Editor. THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.* When the twentieth century fadeth, when the dusk is round it closing fast, When it hears each singer sadly, knowing that each song may be the last ; Will the singers it remembers, glancing back along the years of bloom, Be diviner than the singers chanting through our century's sun and gloom ? What strange wars and tribulations will the far-off voices have to sing ! Creeds and thrones of newer peoples : flowers of many another laughing spring : Sunrise over many a cornfield red with battle's blood-stains, it may be : Moonlight over wastes of breakers, hideous shipwreck on full many a sea : Love in many a grove and bower, burning love with many an honeyed word — Love whose message old as history seems half whispered, never fully heard : Love co-equal with the ages — love who though his singers fail and pass Is as young as woman's beauty, or the dew-spheres on the morning grass. * This poem is reprinted from the Universal Review by the kind per- mission of the Editor. THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 273 Yet though grand the future singers, stately though their march of music be, Our strange century hath been gladdened; woodland green and lake and silver sea, These have heard our century's singers. What glad faces shone beneath the light Of the passionate early morning, when the fields of Europe rang with fight ! Far-off, very far, it seemeth. Close beside those early singers stood Blood-smeared wild-eyed Revolution, and her spirit mingled with their mood. Something of her ardent message Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, caught : Somewhat of her fiery nature wove itself within their inmost thought. But the mountains soon from Wordsworth hid the red and blood- streaked dawn of day : To his spirit Revolution had but one pale far-off word to say. Then he turned with growing rapture to the valleys' calm, the mountains' might ; Rested 'mid the solemn silence of the countless starlit peaks by night : Chose amid the hills to ponder rather on the great Creator's plan Than to hear mad Paris thunder from her cannon-throats the rights of man : D.-S. T 274 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Chose to hear the wild streams murmur, chose to watch the flashing waters gleam, Joining in the green fields' gladness, sharing in the mountains' lonely dream. Grey-haired venerable Landor lull of classic passion lived and died : Strong-browed drama-moulding Browning won our woman-poet for his bride. She too was this century's singer, — she who into deathless music wrought All the wealth of woman's passion, all man's sober strength of weightier thought ; She who taught the world for ever what a power resides in woman's soul When the brain is there to guide it, and the sovereign genius to control. Shelley, too, divinely laboured — made the half of life a lyric dream ; Into music wove the moonlight, made in song a lovelier star- light gleam : Made in verse the blossoms fairer, poured a nobler light on hill and plain ; Built in song a lyric Eden, brought to Adam spotless Eve again. And he showed in noble drama, dealing with the old tale of deadly wrong, That his hand could wield the lightning, not alone the lyre of loveliest song. THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 275 Later on our brother singers fought their battle vast beyond the wave : Longfellow and Whittier struggled, hurling slavery to its blood- red grave. Now at last the slave is chainless, through their power of brain and force of heart : Lowell, Bryant, countless others — nobly each one played a giant's part. Poe with mystic sweetness murmured — left Ufc lyrics time's touch may not wrong : Whitman spake but half his message, failing through the immenseness of his song j Failing through his very largeness of desire co-equal with the land — Left a vast work unaccomplished, waiting for some even mightier hand. Far in France Love found a singer, in whose rich voluptuous song should be Somewhat of its own strange music— somewhat of Love's own eternity : And the singer's heart responded, feeling Love's fair beauty over-much, Feeling all things else ephemeral, just mere foam-bells melting at the touch : Love to Musset was so lovely that the whole world brightened at its feet ; When love passed the whole world darkened, when it vanished nothing else was sweet. 276 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Yet for ever bears he witness what the world is like in love's first hour : We may win the fruit he won not, for he never sought beyond the flower. We may see the soul he saw not fill the eyes of love with deathless light : We may see the stars he saw not lift its veil of darkness from the night. In the dawning of the era swift-eyed, seeing, the laurelled singers rose : But the God-endowed blind singer, pale and patient, waited for its close. Never yet the rolling waters held more might of colour than they hold, Mars ton, in thy deep rich music ; there the sunset breathes and burns with gold. Was the tender heart of poet ever filled with tenderer sweeter things ? In thy song the roses whisper, heard of thee the "garden fairy " sings. Lonely, many waited for thee — blind, that thou mightest give them eyes to see : Jealous flowers and hills and rivers left forlorn by Shelley looked to thee ; All the unsung heart of Nature, many a voiceless lake and silent stream ; — Many a star no singer heeded through thy music flashed its infant gleam. 1 1 The above lines were written before the early and lamented death cf Philip Bourke Marston, the blind poet. THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 277 For the whole of Nature never, bride-like, conquered by a single bard, Kissed his lips and stood before him, loosed her purple deep hair golden-starred. If the whole of Nature truly were one bride for one great king of song, Would not kingly Victor Hugo lure her coy reluctant feet along ? Would not she the spirit of Nature who was girlish, young, when Shelley came, Meet, mature, the century's singer, Hugo, — wreathe his brows with fadeless fame ? Other singers win the kisses of the flowers her handmaids sweet and white : But for him her voice of ocean sounds, and calls him towards her through the night He, the giant message hearing, leaves all friends and passes forth alone, Knowing that the woman calls him, Nature, to be sharer of her throne : Knowing that while other singers worship at her altar, then depart, He may watch her eyes for ever, he the lord and ruler of her heart. # # Yet the age hath room for others. When the chant of Words- worth waxed old Tennyson, most English-hearted, sang to English cliff and English wold. 278 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. His the message not of ocean, not the kiss that floats across the sea ; His the calm heart of the valleys, filled with many a flower and golden tree : His all English women's beauty, and the sweetness of our rose- hung lanes, And the lovelier perfect sweetness that in English women's hearts remains : His the glory of the combat, clash of splintering spear and ringing shield, Courteous strife of many a tourney, fiery strife of many a blood-stained field. Fame of battle's wild narration, crown of martial verse, with Scott he shares — Scott, through whom mankind for ever breathes the sweetness of the mountain-airs : Scott, through whom mankind for ever hears the ancient border minstrels sing, Tweed "repine" and Teviot murmur, and a thousand moun- tain-runnels ring : Scott, through whom the world for ever grasps the grandeur of the feudal time ; Learns to love the grey old castles, grey with clambering lichen, red with crime. At the feet of Europe's monarchs Danton in his huge Titanic mirth Flung the head of Louis bleeding. Then another era dawned on earth. THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 279 .But two singers scorned the era, turned away with eager hearts and eyes ; Scott resought his grey old castles, Morris dreamed beneath far sunny skies. Morris took the Greek wise legends, — made us hear through London's dreary roar Witch Medea's luring laughter, and the wave that leaped from Jason's oar : Sang to us wild Northern Sagas, many a weird old chant and mythic rune ; Made us love the Volsung Legend, love the grey-eyed won- drous queen Gudrun : Made us with Pygmalion marvel as the white stone grew to woman's form, — Cold eyes flashing into sunlight, marble changing into bosom warm : Made us feel with Galatea what the glory of passion ought to be; Made her break time's marble silence once, and then reseek eternity. * # Matthew Arnold felt the Zeit-Geist bear him into regions cold and dim ; Faith was only for the weak-brained, not the clear-souled poet — not for him. All our century's sadness smote him : Science ruled him, ruled him to the last, Though the Church enchained his father, loyal-souled, the servant of the past. 280 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Never more would sign or portent — so the poet's keen-edged tongue proclaimed — Flash upon a world turned sceptic, of faith's earlier follies grown ashamed. Yet how brightly blossoms glitter, here and there, through his world-weary thought ! Gems of love and jewels of fancy that the poet's happier genius wrought. So with Clough — the grim doubt seized him, drew him forth from sweet faith's golden shore : This alone he knew for certain — that the old hope could avail no more. Not with Kingsley — he for ever, casting logic's dead weight overboard, Held to the old faith, stern and steadfast ; knotty points he settled — with his sword. Fearless noble deathless singer ! while his England still con- fronts the sea Eyes shall soften, hearts shall tremble, at the pathos of the " Sands of Dee." Would he had written a thousand ballads ! — even when he wore the bonds of prose Brighter gleamed the ferns of Devon, lovelier colour glittered in the rose. Round him thronged the Elizabethans, grand old worthies of the heroic time ; Is not " Westward Ho ! " a poem rich in music though it lacks a rhyme ? THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 281 Rhyming subtly came Rossetti — he who with the Italian music- force Re-imbued the English sonnet, gave the sonnet-stream an altered course. Many a soul in many a sonnet, many a burst of lyric rapture, strove Passion's tenderest lore to utter, stars to ravish from the brow of love : He, with mightier touch, for ever in one sonnet sealed the depth, the height, Sweetness, strangeness, awe of passion, all the mystery of the nuptial night. Can there be a greater glory than this crown man's judgment hath conferred ? jEven that, singing after Shakespeare, still Rossetti spake a wanting word. Edwin Arnold's "Light of Asia" turned our eyes from English bowers of green, Turned our thoughts from strife of moderns, from our Europe's over-crowded scene ; From the clash of sects and parties, all that makes our Western life a storm, — Set before us in the old sunlight, calm and restful, Buddha's princely form. Generations pale and vanish — stars that now are old were fair and young When that " Light " shone forth resplendent which the poet of to-day has sung. 282 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Somewhat as of Buddha's greatness, somewhat of his strength that cannot cease, Fills his singer's soul that points us past the storms of time to timeless peace : Peace that reigned in the early ages, ere our Western warrior- life begun ; Peace, — and Arnold's song resumes it, full of light and fervent with the sun. But the century hath another whom the thunder crowned and sought for bard ; Whom the lightning kissed, and loved him ; for whose soul the sea-wind wrestled hard. Byron ! still the lonely Jura seeks thee, widowed, weary, — and her sighs Rolling through the rolling thunder find no kindred heart nor song-replies : Unto thee, as unto Musset, passion was the gift of perfect worth, Light of woman's eyes the loveliest light that left the heaven and sought the earth : Unto thee — not unto Musset — was the dark-blue ocean-waste divine j Through thy song a thousand wave-crests curl and sparkle, rise and leap and shine. Yet the wild sea's stormy message through a younger fiery singer thrills, And his heart hath caught the rapture somewhat of the green far foam-flecked hills. THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 283 Swinburne ! somewhat of the eternal might and wrath and rapture of the sea Through thy sea-like song hath sounded, somewhat of the soul of all things free : And the heart of many a goddess left forlorn through many a weary day Dares to glance up, and rejoices hearing the old note within thy lay. Bowed and full of desolation was full many a goddess' golden head When along the viewless valleys rang the news that bright- souled Keats was dead : Eyes long dry and tearless wept him, pale was Venus watching at his tomb, Stars put off their robes of splendour, and for years no rose won all its bloom. Now the gods shake off their mourning. Lo ! again the trembling water glows Round about the form of Venus, wakeful after over-long repose : Once again a lovelier music than the music of our hills and streams Brings again the thought of Sappho, thrills the evening with the morning's dreams. Yet a note of sadness mingles with our song that praises these who sing. All must pass. One century forward, just as blue shall gleam the swallow's wing. 2S4 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Pink the early almond-blossom still amid the branches brown shall shine, And the bees shall hum for ever through the ivy and round about the vine. One live flower shall have the magic all dead things and bloodless to surpass : Who can dream on dead pale singers, when the kingcups glitter through the grass ? Who will ponder on our singing, when the very queen of song is there ? We may sing of passion's sweetness, but the songless lips will find it fair. All our crowns of blood-stained laurel are not worth the crown the maiden brings, Giving passion to her lover, giving but one glance to him who sings. Though our singing live for ever, little is our sweetest singing worth j Deathless value is in the love-song of the glad old everlasting earth. Deathless glory is in the love-song of the blue old everlasting seas : Endless sweetness in the chanting' of the pure fatigueless mountain-breeze. We shall pass, but love shall linger, — linger while the golden mornings gleam ; Linger while the last white lily tells its love-tale to the listening stream. THE SINGERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 285 We shall pass, but love shall linger while the light in woman's eyes is young, Fair as if no soul had seen it, undescribed as if no soul had Ghosts may wander through the starlight, ghosts of poets crowned with phantom bays; All dead songs shall miss the magic of one thoughtless throstle's living lays. Every night the night's star thrilleth at the marriage-message of the sea : What grows old and grey in Nature? Nought that Nature fashions ; only we. Not more snowy was the primal than last April's dazzling chestnut-bloom : Bright last night the star-hosts glittered, bright as when they flashed on Eden's gloom. Round about each new-born poet arms most white his virgin era flings : " Never have I heard sweet singing " — so she whispers to the soul that sings. " Never have I owned a lover ! " so she says with glance half shy, half wild : " What is love ? " she whispers gently, nestling closer like a loving child. " What is love ? " she whispers softly, — and will whisper till the starlit deep Watches not the strife of mankind, only mankind's unawaken- ing sleep. LOVES PLEADING. If you love me, love of mine, Let me feel it day by day ! Never take the light divine Of your tender love away ! Let me feel it when we meet, By the joy that fills my heart Making every moment sweet ; By my sorrow, when we part ! Let me feel that you are mine, When the autumn leaves alight ; When the suns of summer shine ; When the stars begem the night. Let me feel it hour by hour, As the seasons come and go : When the golden kingcups flower ; When the fields are white with snow. Let me feel it in your hand ; Let me see it in your eyes : — Then will sky and sea and land Gleam with light of Paradise ! Let me hear it in your voice ! Let me know that love is there, Bidding all my heart rejoice, Casting out a life's despair. LOVE'S PLEADING. 287 Let me feel that love will last Though the seasons fade and wane : That, when Time itself is past, Love will store its golden grain. Though the restless waves may chafe, Though the storm-wind smite the shore, Let me feel that love is safe, Far beyond the billows' roar ! Let me, as time onward flows Stealing sunshine from the air, Stealing colour from the rose, Stealing blackness from your hair, — Let me, as the days depart, Feel you growing through the days Ever dearer to my heart, Ever fairer to my gaze. Let me feel that, when we met, That was life's propitious hour. Though Time's sickle may be set To the grass-blade and the flower, Let me, darling, know that you Dwelling in love's sunnier clime, Where the skies are ever blue, Are beyond the reach of Time. Let me find — when dart on dart Strikes me, giving little rest — Perfect refuge in thine heart, Holiest haven on thy breast ! Let me, when with hate increased All the world's one hostile line, Feel that one sweet heart at least Beats in unison with mine. 288 7HE SONG OF MANHOOD. Let me feel that all that's best In my life to thee I owe ; Ay, and every hour most blest Of my seasons here below. ' What in me is good and pure — If some stray pure thoughts there be- What of life's work may endure, True love, all I owe to thee. Let me feel, if all forsake, One is true for evermore. When the lonely wild waves break All along life's lonely shore, Let me feel, if thou art there, With thy faithful hand in mine, That in thousands through the air All the stars of summer shine. Be on earth my perfect queen, Tender, loving, helpful, fond ; Lead me past things felt and seen To our unseen home beyond. Let the mystery in thine eyes Ever sacred presage be Of a light beyond the skies, Of a land we cannot see. Help me onward day by day ; When my weary thoughts despair, Soothe my weariness and say, 11 Wait till night The stars are there ! " When my restless thoughts repine Longing that the night be done, Whisper, with thy hand in mine, " Wait till morning brings the sun." LOVE'S PLEADING. 289 So for ever be my guide. Weary was I, sad, alone — All the world I had defied, But I bent to thee, my own. Haughty helm and vengeful sword At thy word I flung away : Ceased from hatred, and adored ; Half remembered how to pray. Teach me to be true and strong, Brave and humble, pure and glad : Let thy soul inspire my song ; Let my soul no more be sad. Change my hatred of the world Into perfect love of thee, As the river onward hurled Calms its wild wave in the sea. Change my dark despairing soul ; Lead my thoughts towards peace and rest. Lo ! in thee I find my goal ; Lo ! at thee I end my quest. Let me feel that thou art mine — Gentlest, thou, of all things born : Let me feel that I am thine — I, whose very breath was scorn. Lead me slowly through the love, Changeless, vast, I give to thee, Back to hope, if so it prove ; On to heaven, if this may be. When this fleeting life is past, Past its suns that set and rise Lead me, angel-love, at last Back with thee to Paradise ! MOMENTS. The sun streamed over vale and hill, How joyous all things seemed ! Far in the distance, clear and still, The yellow corn-fields gleamed. Fair was the summer land ; I held in mine your hand ; Your eyes drew mine, and in their depths I dreamed, Holding in mine your hand ! Then, on another golden day, Among the wildwood bowers, Love had its golden word to say The while we gathered flowers. " O love, my heart is thine ; Be thou for ever mine ; Life's loveliest purest gifts will all be ours, If thou art ever mine ! " Another day, another day — The summer's heart was dead : The air was calm, the sky was grey, The maple's kaves were red. " The leaves of summer change : The very sun grows strange : Can love abide the same for aye ? " you said. " True love can never change.' 7 MOMENTS. 291 Another moment grand and sweet My heart remembers well : The deep-blue ocean at our feet, Broad-billowing, rose and fell. I thought of the past years : My eyes were full of tears : How sweet a tale has faithful love to tell Of all those sweet past years ! And then that glorious August night ! The starshine filled the air : Would any star give any light, Love, if you were not there ? If I could travel far From mystic star to star, Would not their glory strike me with despair ? My heaven is where you are. And then that sunny day in spring ! Red shone the tulips' ranks : The brimstone butterfly's bright wing Glittered along the banks. If you were far away, The green spring would be grey : No rose for its first birthday would give thanks, If you were far away ! O moments sweet, and moments grand, And you the queen of each ! This earth would be a dreary land, Ay sorrowful past speech, Did not your soft eyes shine Making all things divine And bringing peace words have no power to reach, O one true love of mine ! 292 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. And there are moments, it may be, As sweet, as grand, as these, Beyond the stars, beyond the sea, Beyond the green spring-trees, — Beyond our summer's bloom, Beyond pale winter's gloom, Beyond our mountains' snow-clad terraces, Beyond the darkling tomb ! In what far other land than this, Beneath what heavenly sky, Shall we with wild undreamed-of bliss Meet, sweetheart, you and I ? In what far other land Shall we together stand, Past death, past pain and parting, by and bye,- In what far other land ? LOVE'S GIFTS. The bright blue wave were sad and drear • Without its seabird white : The rose would die, did it not hear The soft breeze sing at night : Lest heaven should be the storm-wind's prey, Love made the grand sun shine : Lest clouds should cover all my day, He made thy splendour mine ! Love sent the sweetest thing on earth To charm me and to chain ; To thrill my soul to tenderest mirth, Or — pierce my heart with pain ! Love bade the blue sea kiss the land, The gold shore kiss the sea, Then made the marvel of thine hand, And brought my queen to me. Love sent the rose its sister rose ; The red rose loves the white : Love gave the gentian to the snows, The snow-drifts to the height : The bluebell to the grass Love gave, The green grape to the vine ; He gave the seabird to the wave, But made his song-bird mine. 294 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. I am content — supremely so. Thou art my one thing fair : Thou with the neck more white than snow, And with the raven hair. Love gave the lily to the stream, The sea-weed to the sea, And one wild endless passionate dream Of love Love gave to me ! Love gave the saint his heavenly skies And dream of heavenly rest ; My dreamland is within thine eyes ! My heaven is on thy breast ! A glory glitters in the flowers, A light is on the sea ; The light, the glory, both are ours, For both are born of thee. The snowdrop now is strangely white, Far whiter than of old ; The tulip's cup is strangely bright, It gleams with magic gold. The orient scatters lavish pearls, They fall on land and sea ; They are to deck thy raven curls, — I gather them for thee. A longer tarriance in the sky The royal sunset makes ; It watches thee, it cannot fly : The sea-wind's wild heart breaks. Creation brings its gifts to thee ; But Love does more than this, — Gifts richer than of shore or sea Love gives me in thy kiss. LOVE'S GIFTS. 395 Love made the corn-flowers for the wheat, The oak-tree for the glade ; A thousand faces fair and sweet Love for man's pleasure made : Before me then thy perfect face Love set, and all was done — The moon is fair ; the moon gives place When Love calls forth the sun. A million stars within the air Love's hand in triumph placed : With countless blossom-garlands fair The earth's green bowers he graced : Then unto me my single rose Love's hand in triumph brought, My single star, diviner far Than all I dreamed or thought. FAREWELL ! When morning comes, the last pale star Must crowd all sail and flee : The wave that leaps the harbour-bar Says " Farewell " to the sea. The violet in the hollow lane May long to linger there : Nay, it must pass ! The golden grain Must leave the furrows bare. " Farewell ! " they say, " Adieu ! " they cry, All sweet sad earthly things : The loveliest sun-kissed rose must die ; The swallow spreads her wings. The crocus with its golden smile Must vanish from the grass : The tulip tarries for awhile, And then it too must pass. Farewell ! farewell !— the saddest cry That ever earth has heard : So says the sunset to the sky, The green bough to the bird. So says the rainbow to the spray, The linnet to her nest ; So says the dying summer day Unto the mountain's crest 29 6 FAREWELL! 297 So many golden hours we've known, May know so many yet ; We've seen the sun ascend his throne, Have watched the same sun set : Will there be one last hour of all ? Last hour of summer bloom, Last green leaf trembling to its fall, Last roseleaf to its doom ? Oh sweetheart, must we say " Farewell ? " Will all be over soon ? Will that green pathway through the dell With dying leaves be strewn ? — Life's vessel glides away so fast, Away from you and me: We saw the hull — we see the mast — That soon we shall not see ! THE SHORELESS DEEP. The sweetest love is over This world has ever seen. No more am I your lover ! No more are you my queen ! The stars are in the sky, love, They glitter as of old : Starless are you and I, love, — Our heavens are dark and cold. Oh, if you had been true, love, We could have conquered pain ! My whole soul trusted you, love — It will not trust again. The flowers again will brighten At Spring's swift loving tread, The waves will leap and lighten, But oh, my heart is dead ! It was so little, surely — I asked so little, dear ; That you should love me purely, And be my true love here. I loved in man's strong fashion, And valued far above The sweetest gifts of passion The simplest gift of love. THE SHORELESS DEEP. 299 The tenderest love is over That life has ever seen. No more am I your lover ! No more are you my queen ! The stars in heaven are shining ; Not one star shines for me ! There is no light for me to-night — Oh, what light can there be? 11. A boundless darkness covers, Gloom utter and complete, The souls of us — two lovers Who once found sunlight sweet. The gloom is full of terror, The terror full of pain : Somewhere there has been error, Mistake, — that much is plain. Misunderstanding ghastly, Oh, this there must have been Satan has triumphed vastly, And stolen away my queen. By means most strange and stealthy The cruel deed was wrought : Love deemed himself so wealthy j Lo ! Love possesses nought. Love stays you not with yearning, Arrests you not by prayer. You pass a sudden turning — Your figure is not there. I strain my eyes in wonder ; Nought is there to behold. We twain are leagues asunder, Who were one heart of old. 3oo THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Of all love's bloom and splendour What relic will there be ? — Not even one message tender ! Not even a look for me S " Lost ! " " lost ! " the wail of sadness Goes shivering through my heart. We met in perfect gladness : In hopeless pain we part. Just so some ship has started Upon its eager way, Bounding along light-hearted, And mocking wind and spray. The morning waves are bluer Than heaven that smiles above (Oh, was there one thing truer In heaven, I thought, than love !) Not yet the story closes ; We know not what may be ; What cruelty reposes Within the sunlit sea : What storms of bitter passion Lie hid within the deep : What schemes its waves can fashion The while they seem asleep. (How many a noble story Of love has closed in gloom, Starting in sun-kissed glory And ending at a tomb !) — The glad ship onward dances, For all around is bright : It meets not yet the glances Of the malignant night. THE SHORELESS DEEP. 301 It recks not yet of danger : It knows not that the air Can thrill with madness stranger Than madness of despair. It takes what sunrise brings it * Of golden-hued repose, And every sunset flings it An unimagined rose. 'Mid waves' and winds' commotion That ship is lost to sight ; Lost on the shoreless ocean, Lost in the starless night. — Lost, hopeless, sailless, oarless, Must now love's vessel be : It enters darkness shoreless That shrouds a shoreless sea. LOVE'S CHOICE. Because I feel that I cannot forget, I thank thee, Lord ! — Because for ever now My eyes will meet the sinless eyes I met, And see the dark hair shade a sinless brow : Because, though she is dead, — ay, dead in shame, Polluted through the villany of one Who, lusting, did in love's dishonoured name The meanest deed that ever on earth was done ; Because, though she be lost, she for whose sake I would have gone with singing to my tomb, I think of her ... as even the ice-bound lake Dreams of green banks divine with summer's bloom Because I think of her, so sweet and pure And tender— ere the villany of man Spread forth its cautious net, its cunning lure, And ended darkly what in light began : Because I still can see within her eyes The light of very heaven jis once it gleamed; Because my heart, though in hell's depth it lies, Will dream for ever as at first it dreamed : Because the past is with me evermore ; Because love is in me a changeless thing ; Because the blue waves may forsake the shore, Green leaves forget to deck the brow of Spring — LOVE'S CHOICE. 303 Because there is in me no power to change, Because my pain is everlasting, Lord, I thank thee with a passion grim and strange : — My love thou slayest not with thy keen-edged sword. If thou couldst change despair to joy of heart, Then would there be no story of love to tell ! Love bids all untrue comforters depart, And lest in heaven it falter, chooses hell. A POET'S VENGEANCE. This is my vengeance— not to take away My love, to leave it with you to the end : To speak to you, when flowers are fair ; When starlight glistens, to be there ; From the blue spotless summer skies to bend. I may not speak in weak words ? I can pray. Pray that the higher self I would have died To reach, and at its highest point to keep, May ever, guided by God's hand, Develop, blossom, grow, expand : Pray that the fruits my hand may never reap May fill God's fostering heart with joy and pride. True, the pure freshness of our love is lost. Your dagger smote (ah ! if it had but slain)— The blow was cowardly, mean and base : You should have struck before my face, — I would have said, " Smite on — yea, smite again But you — you struck when I was trusting most. I trusted you, as man might trust his heart To God his Maker, — gave you love supreme. For years I laboured night and day And only ceased from love, to pray : I made your life for years a happy dream : I crowned you with the laurels of my Art A POET'S VENGEANCE. 305 I would have loved you to the very end : I would have shielded you from all things sad. But you — you turned away to seek False love, unfaithful, foolish, weak, Perverse, half blind it may be, wholly mad ; For one hour's pleasure you destroyed a friend. You chose the lesser love, the meaner heart : The nobler loving heart you crucified. I gave you heaven : you gave me hell : Was this thing womanly or well ? You let the base man win you for his bride, And bade the true strong husband-spirit depart. Now do I curse you ? No : nor do I bless. There is a living God in all these things. God shall do justice to the twain : In his safe hands I place my pain : We both must face the judgment sure time brings ; In one way love will deepen, not grow less. In this way : love is truth, and truth must be For ever now between us — that is clear. All lies are o'er, they could not last ; The untruth is buried in our past ; — You love me, or you do not love me, dear : We have to face the future — we shall see ! Your soul will grow, or not grow. If it grows, There yet might be on some far future day Peace for our spirits, autumnal rest, A wedded calm in either breast (This is tne nobler end for which I pray : Not passion's rapture — rapture of repose). d.-s. x 306 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Ay once again, if you could be quite true, True as a wife through all eternity, Some happiness my heart might win, — Some day I might forget the sin ; I might hear glad birds singing, and the sea Might even regain for me some note of blue. But if your soul will grow not— If it still Lingers as this man's plaything through the years, - If you, a poet's love, his queen, Can wholly choose a thing so mean, — If you forget love's kisses, ay love's tears, — If nothing now can move your nobler will, — If, having once been loved with love most fair, Most strong, most sweet, most gentle, you to-day Can wholly turn your face aside, Why then your true soul must have died ! Then God and love and I must turn away : I meet God's eyes, and in them is despair. Yes : if a woman's heart can quite forget The countless happy moments that we shared, If six years are as nothing, then Indeed the creed of vulgar men Would seem like truth — if you too can be snared By diamonds glittering through a golden net. Ifr But if the nobler course may still be ours, If you to whom I gave my heart can now With perfect love of heart atone, If you can be my very own, My love with wifely eyes and honest brow, We still may gather some immortal flowers. A POETS VENGEANCE. 307 I gave you love beyond the love I gave Ever to any, — love beyond all speech : You stabbed me deeplier far than all : Must our love-temple wholly fall ? Is there atonement, love, within our reach ? Is there a passion deeper than the grave ? I think there may be. Yes : I think the man Who died on Calvary, and rose they say Triumphant from the fast-closed tomb, Might help us through this deadly gloom And change our darkness into sunlit day. No human soul can help, unless Christ can. Is there a darkness star-proof evermore ? A depth of hell where God's foot fails to tread ? Height beyond height the heavens arise, Vast heaven on heaven of starlit skies ; Depth below depth hell's ocean seethes blood-red ; Is it unsounded and without a shore ? Is there a depth where God's glance cannot go ? Darkness from which the Father shrinks away ? Then Christ upon the cross in vain Bore for our sakes unmeasured pain ; Then is there no word hopeful left to say ; We reap despair, whatever seed we sow. But if the love of God can pierce the gloom, Then man's love too can follow where God's goes. My love can reach you evermore And circle hell's sea with a shore And smite the savage wave-crests to repose : My love and Christ's love can outlive the tomb. 3o8 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. My love : for Christ and God and man are one, And God can save you, burst your prison-bars. Oh love, whose look dismays despair, Can robe you in raiment pure and fair, — As dark night jewels heaven's zone with the stars, As morning gems heaven's forehead with the sun. LIFE AND DEATH. Round us spreads the eternal silence. — Not the silence of the deep Lonely dark-blue open ocean, leagues from headland and from bay, — Not the silence of the mountains where the solemn summits sleep, — Not the silence of the star-land at the closing of the day, — Not the silence of the forest, when its every leaf is still, When the whole dense tropic woodland basks beneath the tropic sun, Matches death's eternal silence. Wholly settled seems God's will : When the human life is ended, then for us that life is done. Not one sweet word ! Not a whisper from beyond the deadly gloom ! Not a single word to cheer us, us the living, on our way ! Not a single flash of torchlight to illuminate the tomb ! Never sunshine, never moonshine, never one thin starry ray ! Only yesterday they loved us — then their living eyes were bright — Only yesterday we held them in our living warm embrace : What has happened ? What has changed them ? Still the form rests in our sight ; But the human loVe has vanished from the dead white quiet face. 310 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Only yesterday they heard us, knew the loving voice and hand, And to-day the furthest star-gleam in the blue heaven is more near. What can measure the wild distance? As beside the dead we stand, We confront a ghostly figure, not the figure once so dear. Perfect silence, endless distance — past man's measure, past man's thought ! Depth no human lead can fathom — darkness utter and profound ! Well God keeps his final secret. All the ages have be- sought ; Every soul has craved an answer from the darkness. Not a sound ! Is it well, O God, to take them ? Is it nobly, rightly, done ? Is this policy of darkness quite the grandest line of all ? If a son must lose his mother, or a mother lose her son, Is it well to sweep the dead one out of earshot, out of call ? Would not one slight vision help us — just a whisper, just a word, Just a green leaf sent for token, just a touch from out the gloom ? Life is changed from epic grandeur — it becomes three parts absurd, One part bitter, when confronted with the sphinx-face of the tomb. LIFE AND DEATH. 3" Yes, absurd : for through the sorrow and the mystic awe and dread Something of grotesqueness glimmers, something farcical and strange. Why does God create his millions, just to strike those millions dead? Is he hampered, is he pestered, by the ceaseless love of change ? Trouble, endless toil and trouble, to complete a human life — Pains to educate and train it — and it ends so very soon - God provides the child a mother, and he sends the man a wife; Lest the earth trip in the darkness, lo ! he sends the earth a moon : All seems full of thought and labour, wrought with endless love and care ; Blue and grand is the wide ocean, green and flower-sown are the meads, Full of star-lamps is the darkness, full of fragrance is the air, — ■ All the living world bears witness to the Lord God's mighty deeds ; — Yes, and mightier than the star-land hung with lamps that gem the night, Grander than the heaven of August when its utmost calm is won, Is the rapture God created when he made the darkness bright With the glory of love that needs not earthly moon or star or sun. 312 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Yet it ends in utter darkness ! All this noble work of God's Ends abruptly, ends in failure. Death is Conqueror, so it seems : Sweetest flesh must turn to ashes, mightiest brains must mix with clods, Love must wake — within its coffin — from its life of pleasant dreams. Grandly God mapped out his drama, but the viilain of the piece Was too forceful for the Playwright, Death has got the upper hand: When he stalks along the footlights, the light-hearted plaudits cease ; Death has introduced some " business " that the Author never planned. Tales there are of ghosts and phantoms. Some have risen, so they say : Dying, some have warned their dear ones. — Premonitions through the night On the wings of dread have floated. With the dawning of the day News has come that some loved spirit has for ever taken flight. Tales there are, — ay, tales in plenty. Think of all the millions though Who have died and sent no token — not a whisper, not a word ! Lo ! the morning brings a letter — Struggling hard the long night through Died our dearest : she was moaning, and we slept and never heard ! LIFE AND DEATH. 3*3 What innumerous hosts have left us. Yet how little stir they make ! Where contending armies battled, where they heaped the plain with dead, Nothing now is left to witness. Placid golden mornings break ; Where the red great wounds were bleeding, smile the quiet poppies red. All is sunshine, all is silence. Every year the corn-stalks wave Where the mighty warriors struggled on the field of Waterloo : Has a single soldier-spectre ever wandered from his grave ? Have the green leaves heard his footstep ? Is his footmark on the dew ? But God's answer came, soft-whispered through the silence of the night : " Have I moulded one fair planet ? Can I not mould thousands more ? Have I made the morning radiant with the great sun's golden light? Can I not devise new sunshine for the dead souls to adore ? Lo ! I keep my solemn secret. But I keep it for your sakes. To the gentle, to the simple, I can whisper through their dream : I can whisper sweetest comfort to the heart that well-nigh breaks ; When the stars v of heaven are clouded, I can make my starlight gleam. 3 H THE SONG OF MANHOOD. " Not for genius is my message. Genius on the earth may- rule, — Sway the hearts of many women, win the worship of the rose ; Genius is but as a pupil (not an apt one) in my school ; What he doubts, and what he questions, the unlettered peasant knows. Yes : the simple heart that trusteth never fails to hear my voice, Knows my secret often better than the genius it may be ; Catches even my faintest whisper, when I bid that heart rejoice, Past the trumpets of the storm-winds, through the thunders of the sea ! "Did the humble ever dread me? Did the lowly patient heart Ever tremble, as Death's angel made a silence in the room ? Soul by soul, the human millions rise up softly and depart : Summer after summer sends me every field's and forest's bloom. Mothers yield to me their children, and the husband yields his wife, And the night-time yields its starlight, all the splendour it has won : Am not I, the Lord of deathland, also Lord of birth and life? Am not I, the Lord of darkness, the creator of the sun ? " Have not I presided hourly at a million blossoms' birth? Sent the starshine at its moment to assist the budding flower ? LIFE AND DEATH. 3 l 5 With mine own right hand unfolded every fern-frond upon earth ? To the pale plant sent the sunshine, to the thirsty plant the shower ? Do I watch beside the portal of the countless births ye see, Bring the sea-gull to the sea-wave, bring the sea-weed to the shore, — Can I not be trusted, think you, to watch over zealously Death — which means the birth immortal, just one trifling effort more ? "Trust me, as the blossoms trust me— as the simple heart and sweet Of the gentle maiden trusted who died yesternight alone. All ye see is but a portion, all ye hear is incomplete ; Life has wronged you, life has wounded, but the future shall atone. To the living full of darkness is the deathland : to the dead Full of light beyond description, full of splendour passing speech — Have you never turned a corner and beheld the sudden red Fervent light of fiery sunset streaming over sea and beach ? " Full of glory is the deathland to the soul that enters there, Full of beauty and of marvel and of exquisite repose ; Full of sweetness for the woman worn with life-long grief and care, Full of moonlight for the lover, full of sunlight for the rose. Full of comfort for the needy, for the weary full of rest, Full of blessing for the righteous, for the evil full of doom, For the great a crown immortal, for the good a vision blest, For the lonely love unending, — that is life beyond the tomb." II. LOVED BEYOND WORDS. I. LOVE'S DAWN. I. RAPTURE,— AND DESPAIR. All over London now as, weary, I wander Thy face and eyes I meet. Here wast thou ; here and here ; and here ; and yonder ;- Thou hast not left one uninvaded street ! Here did I meet thee once ! Here words were spoken That thrilled my very heart. — Time paused and watched us. Yet Time gave no token How soon and for how long we were to part ! The Spring will come with crocus and with swallow : The buds will burst their tomb. May's girlish flowers will wake. The rose will follow, With Cleopatra's sweetness in her bloom. Thou wilt not come, — though love's own lute is calling, Though sweet the love-strain be ? Thou wilt not come, even when the leaves are falling And the wild winds and singers seek the sea ? 3 i6 RAPTURE,— AND DESPAIR. 317 Thou wilt not come, — for ever and for ever ? Nor make one London street Divine as if man's steps had trodden it never But only, just that once, thy maiden feet ? As if, when I saw thee, dawned rose-red morning O'er primal sea and land : As if Time's lilies waited for the warning Soft glad first touch of thy creative hand ! For all my past life seems but as a shadow : — The years till thy foot came Were winter. Spring with thee turned hill and meadow Into one golden sheet of blossom-flame. It is as if till this strange year of wonder Never one rosebud blew : As if for thee the very march of thunder Halted, and lightning's red lips silent grew. When thou didst come, the blue waves' silver laughter Rang echoing round thy road : Spring caught up her green gown and followed after, And never a stream but far more softly flowed. Now thou art gone, the wild woods' deep-leafed alleys Spread forth their gems in vain. The breeze that seeks thee, searching through the valleys, Will never laugh its old light laugh again ! The sea's strong heart that loves the rolling thunder And the sea-bird's white wings Will pine for thee. The lonely sea will wonder " Where is my land-bird with the throat that sings ? " 3 i8 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Oh, does God steal with wanton hand and cruel The gifts his own hand brought ? Does God bestow on man a priceless jewel, — Then ravish away the very boon he wrought ? God gives to Summer's bosom countless flowers ; Then sends the East wind's breath To make the labour of months the spoil of hours. God is the Giver of life, — the Bringer of death. The stars and suns but for a moment glitter, And then they pass away And the far heavens are heaped with golden litter And full of aimless spirts of fiery spray ! The nations seek God's throne, and bow before him. Does any of these abide ? New wide lands in the future will adore him, As other trustful lands adored, — and died. And so with love, and thee loved past all reason ; Madly, — and sweetlier so. God gives and takes, — and turns the green woods' season Into the waste white months of songless snow. II. LINES WRITTEN ON EASTER SUNDAY, 1883, If I went searching far through all the stellar spaces, — Yea, through the pathless void where God for ever chases His wanton comets wild and fair ; If I passed on from sun to sun, and saw the gilded Strange regions where new worlds are brought about and builded, — I should not find thee there ! Thou art gone past recall. — Christ is not gone. He rises Each Easter morn anew. His sudden form surprises The watchers at the Tomb. Where is thine Easter morn, O past all restoration Removed ? What chance for love ? What hope or renova- tion ? — What chance for wasted dead flower-bloom ? This is so strange to think ! — the utter hopeless distance. Why even the eye can pierce, and pierce without assistance, Through measureless blue leagues of air. But thou art gone beyond all stars and starlit places ! I may see through long lives star-multitudinous faces, Yet never one so fair ! I may live life on life ; yet never never find thee, Nor know to what unseen strange realm I have resigned thee. God hath the power to place Waste awful leagues of black immeasurable distance Between us struggling hard with hopeless frail resistance And the one wildly yearned-for face. 320 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. No distance as of years, no miles that man may number — Space as of ghostly leagues we traverse in dark slumber Between our spirits seems to lie : Space as the space between our planet and the glimmer Of yon faint yellow star, now bright, now waxing dimmer, — The smallest in the sky. No Easter morn for Man, till all hopes have arisen ! What is it if one man broke through the black-walled prison ? We need far more than this. The garden needs the rose that died last year, within it, — The lonely copse must have its brown-winged risen linnet, — And my whole soul, love, needs thy kiss. Then is Christ " risen indeed ; " and never, save in dreaming, Till the lost leaves of dead dear springs again are gleaming Re-risen in splendid vernal air. — Then will an Easter morn dawn radiant, universal, — When all men's sorrows flee in one wide-winged dispersal : When I see thy black hair. When the wild tale of all the sorrow of earth is ended. Then is Christ " risen indeed," — and when the heaven is blended With earth made whole and white : And when I see again, dear love, thy dark eyes gleaming, — More beautiful to me than all the star-eyes dreaming Of their lost loves the livelong night. III. SONNET. THE INEVITABLE END. On one side youth and beauty infinite And on the other weariness extreme Of life and life's long spirit-torturing dream And of the vain wild search for vain delight. On one side eyes the sun's own glance made bright But on the other eyes through which there gleam The eyes of sorrows numberless, — no beam Of sun being there by day, nor moon by night. When this is so, could any end but one Be reached, — could either flee the certain goal, This — that the weary night should love the sun ; That a new deathless day should be begun ; That I should love thee, spirit calm and white, With all the stormy dark strength of my soul ? IV. MY PRAYER. This is my prayer each day : not that the flowers should love me, Nor further skies of June gleam bountiful above me, Nor further seas gleam blue, — Not that the scent of may may fill once more the hedges And scent of gracious thyme the balmy river-ledges, — But that once more my eyes may look on you ! This is my prayer each day, each night ; that God will let me, O loved past poet's speech, before you quite forget me, Just see you, — once draw nigh. And then when we have met, and once again are parted, The same cry goes to God from me half broken-hearted, — " God ! let me see her again before I die." D.-S. 321 Y v. * SONNET. HOW CAN YOU UNDERSTAND? How can you ever, ever, understand ? How can I tell you what you are to me ? — More than the snow-white sea-bird to the seat More than the sweetest white rose to the land ! I see you, — gaze upon you, — touch your hand ; Yet what is that to love's infinity ! What is the little ocean-space we see To ocean-wastes by rainbow-arches spanned ? How can I tell you anything at all ? You with the great brown gentle bird-like eyes ! Why should you answer at a lover's call, — You whose true lovers are the stars and skies ? What can I do, O loved one, for your sake Save only just to let my whole heart break ? VI. SONNET. "HOW COULD I HELP IT?" How could I help it ? — Climbing out of hell, Can one refuse to love the flower that grows Close by the hell-brink ? Is not the first rose One sees in a green hedge adorable ? — So sweetness more than I can ever tell Crowns thee, and round about thy being flows. My love is measured by my former throes Of pain : the light by darkness visible. It is not much I ask. Pay love's old debt With this, Lord God. I only ask to see This woman's face : that it may shine on me From time to time : that this star may not set : — That I may look, for many a sweet day yet, Loving, on her, who have, fearless, looked on thee. VII. SONNET. THIS ONE THING. I have not feared hell's fires, nor feared the pang Of bitterest suffering, if so I might hear Her bright girl-laughter ringing silver-clear As on the day when first we met it rang. Wilt thou take from me now this one thing dear, And hush the bird that at my window sang So sweetly that her note outsoared the clang Of prison-labour torturing mine ear ? Oh not this one thing ? — Take not from the sea The morning's vast unutterable light ! Take not the first nor last star from the night ! Take not this tender star-love, God, from me ! Stay not the swallow in her Southern flight, Nor my wings seeking love's deep purity. VIII. SONNET. ONE JUNE-DAY. O Love that hast within thy kingly store Junes numberless, and canst bestow their bloorri Just where thou wiliest, raising from their tomb The flower- white ghosts of Junes that came before And June-sweet ghosts of flowers that died of yore, — Filling green aisles of gardens with perfume And spectral blossom-wings that through the gloom Sail, flinging marvel round them as they soar : — O Love that hast within thy kingly hand All dead June-days and perfect Junes to be, Wilt thou not spare one sweet June-day to me, And let my gentle love beside me stand While step \>y step the shifting hour-glass' sand Gives air and bloom and sunlight back to thee ? IX. SONNET. TIMELESS WOE. If thou shouldst ever sin, O flower of mine, And mar the whiteness that I worship so, Great tides of sorrow would throughout me flow ; Yea, I should marvel at that deed of thine As at some solemn desecrated shrine Where once the steps of pilgrims used to go. Thy fall would work me such exceeding woe That in one giant glimpse I should divine With an unearthly horror past all speech The giant agony that drew God down And made him sternly cast aside his crown The sin and suffering of the earth to reach. I should meet Christ's eyes on the cross, and know The central soul-throb of his timeless woe. x. SONNET. THE LOVE-SONG OF THE SEA. Thou hast so little share or part in me And that, God knows, is why I love thee so ! Just as the great white waves that shoreward go After their journey o'er the bitter sea Love past all speech the emerald-shining lea And the blue river-waves that towards them flow,— And love beyond all human words the glow Of pink cliff-thyme, and singing of the bee. Thou art the river bringing to the deep Thoughts of the flowers that by its banks are seen, Woven in white amid the entangled green, — Dreams of the meadows where the daisies sleep. But what gifts, loved one, can I give to thee ? Only the love-song of the restless sea ! XL SONNET. SONG'S INSUFFICIENCY. I cannot tell thee why I love thee so, Or how I love thee. Can the black night tell The star that lights its heart wherein is hell Why past all passion it adores the glow That shoots its golden sweet rays to and fro Across its murky depths unfathomable? Can the dark water in the hollow well, Star-holding, praise the star that stoops so low ? — The night is silent, and the dark deep disk Of water in the well is silent too. Nor is there much that even Song can do : All words are open to the endless risk That she who hears the words may fail to hear The actual true heart sighing at her ear ! XII. sonnet. THE GIFTLESS DAYS. The days whereon I bring no gifts to thee Seem wasted days ; like days wherethrough there blows No soft wind laden with the scent of rose, But only salt strange vapours from the sea. All gifts I give thee are sweet gifts to me : When I bring no gift, not mine own heart knows The stream of strong despair that through it flows, For it transcends all measuring potency. It is my grief that I can give no more. When God had given its crown of stars to night And to the sea its awful robe of white And golden raiment to the glittering shore, What then was left? This only : — to deplore That no new gifts could give God new delight. XIII. SONNET. THE FLOWER AND THE NIGHT. The flower for but one night of rapture born Said to the night : " New flowers and nights will be, But I shall never look again on thee ; Meet now my flower-gaze fully, without scorn. To-morrow night thou wilt not be forlorn, For flowers and stars to all eternity Within thy fragrant wide arms thou shalt see : — New loves will rise, as each from thee is torn. '* But this one hour I hold thee, sacred night." — As said the flower, I murmur, love, to thee. This once thy dark eyes and dark hair I see, And with unknown unfathomable delight Watch the slow fragrant soft hours wing their flight, — While each hour's pulse involves eternity. XIV. FOR THEE AND ME. The charm and beauty of this world of things And all the sunlight of the summer sea And sweetest notes of every bird that sings For thee ! — The dark night's sombre face and starless wings For me ! A future of delight and all men's praise And laughter ringing out like love's own glee And happy walks in radiant rose-hung ways For thee ! — A leaf or two of dark blood-spotted bays For me ! Bright flowers upon the river-banks, and all God's love made manifest in bird and bee ; Love ever close at hand whereon to call For thee ! — Sorrow that shrouds the wide world like a pall For me ! Life and the gifts of life, — its fairest flowers To gather, and its fairest sights to see ; Its tenderest avenues and deepest bowers For thee ! — A lonely watch beside thy gate for hours For me ! A glance or two that haunt me evermore, That tarry yet though all things else may flee ; The memory of thy sweet face to adore For me ! — My whole Soul's love till life and death are o'er For thee ! XV. O FACE! Lift me by thy strange beauty evermore And gift me nobly as with God's own grace That towards fair heights of heaven my soul may soar, O face ! There never yet on loveliest hill or shore, In old-world lands, or fair undreamed-of place, Shone beauty such as thine for man to adore, O face ! Love-gifts round Helen all men came to pour ; The strong world maddened for her white embrace : Beauty past speech she had ; yet thou hast more, O face ! I never dreamed till half my life was o'er That beauty such as thine God's hand could trace. Nor was such beauty moulded ever of yore, O face ! Lift me to lands where Beauty evermore Is one with Love, and Loye is one with grace. Let me with all my strength of soul adore, O face ! 328 XVI. SONNET. SAFE. Is the rose safe within its sheath of leaves ? The sea-bird safe upon the crest of foam ? — Is the fern safe within its forest-home ? Is the gold corn-ear safe amid the sheaves ? Are the blue swallows safe beneath the eaves ? Is the star safe within the darkling dome Of night ? — However far the wild winds roam, Is there an eye which follows and perceives ? — These things are safe ? Then thou art safe with me. Safe as the pale star clinging to the night : Safe as the sea-gull's breast of plumy white Upon the waters that uprise and flee : Safe as the lamb Christ folds within his bright Calm breast is safe for all eternity. XVII. SONNET. THE DEADLIEST PANG. Was there a thought in God's heart when he died Upon the cross, that all might be in vain ? That after all his immemorial pain The mocking world might fail him and deride ? That she might nestle by another's side, — That heedless feet might trample through love's fane, And other hearts of little worth might gain The poor frail doubting faint heart of his Bride ? — Was this, and nothing else, the death-pang true, The awful darkness darkening sea and land ? To give without reserve ; although he knew Whose blow would drive the last nail through his hand. — It took one little hour to pierce Love through : It takes the world all time to understand. II. LOVES GROWTH. i. SONNET. ETERNAL JUNES. Guard her for ever for my great love's sake, Lord God. — Be as a light about her head : Shield her through solemn hours of darkness dread, And when the golden summer mornings break. If one must suffer, let not her heart ache, But pierce my own strong suffering heart instead ! If sacrificial blood-drops must be shed Wilt thou not honour me, and my blood take ? — Thou couldst not give us that one sweet June-day ! Most hard it seems, and ever will seem hard. But give to her eternal Junes, I pray, Full of flower-happiness, divine, unmarred E'en by one petal falling from one spray : And let me share with thee the right to guard. II. SONNET. RESURRECTION-LIGHT. Is there a Resurrection for the flowers ? Have faded lilies seen their Christs arise Snow-petalled, golden-hearted, — with clear eyes That frighten Death from out the tangled bowers ? Have ferns and harebells their triumphant hours When they too know that Death is he who dies ? When they revisit the sunlighted skies And meet again the soft lips of the showers ? — Is there a Resurrection, love, for thee ? Wilt thou whose eyes are even more divine Than the sun's first light gladdening the sea-line Be as the resurrection-sun for me ? Will Christ speak through thee, and the eyes I meet First after death be even than his more sweet ? III., IV. SONNETS. LOVE AND LOVE. I raised my arms to heaven in agony And cried out wildly, " Frail are women fair ! Their love is as a breath of sunlit air Or white cloud floating o'er a summer sea ! What is her passion of soul compared to me, Me — for the storm- wreaths nestle in my hair, And I the inexorable anguish bear Of one whose love outstrips eternity. " Her love is measured by the sands of time, — But mine is as the mountains or the stars : It snaps all manacles, it laughs at bars, Nor findeth the high blue airs too sublime. Her love is dainty as a rose's breath, — Mine steals his thunder from the lips of death." ii. I weeping said, " What is her love to this ?" But, smiling, God said, " What is yours to mine ? I am the sun that lightens the sea-line, And my lips meet the fragrant morning's kiss. I die with love for all. Yet all that is United my one pale thorn-wreath to twine. Because my love is perfect and divine It never knows fruition's final bliss. "What is her love to yours ? Small, it may be. But yours to mine is as the rippling lake To the shore-margin where the vast waves break, Full of song-echoes from the open sea. Your song is as the singing of a day : — My song laughs golden-haired when Time turns grey." V. SONNET. " THIS CHANGELESS GRACE." If thou must ever come, then pass away, Like the sad ending of a dream too sweet For treading therein with cold wakeful feet — A dream that vanishes when morning grey Peers in the chilly loveless face of day And summons him from his forlorn retreat Long hours of pain and labour to repeat — If thou must thus the laws of time obey, Yet is it not unalterably good That once at least in life I have seen thy face, Once touched thy hand, and once beside thee stood ? Have I not won at least this changeless grace That in the heart of him who loved and sang Thou hast left love endless, — and an endless pang ? vi. SONNET. LIFE'S BEST DEED. Think gently of me, if the day should come When thou (ah God, the sorrow ! ) hast to go. Think gently of me when the blossoms blow : Think gently of me when the lilac-bloom Covers Spring's brow with many a purple plume : Think gently of me when the wintry snow Shrouds the wild wold where ever to and fro The grim and ceaseless large mist-spectres loom. Think gently of me, if the day should dawn When thou must (God, the sorrow ! ) pass from sight : Think how thy passing makes the whole world night : I shall be very tired, when thou art gone. Think gently,— ^even tenderly, — of me : Far my life's best deed was my love of thee. VII. WEARY. Yes : I am weary indeed. But thou, — thou art not. weary. What hath thy soul to do with grey thoughts dim and dreary ? Thou art the morning's rose ! Long after I am dead, the flowers will gather round thee : But still my glory is that mine the first hand crowned thee With love no heart else knows. This is my glory and gift ; that I of all men brought thee The deepest truest. love, and with sweet singing sought thee And gifts through long pain won. This is my crown j to know that though love's sword was keener Than grief's, I met its point with heart and glance serener Than flowers that meet the sun. VIII. SONNET. STAR-MEETINGS. I kept account of all the times we met, — Just as a prisoner watching through his bars Might keep account of the few friendly stars On which each night his longing eyes were set. And each star-meeting was an endless debt To God and Fate for infinite delight : — Those sweet star-meetings ! few and soft and bright Upon life's background carved in starless jet. But now it may be we may oftener meet. — The thought thrills through me, just as if there went Along that prisoner's soul a large content And sudden sense of something strangely sweet When, free at last, outside his prison-door He saw his five stars lost in millions more. IX. "IF SO THINE EYES WOULD NOT FORSAKE THE DREAM!" I dreamed of thee last night. — All night thine eyes before me Shone strangely clear and sweet, and strange delight flowed o'er me In rippling wave on wave. All night I dreamed of thee : and dreamed in tenderest . fashion Of the great boon of death that crowns a perfect passion And of large light that gleams beyond the grave. How gladly would I cease the feverish pain of living, If only thy sweet eyes might ever be forthgiving The same soul-maddening gleam : How gladly would I let the one night's dream continue Into the dream of death, if therein I could win you,— If so thine eyes would not forsake the dream ! x. SONNET. A DREAM. " Since thou hast loved with love so wild and sweet That life and time have faded quite away, And thou hast learned to count the hours of day By love's heart's inner and triumphant beat At the dear coming of thy lady's feet : Since, when she is not with thee, dark and grey Is all the world — thy service to repay And thy soul's strong forlorn desire to meet, I send a dream :" even so the Love-god said. Then I was 'ware that round about my bed Crowded dim forms of angels and of men, And the next world shone clear as in a glass. — They bowed b'efore my might of love and pain, And Death, bare-headed, moved to let me pass. XI. EACH NIGHT. Each night I think : " To-day has brought me one day nearer To seeing thee again," — and still the thought grows clearer The sadder that it grows. For if again in life mine eyes should find thee never, Each day brings nearer death ; and, after death, for ever With happier waves the heart's deep love-song flows. Yes : after death strange stars that mocked us in our life-time Sail within reach, and even the great sea's stormy strjfe-time Sinks to superb repose. And God whose hand can make the loveliest flower diviner, Artist unequalled yet, omnipotent designer, Creates for love an unattempted rose. 33* XII. LOVE'S SORROW. This love has changed my life. But would I rather have it ? If Fate upon my soul in red lines must engrave it Shall I still thankful be? The love that brings us pain, and yearning past expression, Is this in spite of all, this perilous possession, A gift to cling to through eternity ? I think so. — When love's world first opens out before us, When first its sweet winds sing and golden stars shine o'er us, Its flowers are so divine We never never dream of what shall follow after : We only hear the wind's caressing lovely laughter ; We see no white crests on the far sea-line. Then, when the dark days come, and all the flowers are faded, And the green thickets, dense with leafage once, invaded By the bleak keen wind's breath, We have the golden thought of summer days to cling to, And love's old image deep within the heart to sing to, Hurling song's utterance in the teeth of death. Yes. Love brings endless pain, — an infinite sword-anguish. Yet better far to love than through dull life to languish Devoid of love and pain. So, sweet, though love for thee has brought me pain exceeding Yet from my heart's true depths, though love therein lies bleeding, I cry, " Love's sorrow is immortal gain." D.-S. III. LOVES MATURITY. I., II. SPRING MESSAGES. I. AFTER LONG MONTHS. Straight from the dark of months thy sweet eyes flashed, and sought me ; The light of vanished suns and former stars they brought me, And light of their own flame : — And from them all the sense of Spring-tide crocus-hearted Along my weary soul, swift, on a sudden, darted ; And with thy voice the lark's new love-song came. Thou wast the spirit of Spring. — The sense of grassy meadows And merry leaves that dance and balmier twilight shadows Was born along with thee. All blossoms are not dead, — for thou art living, lady! So once again the sun will through the foliage shady Strike his long arrows, lighting flower and tree. *$8 AFTER LONG MONTHS. 339 Thou art alive. By this I know that Spring will follow : Now hyacinths will bloom, and hill and copse and hollow Will gleam with fiery gold. The silent heart of Spring that for thy mandate waited Will break to flower at last — Spring tortured and belated, Hiding his ferns and flowers in fold on fold. Thou hast the spirit of Spring and Summer's heart within thee : And who would love and hold, and worship thee, and win thee, Must meet the Spring's own eyes Fearless, and Summer's eyes, — and laugh for very pleasure When the bright fields spread out their limitless gold treasure Beneath the cloudless smile of stormless skies. I know that Winter now has passed away before thee. The very heart of May will worship and adore thee And kiss thine hands ere long. — The heart of all the world will throb with love and gladness, And silver streams will seek with silver-voiced sweet madness To catch the echo of thy pure heart's song. And once again I lift the lyre the cold had frozen, And laugh to think how soon of all flowers thou the chosen Wilt put the flowers to scorn. When thou dost call on Love he wakes and follows after : In thine I hear the ring of very June's own laughter : Thine eyes are lovelier than a summer morn. II. THY FACE. Among the weary crowd of weary common faces I linger, — and I search through flowerless dreary places Seeking amid the throng One vision worth a thought. Pale Death and Sorrow meet me : Death sues me for a wreath, and Sorrow doth entreat me To crown her wild-haired forehead with a song. Then I take up mine harp, and sing of Death and Sorrow, — Of how the sweetest things are saddest things to-morrow ; How pain fills every place ; How woe has set its hand upon our city's features j How agony is grooved on brows of human creatures ; — Then on a sudden, lady, lo ! thy face. III. PEACE. Will God at last give me this one sweet thing ? — That thy young lips should touch the lips that sing That thy young heart should wake a song in me More glad than morning's to the dark cold sea? If thou canst love me, let thy love abide Unchanged for ever. Be my light and guide ! But give no love that thou wilt take away. Turn not the sea's whole blue to w r aste wild grey ! O love of loves, my very singing dies Before the strange sweet light that fills thine eyes. When sweet love triumphs, even song must cease : Fame is song's guerdon, but love's gift is peace. IV., v., VI. SONNETS. I. LOVE, AND DREAMS OF LOVE. Through years on years a man dreamed dreams on dreams Of love. — The flowers of every spring were fair, And love-thoughts glistened through the summer air And mingled with the lilies on the streams And wove gold circlets from the starry beams : — Slow step by step Love's marble palace-stair The man climbed, and it rang with laughter rare, And sweet eyes met his own with answering gleams. At last he reached the central palace-room, And lo ! a woman's form he there descried. She rose to meet him. In that fragrant gloom, Dream following dream, a whole life's love-thoughts died. Love's voice to every dream of love spake doom, And the soul found its all-sufficient Bride. II. SWEETER. love, love, never turn away thy face ! If I am faithful — if the stormy sea Gives its wild strength and wilder song to thee, Hold thou, sweet river, full of light and grace, River whose tides green thymy shores embrace, Hold thou for ever firm of heart to me ! If my fierce waves defy eternity, Within those waves thy soft blue waters place. 1 tire of images — I tire of song — Song leads to love, and love bestows at last Not fame but rest. Sweeter it is to me The soft love-light within thine eyes to see Than all old triumphs won by labour strong, All laurel-crowns or dream-crowns of my past. III. LOVE'S FINAL POWERS. There are strong powers of love that early years Know little of. — All added force of being Gives love new deeper tenderer eyes for seeing, And love wins sweetness from a lifetime's tears. All pangs and hopes and joys and trembling fears Add strength to love. As life's black darkness grows, Love's firmer step through that murk darkness goes, And, dauntless, over the grave's brink Love peers. There are strange powers of love that youthful days Know little of. There is a love beside Whose strength the passion of the ocean wide Is like the ripples whispering in blue bays : A love beside whose strength death's fingers wild Are weak as pink soft fingers of a child. VII. THE ONLY DEATH. When thou didst speak of death, it seemed to me The only death would be the loss of thee. It is not death that hurts, nor wounds nor pain ; This would be death — to see no more again Thine eyes. There is no other death for me Now left, O loved one, than the loss of thee. II. For I have so completely lost in thine My life, that now it seemeth no more mine But just a life that floweth, love, through thee, As the warm land-stream mingleth with the sea. Thou art my life ; and life means now to me The life, the beauty, and the love of thee. VIII. A VISION. I saw a company whom God had crowned. — They held the post of danger through the day, And died at night upon the blood-stained ground, And over them the moon soared gaunt and grey And the wild leaves fled past with wailing sound : But now, in heaven, their pain had passed away, And they were crowned and victors. Yet their eyes Were full of tears. They knew not why there rang Along the serried armies of the skies So vast a shout. Their joy was like a pang, So unexpected was it. Wild surprise Smote through their dumb hearts as the angels sang " Glory to these, who held the one chief post And held it to the end, — and died at night And won the battle for the whole great host, Yet saw no victory when their souls took flight Across the red-stained meadows." Too engrossed With their own task to watch the waning light They tarried till the end,— till each one fell Prone at his post. Now unto each God says : " Soul, thou didst win the fight. Thou hast done well.' And, as each hears with wonder in his gaze, Each answers, suffering having cast out pride : " Lord, I did nought. I only loved and died." 3*S IX. " YET MORE SWEET." Let me just watch thine eyes. If nothing more, Yet let this one thing be ! Is it forbidden to the throbbing shore To watch the clear-eyed sea ? May not the green woods, dark and full of woe, Watch, once, their bright birds' flight ? — Oh let me love thee, watch thee, guard thee, so : As guards its stars the night. Be thou one star within my dreary night ; One sweet wave on my sea ; One woman with superb eyes full of light, Light ever turned on me ! If all the world of women came and fell One by one at my feet And offered me strange gifts too sweet to tell, It would be yet more sweet, O love, to me to watch thy clear brown eyes (Though no gift else were' ours !) Than to possess all hearts beneath the skies, And win those hearts' best flowers ! 3* X. ART AND LOVE. I used to love fair Art, whose clear voice rings Along the mountain-side. I met her by blue streams and forest-springs : I loved her like a bride. The sunsets held her, and the morning's gold Circled her peerless hair : Deep fern and heather draped the summer wold, And buoyant Art was there. And in sweet music Art's sweet spirit spoke ; And over the wild sea Her face like sudden lustrous morning broke Triumphant upon me. So all my youth was passed. I worshipped her, Fair Art, with love supreme : I brought her all my hopes, and I laid bare Before her every dream. Art was my goddess. For her sake I sighed : Her realms my spirit sought. I rested at her feet, and would have died To please the queen in aught. But now Art's form doth change into the form That I love better still. Art's marble hand is cold, but thine is warm : Art's stern touch cannot thrill. 348 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. Thy young touch thrills me, and thy deep brown eyes Make me forget to sing Aught else. So sacred depths of summer skies Drown out the dreams of spring. I have loved Art with love beyond all speech, Have laboured in her fane, — Have sought her secret inmost heart to reach, Her deepest soul to gain. But now I bring my deepest love of Art And give that love to thee. Lo ! she and I are strangers and must part : New sails are on the sea ! There are fair crowns of labour and of birth ; Let this my one crown be — I loved Art best of all things upon earth, Yet loved Art less than thee ! XI. GOD'S YEARNING. • J Because I, being God, am deathless King Of all men born, Let the world's measureless wild sorrow bring Its every thorn. " Because I am so strong that even the wings Of lightning fail Before me, let me help the humblest things, — A rosebud pale. " Because I have the godlike power to shun Death's sombre night, Let me the sunbright pass beyond the sun, Me, lord of light. " Because, O world, thou hatest me indeed And hate is loss, Let me for thy sweet erring strange sake bleed Upon the cross. " O world, thine eyes are full of wandering light I love to see The glory in thine eyes that shall wax bright And full of me, " When in the end the final work is done And, one far morn, Thy fields and gardens smile beneath the sun Without one thorn. 350 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. " That thou, world, mayest be saved, let me be lost That thou mayest rise, Let me the sinless pay sin's fullest cost Before thine eyes. 11 world, sweet world, the very heart of God Yearns over thee ! Wild anguish storms God's cloudless vast abode, Eternity. " Wild love and anguish storm the heart divine : O world forlorn, I kiss the hands that round my forehead twine Thorn upon thorn." XII. A DREAM. I dreamed I followed thee across the stars ; Thy sweet face beckoned me : Through strange cloud-masses, bursting vaporous bars,- My spirit followed thee. The vast and desolate and treeless track Seemed just as nothing then ; Nought, if my spirit could but win thee back And hold thee once again. Stars faded into gloom, and new stars rose Upon my weary sight : Yet still I followed, — followed to the close Of the wild realms of night. And then I found thee, — in a land divine, Unknown, unseen, untrod ; And clasped at length thy soul, and sealed it mine Before the throne of God. XIII. "LOVED BEYOND WORDS." Eternal boyhood deepens day by day As the heart older grows : The man who loves a rose Is ever immortal, though the hair wax grey. The man who loveth thee, thou most sweet incarnate spirit of Spring, Becomes a strong and age-defying king Of heaven and earth and sea. 1 never shall find words in which to say (That is my one despair !) How past all sweet praise fair Thou art to me, — and lovelier day by day. I never shall find song Divine enough, my beautiful, for thee. When we stand close beside a white may-tree Words do the sweet bloom wrong. Song, once I thought, could never fail to show The fervent heart within : Yet, God knows, it seems sin Almost to sing of thee — I love thee so ! My beautiful, my queen, My sweetest of all sweet things upon earth, — My sovereign woman with the silver mirth, The deep glance and serene, — The harp falls from my hand ! God only knows (The God who gave to me To love and look on thee) How my whole soul upon thee doth repose. XIV. JACOB AND RACHEL. As Jacob served seven years For dark-eyed Rachel, and the long years seemed Nought for the love he bare her as they gleamed Past, full of spring's wild tears And summer's passion, — so it seems to me That I have, through strange suffering, served for thee Not seven years as decreed But seventy times seven years, and more indeed ! d.-s. 353 A A XV. LOVE AND ART. Help thou me with my Art ! That thus the beauty which I worship so May flush the world's sad cheeks with summer glow And comfort many a heart. Clear is our duty high. Thou hast the gift of beauty ; I can sing ; We have to bless the wintry world with spring And sunlight, thou and I. Help me the world to teach. Teach me all lessons gracious with thine eyes : Be ever, love, the most divine surprise That e'er moved songful speech. Teach me love's secrets deep. That I may move the world, inspire thou me And fill my spirit with the sense of thee Till sweet thoughts make me weep. Love must not make us blind. We have to help the world and make it glad : Thou by thy beauty, I by song must add New riches to mankind. Just gaze at me, and I Will sing so that the world must gaze at thee And catch the passionate refrain from me, Prolong it when I die. XVI. " ACROSS THE STARS." Though thou art far away Yet, sweetheart, I can pray For thee. — No leagues of thunder-traversed air Can bar the passage of the wings of prayer. Through heights of stormy cloud Love sweeps, and cries aloud : Lo ! at his voice the distance fades, and dim Mist-armies part before the breath of him. I have no strength nor power, My tender one white flower, To hold thee safe. The Power that sways the sea Will for a season take the charge from me. The Power that holds the sky Though my arms be not nigh Will see that through thine eyes no sad thoughts gleam But only thine own soul's divine sunbeam. God bless and keep thee, dear ! Love whisper in thine ear ! — Hope mocks at distance, snaps all chains and bans, And pure love reaches thee across the stars ! XVII. A QUEEN'S BOUNTIES. Because no woman has the power To give me infinite and cureless pain As thou canst, let me through thy sweetness gain New gladness, hour by hour ! Bear graciously thy queenly head. Because no living woman has the right To pain me as thou may'st, give me delight Unspeakable instead. Thou, royal, hast a right supreme : — Use it with royal perfect tenderness ; To help and comfort, and to raise and bless ; Be just God's own sunbeam. Because a single look of thine Can pain or gladden me beyond all speech, Give me ten thousand looks, — and see that each Be like theiirst : divine. XVIII. THE SUPREME LOVE. Affections, passions, many there may be In the soul's life. But one Great love brings absolute fierce sovereignty : Stars tremble at the sun. The soul lives through long lives, and many flowers It gathers by the way. But through all life's interminable hours It loves but once, I say. The great love gathers in its wide embrace Affections, passions all. Where there were many, now shines but one face : The old love-temples fall. This is the wonder of surpassing love ; Its marvel and its doom. A sudden wind sweeps grimly from above And leaves one flower in bloom : One, only one. Man rises to his height Of being when he knows That love for one alone can flood life's night With the great stars' repose. I have not loved, nor shall I love again, While stars still kiss the sea, With gleam of joy, or chance of awful pain, Sweetheart, as I love thee. XIX. A PRAYER FOR THE FUTURE. That thou wilt faithful be, and full of love and sweetness That thou wilt let fair Love to exquisite completeness Round off our marriage-song, I pray. I pray that through the years that stretch before us God's sun may ever shine with tenderer bounty o'er us ; I pray that my love's strength may make thee strong. I pray that every day, as day past day goes gliding, I may be at thy side with gentlest love and guiding, With tenderest voice and heart, — Bestowing upon thee the love that I have lavished On stars and flowers and waves, bright-hearted things soon ravished Away by time's hand as the years depart. I pray that thou may est know — that God himself may teach thee — How vast a fight I fought to win thee, love, and reach thee ; How awful was the strain. I pray that thou mayest know that if my soul hath won thee [The power that cast its spell around thine heart and on thee Was just the power of love and desperate pain : — A PRAYER FOR THE FUTURE. 359 The power that moves the stars, — that reaches God and binds him; Yea, in the farthest bovver of mistiest heaven it finds him And brings him to our side : The power that shone through Christ when on the blood- stained gibbet He hung for hours, that love might once for all exhibit Its deathless kinghood through the man who died And oh that I may be for ever and for ever Thy patient lover true— lose heart and sweet hope never — For this, O love, I pray : That I may win thine heart so utterly and sweetly That thou mayest never need, content in me completely, To turn, e'en for one hour, thine eyes away. That I may faithful be — to death if it be needed : That ever by thy heart my love-voice may be heeded I pray, — that I may be Each morning more in love, and every morning truer, Even as the sky to God is every morning bluer And bluer all the strange depths of the sea. XX. THY WOMANHOOD. And dost thou think that I am blind to this — That half thine heart I cannot see ? Tfeat thou shouldst just a little love is bliss : Yet much is hidden, woe is me ! Thy glorious woman-heart all unrevealed Waits, — waits in silence soft and deep. Thy soul as yet is like a form concealed And wrapped in robes of magic sleep. Thy perfect soul is what I long to win : Thy perfect woman-heart indeed. Ope thy soul's gates that Love may enter in ; To song the entrance-right concede. Give me thy future. Lovely as thou art, Yet lovelier thou wilt one day be. I dream of this, as Spring's enamoured heart Dreams of the summer stars and sea. As Spring's heart dreams of unarisen flowers And of soft summer-joys unseen And of love-laughter ringing through deep bowers As yet but touched by tenderest green, So I dream softly, but with high delight — Delight that fills with stars my gloom — Of what thou wilt be, — even yet more bright One day, and full of softer bloom. XXI. LOVE'S SILENCE. There is a love so deep it travels far Beyond the reach of words. E'en love-songs jar When the great depths are stirred. The blue vast heaven responds to God who made Its depths profound of awful light and shade Sometimes without one word. When heaven is full of love, no thunders leap Along the heights of the abysmal steep : Nay ! all is silent then. There is a love so full of silent peace That even solemn stately love-chants cease Or are not heard of men. O love, be with me in my silent hours And gather sweeter than the old song-flowers With sympathy that knows That, as a soul may be too glad to pray, So even thus to love there comes a day When the gold song-gates close. When love is calm, and both our hearts at rest, When love hath ceased its weary agelong quest, We shall not need song's aid. — When souls are one with God's high purpose, prayer Ceases. The strong stars sweep through silent air Voiceless, and unafraid. 362 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. God looks not for petitions from the rose, Nor from the tameless ocean-wave. He knows Their silence is his praise. The loudest prayers in hell, not heaven, are heard : Often the mightiest love can find no word, The sweetest love no lays. In silence countless human hearts adore. Not in the lightning's flash, the thunder's roar, Is God named King of kings. His glory rests upon the mountain-height : His strength is in the great sun's silent light, The eagle's silent wings. In silence, with no pause nor resting-place, Our prayerless planet whirls through endless space ; Of God's will it is part. The souls who pray on to the very end Are those who fail in perfect love to blend With the Eternal's heart. The souls who sob and pray are incomplete. The holy calm of perfect love is sweet : Its silence is sublime. When lovers rest beside the river's flow They hear the bee's wings as they come and go Among the tufts of thyme. They hear the river's courtship of the reeds : They hear the proud lark chanting of his deeds Of valour to the sky : They hear the redbreast singing in the hedge : They hear the west wind woo the slender sedge : They hear the grass-blade sigh. LOVE'S SILENCE. 363 Speech is not needed when the souls are one, Nor battle-cry, when all the strife is done (Yet ah ! the strife was long). O love, come closer than song's tenderest word, Closer than music ! When no songs are heard, Be still the soul of song. XXII. OUT OF SIGHT OF LAND. From shore to shore Far as the loneliest searching eye can ache Billows that climb and burst, billows that roar j Billows without one break. If ever we Reach a new land of peace, of peace divine, The first green hills will rise beyond the sea, Beyond the waste of brine. Far out we sail : Far out of eyeshot of the former land. Round us the wandering white-winged sea-birds wail, A lonely weird strange band. They know not, these, The calm and beauty of the summer shore ; The light and laughter of the leafy trees ; The fragrance of the pine-wood floor. No dales are theirs Thyme-scented, gentle, fult of chant of bees : Only the wild hoarse singing of the airs, The desolate trumpet of the seas. Yet triumph high They feel, those white-winged birds far out at sea. The green wave's curve is tenderer to the eye Sometimes than gleam of grass or tree. 364 OUT OF SIGHT OF LAND. 365 And we can share Those sea-birds' triumph and their wild delight, Feeling around their plumes the lonely air And the sweet lonely night. When trees and flowers Shine once more on us, they will be quite new, And other than the old forsaken bowers Will edge the undreamed-of blue. Our only hope (What hope for love but this?) is just to steer, While grim sea-breezes rock the quivering rope, Past reach of eye or ear. Then when the hills Rise, faintly glittering on another shore That unimagined other sunshine fills, — On whose white cliffs new billows roar,— With tearful eyes We shall mark forest-deeps loom forth again And with a sudden thrilling of surprise See summer flowers, and without pain. But out of sight Of trees and flowers and land to-day are we : Above us the great star-hung arch of night ; Round us the grey-green wastes of sea. XXIII. MUTUAL LOVE. The strength of man first storms the heart : But in the end the woman gives as well. Man's love first plays its urgent part ; Man's passion changes earth to heaven or hell. First man pursues. With strength he seeks For months he deems that no response is there. Then, on a sudden, rose-red cheeks ! — He laughs, and kisses lips and throat and hair. This is love's reciprocity divine. Man loves,— and thinks the woman cold : But her pure heart is learning line by line Love-lore it may not yet unfold. Wait. Let the love-god slowly win the heart. One day the soft eyes full of tears Will speak a message pas^the reach of Art; Yet he may understand who hears. 966 XXIV. LOVE'S RECOMPENSE. What would I win ? Why this — that she should traverse slowly Mead after mead of love, then pass from meadows lowly To wind-swept hills divine. I'd teach the lore of love to her pure heart so meetly That it should answer ever, and past expression sweetly : I'd teach the art of great love, line by line ! What recompense have I for endless patient session Thus at the gate of love, — for endless strong repression That makes the man's heart groan ? This — that the sweetest heart God ever chose to fashion Should in the end with deep unalterable passion Love me eternally, and me alone. Pt XXV. "THE PAIN OF GOD." Of old God rested 'mid the heavenly flowers Far from all sounds and sights of man's despair : The blue sky filled with light the deathless bowers And perfect peace was there. All pure delights were present to his hand : The stars at night were ministers sublime : Joy flooded like a stream the painless land That took no heed of time. Far-off man toiled amid the nether gloom, And woman wept, and death ruled bitterly. Ruin and dread destruction were man's doom j To love, and then to die. # * But Love arose and said, " While one man sighs, Shall I contented dwell beyond the gloom ? While sorrow walks the earth with burning eyes, Or shudders at hope's tomb ? " Strong Love stooped downward to the lowest hell, And made the deepest agony divine. Love said, " With even the saddest it is well Now, for their pain is mine." And so it came to pass that man arose And blossoms bloomed upon the paths he trod : Yet all his joy (though man forgets) he owes To the deep pain of God. XXVI. MAN'S OVERTHROW. Straight through the strongest heart God's arrow goes At God's unerring will. The strongest spirit knows Deepliest how God can make alive or kill. Man stands erect and challenges the Lord With fiery soul to fight. But lo ! God's sudden sword Pierces his spirit in the midmost night. In the deep dreary moonless midnight gloom Beside the couch One stands : Not empty is the room : The darkness parts at touch of unseen hands : And God says, " Thou wast strong and full of fire And valiant as the sea ; I know thine heart's desire ; If I reject thy longing, what of thee?" Then, face to face with the eternal Thought, With not one star to aid, Man feels himself as nought : The fieriest spirit is the most afraid. d.-s. 369 b B 37o THE SONG OF MANHOOD. The strongest spirit is exposed the most To the stern swordlike Thought, And soonest of the host Of rebels to supreme repentance brought. For on his strength God's strength with fiery shock Impinges, and he cries " I am smitten as by a rock Hurled from the watchful hollows of the skies ! " The strength of God seeks out the strongest soul To combat, — and it breaks The strongest, and makes whole Soonest the heart whose very roots it shakes. XXVII. A CHANGE OF THOUGHT. I thought of old that England needed not The hand of Christ to aid : That tower and ferny grot And rose-hung sunny spot Or English quiet soft-leafed woodland glade Needed no help from him, the great dead Jew. — I said it, as I sang : I sang of waves of blue And English sunsets' hue And how the wild winds round our white cliffs ransr. I thought our English potency supreme. "No Christ," I said, "we need : His gospel is a dream, An old-world dying gleam ; Each soul can suffer, and each heart can bleed. "Why seek in Eastern skies a nobler light Than falls on Windermere Or Ulleswater by night, Or ovlr long coast-line bright When through the heaven our harvest-moon doth steer ? 372 THE SONG OF MANHOOD. " Why seek in Eastern lands for singers higher Than Wordsworth or than Keats ? Had David Shelley's lyre Or Byron's strength and fire ? With its own music-pulse the land's heart beats/' But now I change the spirit of my song. The Helper whom we need, Patient, eternal, strong, The slayer of all wrong, Is Christ I doubt not, the Lord Christ indeed. Of lands we need him most. And as for me, Lord Christ, the man who said " We have no need of thee," Of all men verily I need thee most ! — I most require thine aid ! ENVOI. "NEVER FAREWELL TO THEE!" Never farewell. Though life change round about us, Never farewell to thee ! The summers pass. The new spring days without us Win the same ecstasy. Life yields to death, and death brings new life bearing New gifts that time may take. Leaf saith to leaf farewell. With sighs despairing Flower-hearts and men's hearts break. Death seems to rule, and pain with treading deadly Tramps through the ill-fated throng. The world seems just one sorrowful vast medley Of wrath and grief and wrong. " Farewell ! " " farewell ! " saith one heart to another ; The sad cry fills the air. " Farewell ! " saith love to love, saith son to mother : This world's gift is despair. Yet shudder not. Despair shall not dismay us ; Love's strength shall more abound. If Love be guide, the wild years shall obey us, Flower-wreathed or thunder-crowned. Let farewell ring throughout the world — I care not, If thou art true to me. I meet the gaze of death, yet I despair not : Never farewell to thee ! 373 BOOK III. THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. THE ETERNAL LIFE. This is the eternal life. All spheres are one : The sphere of our own vast monarchal sun And all the suns of space ; The sphere of this world's harebells, and the sphere Of yonder gold-brown runnel tinkling clear Through pebbly shoals and bays. The eternal life impinges upon this. The red-lipped maid and lover, when they kiss, Join lips in heaven, not here : The murderer, poising high his bloody brand, Stabs deep his victim in another land Than this. Hell's gates are near. All things that here seem local and apart Unite their powers in one surpassing Art Which circles strong and weak When life climbs upward to a higher range. The sculptor's work becomes a living strange New form. The dead eyes speak. The poet hears the music of his strain As outward chords of music ; and, again, The great composer hears The passionate torrent of unspoken speech Which, latent in his notes, he could not reach Nor utter to our ears. 377 378 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. The painter sees the hills and dales he sought Not now mere subjects of pictorial thought, Mere panoramic things ; He marks the actual height of azure air Which on his canvas was exceeding fair, — Each actual oak-branch swings. The silver rivulets he painted leap Now down an actual craggy pine-clothed steep ; The blue waves that he limned Dance underneath true sunlight, and the sky, Real, hears real larches and real aspens sigh ; The stars flash out undimmed. He painted Cleopatra ? Lo ! she stands — With laughing eyes and with beseeching hands She lures him to her side. Among the women of his artist's dream He now may choose that one whose glances gleam Most tenderly, for bride. Sphere touches sphere. They mingle and collide. Hell's arches gloom and threaten by the side Of heaven's doors all aglow. The man who sits beside us, it may be, Is fire-tossed on the intolerable sea Of hell, could we but know. A darkness not of night, unlit by stars, Void of the moon — a gloom which no sound jars (Harsh sounds were welcome there !) Wraps all the lonely weary wastes of earth For some, doomed spirits from their very birth, The bond-slaves of despair. THE ETERNAL LIFE. 379 For others the whole earth is glad and sweet. With the spring's buoyant pulse their pulses beat ; Their endless life is won : This world to them is heaven, for they create In this dark world of wretchedness and hate Light fairer than the sun. And so with God. Behind the lying sphere Of the unjust grim god who rules us here Another Godhead dwells : A God whose eyes can pierce beyond the feasts Of Churches, — past the idols of the priests, Past all their heavens and hells. To him the poets, one by one, appeal. When shines the sunlight of his face, they feel That hell's flame dies away : That darkling lands whereover chaos reigned, Where captives in murk dungeons pined and plained, Are crimsoned with the day. To him, past God and God, the poets reach. Him they believe in ; him their hearts beseech ; His eyes and his alone They seek. Their spirits search behind the stars, Making away with every mist that bars The sky-way to his throne. All souls who come between they hurl aside, Whether they be by centuries deified Or for one instant strong. The same swift inspiration through them flows Whence Jewish prophets' fiery speech arose And David's eager song. 380 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Behind the souls that hate, the Gods that slay, Ephemeral dying Gods of yesterday Whose thrones one moment gleam, The changeless just Eternal One abides : And past him all the ages' movement glides Like an unending dream. THE ACTIVE DEAD. The dead work for our good with love beyond The love they here attained : Their spirits bid our spirits not despond ; They bid us climb the hill-tops they have gained. They, could they speak to us, would evermore Forbid our souls to weep : They would command our hearts and thoughts to soar ; They would awaken us from hopeless sleep. They rest. — Yes, they have passed away from strife, Away from painful care : But yet they work for us, as through their life They worked. They follow us with love more rare. They, who have ever helped, know better now What high gifts to bestow : They breathe repose upon the weary brow j At night their solemn whispers come and go. And they are with us in the summer days ; They speak in our still hours : Though wondrous scenes are bursting on their ga2e They never can forget earth's simple flowers. Our hyacinths still bloom within their hearts ; Our snowdrops still are white : And still our various-blossomed June imparts Joy to their day and fragrance to their night. They rest. But this their rest — to love us more, To guard us till we meet : The hearts whose loss our faithless souls deplore Were never quite so close, nor half so sweet. THE SOUL OF CHANGE. All passes. — Gleams the corn-field golden-brown To-morrow the bright ears are trampled down By blood-stained hoofs and wheels. The seasons pass ; the long months flit away. Fair June's form vanishes. November grey Is close upon her heels. Our joys and sorrows vanish. — We ascend The gaunt hill-side. We think our labours end When the first peak is won. Peak behind peak the distant prospect glows — Crag beyond crag. The rising stars disclose How little yet is done. Beauty of form and face fades swift away. The black hair soon is streaked with silver-grey : The dimpled cheeks grow thin : The darkening hollows underneath the eyes Show how pale beauty from life's temple flies When death comes shivering in. The very sea itself shall change and pass. There shall be golden flowers and emerald grass Where now the white waves rage. Continuous movement surges through the whole Of things, — the pulse as of a restless Soul That grows from age to age. THE SOUL OF CHANGE. 383 This swift Soul ever changes, and transforms Its robes of matter. Through the stars it storms, Destroys and builds anew : From hill to hill and peak to peak it springs : Along the waterfalls its wild voice rings : It glitters in the dew. It changes cities. Where were once tall streets Now through dark rushes the brown moor-hen fleets ; The bittern strikes the air With its strange hollow cry. Nothing can rest : All things seem bent on a fatigueless quest ; God's giant growth they share. Love grows and changes. Every day we rise And see new beauty in the loved one's eyes, New star-depths therein pent. All love on earth is like a fallow field ; In heaven love's fruits shall mellow, and shall yield A measureless content. A kinglier race than ours may rule the sea : Our race to this may but precursor be : When time devours our graves Strong hands may drive new keels along the deep And break with iron prows the stormless sleep Of summer on the waves. Yet in the depth this changing Soul abides Changeless. Its changes are the surface-tides On an unfathomed sea. The purple depth is changeless. Far below It marks not iftterchange of sun and snow, It fluctuates not, as we. 384 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. From this strange God-depth all things seen arise. The green waves glowing underneath blue skies Are but the surface-flowers : There is a silent depth, where no waves gleam ; Where God for ever follows out his dream, And shapes all dreams of ours. In this vast God-depth we and ours have birth. Thence spring the sights and lights we see on earth The great gold-cinctured sun ; The stars that fleck the solemn deeps of air ; The countless flowers that make earth's garden fair,- That blossom, then are mown. All beauty that can charm and fascinate, That opens timeless dreamland's sacred gate, In this God-depth is born : The noble colours of the sunset-lakes ; A girl's pure eyes, from which the sunrise takes Light sweeter than of morn. From this unchanging depth so fair and strange We mortal spirits, the prey of time and change, With travail do arise : To this unchanging dreamful depth we go When death's wild storm-hued waters' overflow Darkens our hills and skies. This is the only thing that changes not : That reaches forth to near shores, shores remote ; That in its vast embrace Foldeth alike the sinner and his crime, The blood-red agonies of mortal time, The warrior-winds of space. THE SOUL OF CHANGE. 385 The dead, the living, the divine, the strong, The weak, the base, the noble, — passion's song, Love's ecstasy supreme, — Sorrow's deep moan that chills the leafless air, — The voiceless pang of motionless despair, — Pure love's first sinless dream, — The laughter in the eyes of maidenhood, — The frozen horror of the speechless wood That watched a murder done, — The clammy gladness of the wave's snake-lips That licked the yielding planks of death-doomed ships, — Light, and the morning sun : From changeless God these changing phases flow ; From him they come, and back again they go Unerringly to him. He sways the whole, and brings from evil good, Slow-labouring in eternal solitude, In eyeless depths and dim. d.-s, s . c c THE CROWN OF DEATH. Strange is it how the hand of Death bestows Upon the humblest head A crown more sweet than garlands woven of rose, How kingly are the dead ! To-day this girl laughs out from coral lips : Within, the smooth teeth shine. She climbs the hills, or watches the white ships Upon the horizon-line. How full of lovely life she is to-day ! How her clear laughter rings ! To-morrow she is dead and passed away : No more the young voice sings. And then how deep the awe that holds us bound ! The merry girl we knew Has passed beyond earth's silvery rillets' sound, Beyond sunshine and dew. She knows to-day what we not yet may know, Sees what we cannot see, Hears songs we cannot hear. She puts on now Her immortality. The simplest child, when crowned by Death's great hand, Becomes a queen or king ; A citizen of the untraversed land ; A dream-girt ghost-like thing. THE CROWN OF DEATH 3^7 The golden hair that once we knew so well, Bright-shining in our sun, Shines now in sunlight strange that never fell On heights man's foot has won. The eyes we loved, — that looked along with us On green-robed hedge and plain, Will never more regard the prospect thus, Will gaze not thus again. They gaze at flowers and hills we cannot see ; At stars we cannot guess : But yesterday they smiled at you or me ; The red lips laughed their " Yes ! " To-day they will not answer. No, the child Has outgrown our demesne. We are the children. She was falsely styled A child, — she is a queen. THE REAL AND THE IDEAL. Some live through many lives. Some pass at once Beyond the region of our stars and suns Into a higher air. Back some return, and ever back again — Renew their pleasures, and renew their pain ; Their foreheads once again are grooved with care. With lust some souls for countless ages burn : Some after earth's high prizes pant and yearn And toil for years untold. Some seek for raptures won at point of sword And for wild battle's turbulent reward For ages. Some for centuries worship gold. The beauty of form that womanhood reveals, A robe which half displays and half conceals The spirit's deeper charm — The glory of this may keep a soul spell-bound For centuries that lapse past without a sound. His heaven is in sweetcurve of breast or arm. The joy of holding manhood's heart enchained— For this joy many a woman has remained On earth for centuries long. A robin here and there repeats one note Till, wildly in love with his own throbbing throat, He greets eternal mornings with his song. THE REAL AND THE IDEAL. 389 There are, I doubt not, souls on earth to-day Who watched the waves in many a Grecian bay Break, with their ripples blue. Some hearts have loved a woman's form so well That only to possess her soul were hell : — These tarry on earth for a myriad ages too. Helen is here mayhap, and Paris' face Troubled to madness by her changeless grace. Napoleon haunts the field Of ominous Waterloo. He is not dead : He still confronts the line of moveless red, And cannot die because he will not yield. Hosts of uneasy spirits cannot pass. All souls who fail in the earth-sphere to amass Sufficient spirit-power, Too weak to enter on the life beyond, Still travail here, and sorrow, and despond : For ever in the bud, they cannot flower. Lovers have found their ladies' lips so sweet That they have prayed for nothing save to meet Those lips eternally. God grants their prayer ; for back to life they come And haunt unalterably their earthly home And watch the same sun light the same grey sea. But those who pass and never need to turn Back to this earth-sphere, live and love and yearn And labour in higher ways. Theirs is reality. Ours is the dream. They live ana love indeed. We only seem To live and love. We twine pale phantom-bays. 39Q THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. The soul's eternal never-cloying kiss, This has the true possession in it, — this Is sweeter than the dream, The phantom of a kiss that has detained Millions of lingering hearts its ghost-touch gained While earth-suns glimmered on green wood or blue stream. When all we deem so precious quite has past — Love (as we term it), passion — when the last Flower withers at our feet, Then first the impassioned love-life will begin j Then first will heart and soul and spirit win Continuous joy, imperishably sweet. Not the white phantom passion-flowers we see, Not these shall gladden heaven eternally ; Bright leaf and petal-plume, They perish. God transmutes with living breath The wintry mortal likeness of their death Into the power of an immortal bloom. When all things else are passing to decay Then flames the dawning of their bridal day On many who suffer long. Death is beginning. Death is very birth To worn-out hearts, and to the tired-out earth Superb renewal of her summer song. SONNET. CHARLES GEORGE GORDON: Killed at Khartoum, Jan. 26, 1885. In these wild later days when faith seems dead And the old Hebrew creed a worn-out thing ; When hope in heaven's eternal righteous King Seems fading from the earth, despair instead Filling the hearts of Youth and Age with dread And crowning Winter and dethroning Spring; When no man knows what the next morn may bring While watching sunset flaunt its soulless red ; When grim doubt triumphs, and all hearts wax cold And weary, yet again was faith new-born In one man's heart on whom the world's first morn Still gleamed, with God within the morning's gold : God, disregarding this deaf century's scorn, Spake face to face with one man as of old. THE DIRECT AND THE INDIRECT TOUCH. In closest contact with the Jewish race, Hand as it were in hand, and face to face, God stood. Each mortal action thrilled to the very heart Of the Immortal. Man was actual part Of God. Man — God : one double solitude. Man acted then as limb, or tongue, or hand Of God, — as under his direct command, As swayed By his immediate voice, or his swift eye. God's trumpet-message shook the stormless sky And man, with terror at his heart, obeyed. God spoke to Greece through loveliness of form : Not through the rolling Sinaitic storm, Or thunderless blue air. Nay ! through a girl's unfathomable grace ; Or through the kinghood in a Hector's face ; Or through the golden light in Venus' hair. By gifts he spake— not now by the direct Strong former touch, as to his old elect In fiery Palestine. God here withdrew the fierce light of his face That men might better apprehend the grace Of Beauty, curve by curve and line by line. THE DIRECT AND THE INDIRECT TOUCH. 393 To-day he speaks to us — sometimes by Art ; Sometimes directly — to the broken heart, Or will. Sometimes by messages the sunset brings, Or the first star whose golden sandal springs Alert above yon purple-shouldered hill. Perhaps for many a day and many a night He leaves the moon and soft stars to give light ; The world seems empty of him ; Then on a sudden, sundering the skies, He, the Jehovah, on the spirit's eyes Flashes, till every star in heaven turns dim. A POET'S THOUGHTS. The thoughts that haunt the poet like a dream, Strange sweet ghost-shapes that through his fancy gleam, Will one day haunt all hearts as well. He fills the wide world with his love of flowers, And with his love of summer sunlit hours, And with his hate of hell. The woman whom he loves and crowns shall stand One day imperial over every land. The passionate eyes that haunt his sleep Shall one day flash upon the world, and make (Not now the poet's, nay) the world's heart ache, And make the world's eyes weep. Whom he has crowned, is crowned. Whom he has raised Shall in the end by all men's tongues be praised. The carven brow he moulds for us, Before the world is ever statuesque. The king or charlatan he makes grotesque Shall be grotesque for ever, — alway thus. While creeds and sub-creeds pass, his dreams endure. All that he dreamed of tender things and pure, All that he touched to beauty and bloom, All that he loved with god-like love, shall last When every star we see to-day has past, Orb following orb, into eternal gloom. LOVE'S ARGUMENT. He. — " How lovely is that curve of dazzling breast ! Now am I blest Beyond all words, in that thou art so fair ! " She. — " Thou art the stronger. Teach me, love, to be Ever to thee True helper. In life's struggle let me share ! " He. — " The starlit heaven is less sweet than thine eyes : Within them lies An unknown passionate world beyond my dream." She. — " Through this world's weary waste we have to go — Climb from below Long leagues before the mountain- summits gleam." He. — " Bend forward gently. Phidias could not shape A neck's smooth nape More utterly, invincibly, divine." She. — " The neck will shrink and wrinkle. Praise it not. Leave lips and throat : Kneel at the soul's imperishable shrine." He. — " Hath the soul radiant beauty such as this ? Such lips to kiss, Such hair to fondle, and such hands to stroke ? " She. — " To-morrow some new woman will pass by : Through mouth and eye 'Twill be to thee as if a new God spoke." He. — " Love me to-day. Lo ! all the heaven is bright With sweet sunlight, And yet thy loveliness outshines the sun." She. — " If I love thee, wilt thou love me till death? Will his cold breath Leave the two souls inseparably one ? " PAST AND FUTURE. Vales where the silken rose In rathe abundance grows, These, as the long years close, Our souls sigh after. Not yet our tired heart thrills At sight of blue bright rills That rift the heavenly hills With silver laughter. Still the old vales attract, And still their charms exact From word and thought and act Love and devotion. Not yet through magic sleep We pass to a new steep And from it mark a deep Undreamed-of ocean. Our thoughts still backward turn Towards far-off brook and burn, Forget me-not and fern, And heath and daisy. We are half in love with life, Half long for death to wife, So pass our days in strife And wanderings mazy. PAST AND FUTURE. 397 Death hath not wholly won. Still charm is in the sun j The gleaming ripples ran, The blue wave dances : We dream of.boyish days And smiling woodland ways, — And now the soul delays, And now advances. A bird's nest in the wood ; A mountain solitude ; A hill where rain-clouds brood ; A river region Where the clear current sips The green bank's mossy lips ; Hedges of haws and hips, A scarlet legion ; A reeded river marge Whereby the painted barge Slides, seeking the far large Waste sea's redundance ; Gardens where blossoms spread, Geraniums pink and red, Pansies with purple head, In sweet abundance ; These things lure back again Our thought, our love, our pain. We hear the old love-strain Which that brown throstle Sang through the sunset-air In the great beech-tree there, Pure, silver-throated, fair Spring's first apostle. 398 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. And yet a nobler song May greet our ears ere long, Full of glad voices, strong Unknown new-comers, When past our death we climb Beyond the reach of time, Past snows and ice and rime, Past springs and summers. The future is our own : Youth's flower- bright fields are mown ; The past is overthrown By God's enacting. No past, however sweet, Can be the soul's retreat : To ponder is defeat ; Rise, and be acting ! WOMAN AND NATURE. A glory of light beyond his utmost dream Had flashed with sunlike flame and moonlike gleam On Wordsworth's eyes Had he but understood how woman fills With lovelier light than theirs the laughing hills And answering skies. The secrets of the grass and of the dew, And of the lakes, the lonely poet knew : These spake aloud. He heard the voices of the stars at night As they climbed upward from slow height to height, From cloud to cloud. And yet he missed the magic of each place, Because he missed the magic of the face Of her in each Who sways, and will for ever, Nature's whole Recipient tender sisterly pure soul, — Gives breath and speech. The face of her who fills the hills with bloom, And bids the spring with swift -foot beauty come, And bids the heart Of man awake and hearken and reply ; The face of her who makes the sea and sky Vocal for Art. 400 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Who yields his spirit to the sterile hills Wins his reward. His lonely strong heart thrills At storm and sun ; At bastioned thunder-cloud, and mountain rain, And light renewed when the green slopes again Gleam one by one. He hath his high reward, — and yet the higher Reward and sweeter is to feel the fire Of love suffuse The crags and glens and mountain-threatened vales ; To know the sovereign of the streams and dales, The rains and dews. This surmise of the love within the rose, This sense as of a Spirit whose passion glows In flower and tree, Links a diviner magic than he knew To those same valleys Wordsworth wandered through Yet could not see. This sense of somewhat waiting just behind The mountains azure-peaked and sombre-pined, Behind the skies, Diffuses sweeter glamour through the whole Of Nature, — adds to Nature woman's soul And woman's eyes. SONNET. TO ENGLAND. Dark days are coming, England. Lo ! the sky Is foul and rank with treason, and there are Who say they see the setting of thy star And hold that thou wilt pass away and die. With storm and strife, with keen device and lie Thy foes assail thee. Thou hast journeyed far Since on the Belgian plain thine hosts did bar The hosts of France, and mocked the eagle's cry. But thou art still the same. Thine eyes of fire Have still the strange strong look of Waterloo : If now thy foes are many, and full of ire, Eager thy toil of centuries to undo, Yet still thou hast the power, if thou desire, To thine own deathless record to be true. Feb. 8, 1885. D.-S. 4QI D D "THE SOVEREIGN ROSE." " God, having made the countless flowers of earth That laugh amid our woods with choral mirth Of clustering sister-stems And having thronged the realms of azure space With star on star, and crowned each star with grace Of blossom-diadems, — " God, having made the flowers, had still one more To mould and shape — no model in his store Suited his work's grand close ; So he created woman's lips for this, And with the royal fragrance of her kiss Imbued the sovereign rose. "Therefore all love is good. Who wins a flower Wins a new fragment of God's life that hour, And wins one glance supreme Into the deep abysses of God's heart, Limitless depths beyond the strength of Art To fathom in a dream." So speaks the poet in his early days. Each sweet first tender impulse moves and sways His heart, so swiftly won ! He dreams beneath the moon, and thinks the night Sufficient. When a million stars are bright The eye forgets the sun. ' ' THE SO VERE1GN R OSE. " 403 Yet surely comes the hour when through his dream The morning breaks. Sweet was the moony gleam That lit the soft night-breeze ; Sweet was it just to cull love's lighter flowers In life's first lighter less impassioned hours And rest content with these. At last the poet apprehends the soul Of woman, — knows that he, to win the whole, Must give the whole as well : That what he gives, he wins ; that woman grows (Just as man wills) to earth's divinest rose Or fieriest flower of hell. Who giveth much, receiveth much. Not he Who sings of her soft tresses tenderly And loves her for an hour, Not he shall win her worship absolute : Seldom that man shall. grasp the final fruit Who dallies with the flower. Woman can equal man in loving strength : She shall surpass him, when her heart at length Quite flowers with fragrance fair. The man who brings her all the soul of Art Never quite wins her secret silent heart Unless his soul is there. 'Tis soul and soul. The perfect souls must meet In union never-ending, ever-sweet, — In love's sublime repose. He who would sway the gentlest girlish heart Must give his own, and give it not in part; He wins what he bestows. PURITY OF HEART. What lured and won the poet's heart ? Who knows ? — The passion of the throat, the lips' repose — The night's sweet darkness gathered in her hair? Qr was it rather the deep Spanish eyes ? The glance of light that to love's glance replies ? The girlish gentleness of mien and air ? I think the poet's soul was won by this ; Not by the sweetness of her rich soft kiss, Not by this only — though by this in part : I think the poet's soul was won indeed And won for evermore, though won with speed, By sovereign truth and purity of heart. May 30, 1886. THINE ENGLISH BEAUTY. The English breezes crowned thy young fair head, And kissed thy lips, and made them roses red ; The English meadow-sweet purloined thy breath, Blossomed immortal then, and laughed at death ; The mighty many-sounding English sea Forgets to love its moon and worships thee j The English meadows, by thy beauty won, Dream in thy glances and forget the sun ; The English dales, and dells of deep-green gloom, Beneath thy footing tremble into bloom ; The morning follows thee ; the wondering night Forgets its stars — for are not thine eyes bright ? The English summer wind must tune its lute, Love, at thy voice, — or be for ever mute ; The laughter in the branches of the pine Was never lovely till it copied thine ; An English poet loves thee, — and his heart For ever singing sings how small a part, How frail a fragment, of thy beauty's soul ; Can mortal foot attain love's timeless goal ? Can mortal strength avail to worship thee Who hast the sweetness of Eternity ? DEATH AND LOVE. We rule the blue-green waves that round our shores For ever surge. In vain the tempest roars ; The sea yields, and the land : But death and love evade our conquering will. We strive to master them. They cheat us still With unique sleight of hand. The humblest cottage-home, whose garden gleams With scented English blossoms, has its dreams Of love and death, alas ! Beside our hamlets ever stands the church, And white tombs near it — under elm or birch, Nestling in dark-green grass. The kingliest race is subject unto death. The lordliest heart oft shudders at the wreath That it perforce must wear One day, — the wreath of agony, when those For whom life's sun, long ere our sunrise, rose Pass, and our souls despair. No stroke of mortal sword, or shock of spear, Can force our English-bred tough hearts to fear ; But one thing even we Dread, — that shrill trumpet of malignant doom Which summons our beloved to the tomb With fiendish constancy. 406 DEATH AND LOVE. 4<>7 To see them pass, and helplessly to stand By their bedsides while with white trembling hand They grasp death's hand and go, This pierces to the heart. No mastering force Can hold the blood from faltering in its course, From freezing in its flow, When at the touch of death lo ! love is gone, And we are left unalterably alone. Death drives us to despair, And when despair lifts up wild anguished eyes To the grim heights of waste unlighted skies, Behold, a God is there ! Christ conquers race on race, and heart on heart, Because he speaks a message not of Art And not of flowers and trees, And not the message of the lover's rose, And not the word of woman's mouth that glows Red-ripe, nor of the seas, — No, not the thunder's or the lightning's word, Nor voice as of the solemn mountains stirred By storms that never cease ; When earth has not one accent left of cheer At last Christ's one word wins the human ear, And that one word is " Peace." BURIED FLOWERS. To-day the poor man's fire ablaze That saves him from the cold Takes back the thought to other days, To tropic woodlands old. These coals that give the poor man heat Once filled the air with odours sweet. They waved as grass, they smiled as flowers, They climbed the trunks of trees ; They filled old long-forgotten hours With odorous ecstasies. These English coals which now we burn, Black now, were once gay flower or fern. They fill to-day the poor man's grate And warm the wintry air. Black lumps they seem ! How strange their fate Once they were passing fair. They smiled in heaven's old morning-mirth, And then were buried deep in earth. It matters not ! To-day they rise, And nobler work they do Than when, 'neath ever-burning skies Of ceaseless sunlit blue, They filled the flowery vales with scent, Till their first languid life was spent. ' OF THE UNIVERSITY OF BURIED FLOWERS. 409 In this grey Northern land they burn, Black shiny precious things. They lend the heat by which the urn To the bright tea-pot sings. They lend us heat of heart to jog Through ceaseless rain and endless fog. Their lives are measured not by ours. We live and die ; but they Count by a million years their hours : We are of yesterday : The coals we pigmies pile and light Were born in pre-Noachian night. The chestnut-seller in the street Keeps his hot chestnuts warm With buried flowers that once were sweet, That fronted sun and storm In lands and years when things we see Were still remote futurity. The humming-bird has glittered down On yonder mass of coal When it was pliant creeper-crown To some tree's mossy bole. Nature's strange all-embracing plan Stores up the priceless past for man. Within earth's granary deep and thick These silent stores were heaped Till at the miner's sturdy pick From the black depths they leaped. Dead flowers must face our smoke and mist Whose petals once the sun's mouth kissed. 410 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. And then they cheer us — you and me- With steady warmth and light. They aid our English fireside glee ; They make the ingle bright ; And then in flames once more expire And, born in sunlight, pass in fire. WILL YOU GET ME SOME FAIRY-TALES?" Three years ago you asked for fairy-lore ; Three years ago, three wild strange years or more, With girlish laughter You revelled in the fairy-tales I brought. We only dreamed of love. We guessed not aught Of all life's pain and strife that followed after. To-day, again, you say " Bring fairy-tales." Yes, you are right. Whatever woe assails Wall, beam and rafter, Of the frail house of life, it still is well As far as may be in the realm to dwell Of love and fairy-dreams and young light laughter. " Life should be one long fairy-tale for you " I said — "one summer dream of skies of blue, Were I deviser Of life's events." Three years have passed away. Your poet's hair is some degrees more grey : Your black hair crowns a forehead three years wiser ! But I will work your bidding. We will go Once more where magic silver waters flow j Once more surprise her, The Fairy Queen, and mark her deep eyes change With sudden transformation sweet and strange Into your eyes, my miracle-deviser ! DRAMATIC DIALOGUES. She. — " Why do you love me ? " He. — " For your coal-black hair That brings before my eyes the passionate South : Because, although my lips in song despair, Hope thrills them at the touching of your mouth. Because, when life was weary and at an end, Like the bright soul of very Spring you came, Sister and love, a sweetheart in a friend, And fanned with girlish breath joy's flickering flame And so I love you." She. — " Will your love abide Steadfast and faithful, since we cannot be Sweetheart and lover, husband and fair bride, But have to move apart eternally ? " He. — " Lady ! the night when first you came to meet A weary poet, placing trust in him. Will fill my soul with memories starry-sweet Till on night's purple robe each star grows dim." She. — "But think, how long is life, how dull and cold ! Can such a love as this content you well ? To love, but never to possess and hold, Men teach that this, to man, is worse than hell." He. — " Worse than a hell it is ! Yet you are fair : God made me love you, and such love is gain. If love at times seems shadowed by despair, Still will I love, — if not in joy, in pain. DRAMATIC DIALOGUES. 413 Perhaps, if early in life our eyes had met, The strength for perfect love had not been ours : But now upon the hills our feet are set, And we can gather noble mountain-flowers." She. — " But if you die, and if I marry then ? " He. — " Sweetheart, if God who made me love you so Can take your lips, your heart, from me again, There is no medicine for that mastering woe." She.—' 1 Stay—" He. — " Never ! Did not God himself declare As down the starry heights his great voice rang That you were destined for the one thing fair For me ? So I took up my harp and sang. Did God not let me kiss the coal-black hair ? Yes, God and you — allowing bliss and pang ? " She. — " But ought you thus to have acted ? Was it wise, Knowing the barriers Fate has placed between ? " He. — " Lady, I met the splendour of your eyes, And barriers vanished at that glance, I ween ! " She. — " What is the gain ? Ephemeral surely and small, When weighed with what man's heart counts gain and bliss?" He. — " Not half your soul I ask. I ask for all. I ask for years of marriage in one kiss. To feel your soul grow to me day by day With lovely trust and confidence serene : To know that doubts and fears have fled away : To feel your girlish heart completely lean On mine : this is the high reward I pray Your sovereign grace to gift me with, my queen ! " She. — "And is that marriage ? " He. — " That is the deep soul Of marriage, not the phantom and the form : 414 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. The marriage-love that, though wild thunders roll, Can breast the cloud-waves and defy the storm. Yes, this is marriage." She. — " Is not marriage, then, The orange-blossomed daily thing we see ? " He. — " Will lace and orange-blossoms help you when, Loveless, you have to face eternity ? Will silk and silver and gold and praise of men Assist, when you at last — look round for me ? " She.— 11 Nay, not so fast ! " He. — " Nay, faster — for I know, As man knows deep by intuition's law, I, having worshipped, having loved you so, With such sweet homage and such rapturous awe, That every other love, though it sound fair And whatsoever gifts its right hand bring, Would in its left hand bring you black despair And sorrow past our mortal reckoning. No woman ever is loved as I love you Twice on the earth, twice in eternity : You'd miss my old grey eyes, and find the new Brown eyes a trifle tedious, it may be ! " She. — " Brown eyes are pretty." He. — "Yes, your brown eyes have The Pyrenean magic in their gaze : Most stately, queenly, thoughtful, noble, grave, They make me dream of Southern hills and bays." She. — "But I, — I was not talking of my own" — He. — " And I, — I never talk except of yours " — She. — "To argue with a poet " — He. — "Ah, your tone So silver-sweet, ineffably allures ! * DRAMATIC DIALOGUES. 415 She. — " But, just to say the same old thing once more, We are debarred and shut off, each from each." He. — " Can wave thrill wave along the shadowy shore, Can moonbeams mix above the glimmering beach, Can star reach star across the tremulous night, Can sun touch sun across wan leagues of air, And cannot we blend sorrow and delight And peace unchangeably, my one thing fair ? n She. — " A poet's thought and diction ! " He.— " Nay, the truth To-day as ever is in a poet's dream : True visions, as of everlasting youth And endless summer, through your glances gleam." She. — " And if I trust you utterly ? " He. — " Your trust Will not be misplaced. Set your lips on mine. When heaven's stars vanish, worn to golden dust, Unwrecked, undaunted, shall our love-star shine." DRAMATIC DIALOGUES. ii. He. — " Marriage is friendship, — but it adds a higher And nobler sweetness to the friendly phase ; Touches emotion with diviner fire, And wreathes pale crowns with crimson blossom- sprays. Something supremely sweet and pure it brings, Yet all the sacred gifts that friendship brought Are still included." She. — " Necklaces and rings And bracelets seem to me the gifts most sought By average brides ; and by the average man " — He. — " Yes, that is just the sorrow and the curse — The misery, the grief, the bitter ban, Too sea-deep to be sounded in a verse. Most bitter indeed it is that love should be Degraded (as it is) far, far, below The level of friendship even." She. — " Yes, I see Daily how marriage ends^ in strife and woe. That makes a woman cautious." He. — " Well may she Be cautious, for she, giving, gives her all. She gives the wonder of her purity. Her gift is infinite : man's gift is small. And yet not always. When a man bestows His noblest purest manhood, then the gift 416 DRAMATIC DIALOGUES. 417 Has its own godlike fragrance, though the rose Of womanhood be sweeter." She.— " Thus to sift, Divide and analyse, dissect and part Love (poor old sweet love !) makes one half des- pair." He. — " Yes, but the lesson is — Find one true heart ; Hold it God's choicest gift, his dower most rare. And for much-blundering man the lesson is — Raise woman ; help her ; learn, if she be pure, She wholly gives her being in her kiss : She loves with love most sacred and most sure." She. — " How did you learn this ? True it is indeed, But as a rule men hear it with surprise." He. — " I learnt it where I learnt my whole love-creed, Through watching the pure woman in your eyes. One woman can reveal all purity, All love, all womanhood, deep things past speech, To her one lover, so that lover be Willing to let her, quite unconscious, teach." She. — i; Unconscious — yes ! " He. — " That is the very chief Of all things. As our love and friendship grew From spring to summer, from slow bud to leaf, From autumn skies to heights of summer blue, I watched you daily and within your eyes I read deep lessons, as I marked the change From fair bright girl to woman fair and wise, As your thoughts ripened, took a wider range. But if you had not been unconscious— quite — All had been spoilt. So tender is the flower Of womanhoo*d the least fleck mars the white, Sullies its petals, and discounts its po,ver. D.-S. E E 418 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. In fact the insane whole effort of the world Is to destroy the thing it values most ; To force from blossom-folds not half unfurled A fragrance which, if scattered, soon is lost. If only all women were as pure as you " — She. — " Or all men sound of heart, my true old friend " — He. — " Love would be fresh and sweet as morning dew, And half the sorrows of the world would end." DRAMATIC DIALOGUES. in. She.—" Have you no faith in God ? " He. — " At times I have : At other times my very soul despairs. The world seems one enormous loveless grave, — Dark, but for fiery blasts of hell's hot airs. Yes, my queen-sweetheart, were it not for you, I think I'd hardly care to struggle on : Still on me beamed a glimpse of sunlit blue And God's eyes seemed to smile, when your eyes shone, I know it. Yet a horror grips me hard, A horror lest the Lord, in bringing you Into my life thus, played his last trump card And now has nothing further good to do. Such eyes as yours he wisely kept in store : He could not twice produce a thing so sweet. Now, having played you, what can he do more, Save acquiesce in sorrow and defeat ? " She. — " Another inference is just and wise, Juster and wiser ; that the God who put Beauty and hope (you say) within my eyes Can bring life's bud to flower, life's flower to fruit." He. — "And yet he seems to me a Janus-god Often, — two-faced, deceiving, wanton, hard. Why did he open out so sweet a road, And then leave every gate at the ending barred ? , 420 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. In one word, why did God so fill my heart With overflowing love and sweet desire, Desire of you, if at the end we part? Can God make holiest hope, profoundest liar ? " She. — " We have not parted yet." He.— " The very thought Is like a storm-wind whirling all the stars Across black space. God made this world for nought, The golden sun, soft Venus, fiery Mars, The universe in fine, when thus he brought My strong love face to face with mocking bars ! " She. — " Perhaps, where love is, iron bars only seem: One day yourself may own that God is true, True past your wildest most poetic dream." He. — "On one condition— that he gives me you." BORN UPON NEW YEAR'S DAY. Born with the glad New Year, Thou bringest blessing, dear, — Thou also makest all things bright and new : Thoughts of spring's sunnier skies Gleam soft within thine eyes, And dreams of summer's dome of statelier blue. Thy birthday is a sign Made evermore divine To me, as unto man the New Year's birth : A sign that God is good ; That bare-branched dreary wood And grove will laugh once more with leafy mirth. A sign that once again Summer will banish pain ; Thou art my ever-present New Year's day — Thou art my sign from heaven, My sweet one bright star given To light a weary heart along the way. Be ever unto me A New Year. As to thee Thy birthday brought the New Year's light and shine, Bring me an ever-true Delight, an ever-new Summer of hope in God and love divine. A QUEEN'S MANDATE. Back to the smoke-fed city from the sea Thou, stronger than the sea's hand, drawest me : Back, past green hill-side, flower and field and tree, To where the eternal fog-bound turrets rise. For thy sake dearer than the mountain-air And than the breezy cliff-tops even more fair Are the dim robes of mist the houses wear Beneath their sunless moonless starless skies. Thou biddest me return, and lo ! I leave The golden-coloured morn, the crimson eve ; Thy queenly laughing mandate I receive, And bend before the sovereign in thine eyes. I leave my labour here, — I put it by ; I bid farewell to the wide dome of sky And to the sea-bird's silver wings that fly Across the watery waste that throbs and sighs. Thou art my ocean, love, my star and sun j Without thee heaven is lost, heaven hardly won ; As if love never yet had even begun I seek thee, longing to be made more wise In holiest love-lore, love, than ever yet ; Feeling as though our eyes had never met ; Feeling as though thy lips had not been set On mine, — as if sweet love were still surprise. A QUEEN'S MANDATE. 423 For that is what I ever feel of thee : Thou art as new-born as the new-born sea Each morning, or the new pink almond-tree That with the pinkness of the morning vies. Thou art as new-born as the gracious gold That clings around the sun's form, fold on fold, Each break of day. Thou never canst grow old ; Thou art the truth, and death is he who lies. Thy strong attraction over leagues of space Lures me and draws me to thy dwelling-place ; I long to watch the beauty of thy face, The magic in thy glance that never dies. As the strong sun attracts the furthest star, Piercing past wall of storm and cloudy bar, So where thy most magnetic glances are I have to be. I am thy spoil and prize. If I were further than the furthest light Whose rippling wave-beats strike upon our sight Still wouldst thou draw me, O my one delight ; Thy magic spell I still should recognise ! So farewell, hill and sky and stars and sea ! My love, my own true loved one, summoneth me. Where thou art, all God's stars must surely be, For in thy glances star to star replies. THE ARTIST-SOUL. The clear wave's tender green, the purple skies, Take all their colour as the soul's deep eyes Regard them day by day. Nought, save as we regard it, has one shade Of colour. Our thought gilds the autumn glade And tints the rainbow spray. Is any soul in love ? The groves assume That heart's high radiance, and they steep their bloom In that heart's tender light. If our hearts quite were sinless, we should know How streamed each fiery sunset's golden glow O'er Eden's every height. If our hearts quite were pure, and quite were fair, What wondrous raiment would the spring-meads wear, Outdoing all their past ! With what gold crownals would the kingcups reign ! The orange lily at our doors would gain Its marriage-robes at last. If our souls saw with conquering sinless eyes The heights and depths, the sacred sunlit skies, The moon's orb silver-fringed, All things would be transfigured. Eden waits To ope to mortal its immortal gates : On our will all is hinged. THE ARTIST-SOUL. 425 Who conquers self, shall for the first time see The marvel of a snowdrop's purity, Inhale the violet's breath. Who conquers self, shall wholly understand The solemn meaning of the sea and land, The laws of life and death. Who conquers self, shall understand the whole And with the cleansed eyesight of the soul Observe all things anew. The new-born emerald mountain-slopes shall gleam With all the light and richness of a dream, Sparkling with morning dew. The soul shall rise triumphant, and shall say, " The wonder of this rhododendron spray Is wholly new to me. In all old days the tossing tides I saw Were dark and turbulent. With love and awe I watch my first blue sea." THE HEAVENLY ARMIES. The heavenly hosts are ever marching Upon their eager way To reach the abodes of mortal anguish : They march both night and day. Along the heavenly plains their banners And plumes and keen swords shine The heavenly hosts are ever passing Across earth's frontier-line. Never was human soul beleaguered But in some barrack-square Far, it may be, in utmost heaven Rang out the bugles' blare. Never was human soul encompassed By dark foes crowding round Without the tramp of heavenly legions, Without their trumpets' sound. For ah ! their strong celestial Leader Sends not his aid too late. He finds not us, as we found Gordon, Dead at the city's gate. Too late our " thin red line " advancing Filed through the desert grim : We saved a fragment of our honour, But ah ! we saved not him. 4* THE HE A VENL Y ARMIES. 427 Remember this — the hosts have started. They march by day and night : At dawn perhaps, or in the gloaming, They'll flash upon thy sight. Far-off upon the highway dusty Their plumes and helms will gleam ! And all thy night, or day, of battle Shall end, as ends a dream. WALT WHITMAN. Thy country waits its bard. This thou hast seen. — Thy soul hath revelled in the forests green ; The solemn purple plains ; The immense far range of hills whose summits hoar Mix with the eternal blue ; the ceaseless roar Of rivers swollen by Titanic rains : Somewhat thy soul hath gathered of the might Of thine America ; by day, by night, Watching, thy gaze hath won A measured glimpse of what man's eyes shall see ; While Europe's slaves to kings have bent the knee Thou, yokeless, hast been vassal of the sun : Thou, scaling thought's untrodden mountain-sides, Hast felt the heart of Freedom like a bride's Against thine own heart beat ; While the old world struggled, cramped by prison- bars, Thou, seeking Freedom's palace lit by stars, Didst pass the heights where storms and the eagles meet: And yet thy giant-futured marvellous land Still needs a seer whose soul shall understand, And, understanding, sing. When the true poet comes, then he will reign O'er huge America from plain to plain, And be the land's first royal-sceptred king. 423 WALT WHITMAN. 429 Nature's wild heart is fevered till it speaks. The deathless music of the mountain-peaks And waves is yet to be ! America, though Whitman gave you much, He gave you not the missing royal touch : He spake not like your plains, nor like your sea. Before him visions full of power have shone ; He speeds the work of preparation on j He clears and paves the way. But presently a singer will arise With Hugo's sovereign harp, and Shakespeare's eyes. He comes not at the dawn. He waits the day. Then the great conflict that men watched, and held Their breath, — till slavery was smitten and felled Across the road of time, — That giant warfare shall find voice, and breath Divine shall fill the very lips of death And fan your Epic into fire sublime. No history speaks until its bard is there. The very guns hang fire. In vain the air Is angered and ablaze. Homer alone gave endless life to those Who wrestled where the Trojan turrets rose And fell before the Spartan woman's gaze. . Napoleon never fully lived until In Hugo's song he lived, and drank his fill, Though dead, of life divine. The Third Napoleon never fully fell Till Hugo's Vengeful verse rang out his knell And, sword-like, smote past all the bayonets' shine. 43© THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. And so with the great voiceless Western land. — As woman strives in vain to understand Herself, till love draws near, So vast America now silent waits For him who shall unbar the golden gates Of song, and utter her each hope and fear. Stream, mountain, sea, blue hill and purple plain, — The woods that the great struggle dyed with stain Purpler than hill or sky, — These all await the singer who shall come. The singers of the hour are stricken dumb Beside the form they seek to magnify. The passionate final love-work is not wrought By these. Good gifts and noble have they brought : The song is still to seek. But when the poet comes, the soul who hears, With one great voice her dead and dying years, And dead and silent sons, shall straightway speak. THE LONDON STREETS, Of old the streets were sad and grim : They stretched along, one mass of grey, Vast leagues on leagues of saddening hue That changed not if the heaven were blue Or if the wintry sky were dim, The same from day to day. But now the London streets are bright : In this one point our victory's won ; Pure country flowers adorn our streets And fill our balconies with sweets, And make our homes a blaze of light, And tell us of the sun. Geraniums red as flame are there, And golden-centred daisies white : London makes Sussex ferns its own, And calls on Devon for a loan j Pink fuchsias smile in London air, And calceolarias bright. But one thing yet remains to do — To look beyond our balconies. The girl-flowers who in thousands fade Within our city's noisome shade, Let them be* loved and cherished too, Not cared for less than these ! 432 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Not cared for less than flowers that cry With somewhat in their speech of scorn, " Shame that the town that worships flowers Should let far lovelier lives than ours Perish ! What if one rose should die ? Another rose is born. " But if ye lose one girl-flower fair In these dark streets by thousands trod, That means the loss to your grim town For ever of one lily-crown, — That means to angel-hearts despair, And agony to God." GAZING BACKWARD. We shall survey our lives, when life is past, With strange transfigured vision, — when at last The whole before us gleams. We shall say, " Here a victory was ours : Here gathered we sweet wealth of passion's flowers : Here love's eyes filled our dreams." Yes, all shall then be changed, and yet the same. The fiery current of the sun's red flame Shall still dart down the air : The flowers shall lavish fragrance on the breeze, And still Spring's kiss shall greet the lilac-trees In London street and square. Yet, as we look, how changed ourselves shall be ! With how far different glances shall we see The house-tops veiled in smoke : With what far other eyes shall we behold The sunset struggle with its soot-grimed gold Through city plane and oak. Here loved we ; here we suffered ; here we won A noble victory j were here undone, Were here restored and saved : — Such thoughts upon the souls with which we rise Through sullied smoke-spheres to the spotless skies Shall be past change engraved. # # d.-s. 433 F F 434 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Passion is past. The deeds of love remain : The generous deeds that, free from selfish stain, Illumed our life's highway, — These now shine forth like stars. But for their light The next world might be one black vault of night ; These turn the dark to day. Our very hold on being now depends On these our few good deeds. Our only friends In very sooth they are. They shine forth, unforgotten, on our eyes ; Five lamps perhaps in boundless wastes of skies, Or countless star on star. NATURE'S TUITION. A man learns passion as he learns the whole Vast revelation of the unseen Soul, By gazing deep into a first love's eyes. Man learns from his first love the starry lore ; The secrets of green hills and golden shore ; The moonlit secrets of the purple skies. Passion is taught by marriage lacking passion To many a woman — Fate's relentless fashion Of teaching. Woman past the loveless eyes Looks towards the eyes that can reveal her soul Veiled still in maiden silence, and the whole Undreamed-of splendour of love's sunlit skies. # # t Not always ! Sometimes early love is sweet To woman — full of passion. She can meet With passionate virgin glance Love's burning eyes. The whole world gleams with beauty at Love's tread : A nobler sunset blushes, golden-red : Love dominates the vast cloud-pillared skies. And sometimes man learns love when, all around, The autumnal wind sweeps red leaves o'er the ground ; When Death's from Love's divinely-coloured eyes Are not discernible. Such love is strong : It makes of life and death one deathless song, And one love-picture of the darkening skies. THE WOMANHOOD OF THE FUTURE. When woman understands her own pure soul ; When she no longer takes Man's thought of her to guide her to the goal j When she awakes ; When she once knows herself, the one pure thing Upon an earth impure, Then she will change man's nature, and will bring Peace sweet and sure. When she once knows herself — when she will be True to her own pure heart, Then she will clothe with radiant purity All life and Art. The world will be transformed. It waits for this, And it has waited long : It waits for woman's perfect marriage-kiss And nuptial song. It waits till she arises in her strength To bid all evil flee, Saying, "Who would learn God's deepest truths at length, Must learn of me. " For at the ending of the ages I, Man's sister and man's queen, Stand forth to bid all forms of evil fly From our demesne. 436 THE WOMANHOOD OF THE FUTURE. 437 " I come to make man pure as I am pure ; To bring delights unguessed ; Joy that shall vanish not, but shall endure ; Rapture and rest. " For man, unless his heart be pure and true, Must ever fail to see The heart of that pure God who speaks his new Gospel through me. " Ay, to the pure in heart God's world is fair ! These see with perfect sight How glorious is the summer sunlit air, The rose how white ! " These only can perceive the God who dwells In woman, and take part In that great movement which our age foretells With brain and heart. " Who seeth woman, shall see God. Who fails To see and understand, Shall fail to find God — though he spread wide sails From land to land." "HAVE FAITH IN TRUTH." Have faith in truth. The generations pass : The centuries wither like sun-stricken grass : The very stars are doomed : Yet never one true word shall pass away. The songs of David thrill our hearts to-day ; His soul is disentombed. His words move English hearts. — The words of Paul Electrify and aid and lift us all In our far Northern land. No true word ever passes, — no Ideal. Is any word of Christ to-day less real Or parable less grand ? Words spoken by blue calm Gennesaret Are heard to-day where ceaseless wild waves fret Wild echoing granite shores. Though all things tremble at the touch of time There is a power more solemn, more sublime, Which past the time-realm soars : There is a power at which the stars of space Tremble, — a power which finds God's dwelling-place, Quitting earth's lowlier clime : The power of each strong human soul to say, " My life's true work shall never pass away ; It laughs at death and time." THE INSPIRING SPIRITS. The spirits of stars, the spirits of waves and seas, The spirits of sunset-clouds, the spirits of trees, Inspire the poet's song. He passes rapidly from sphere to sphere : The mountain-thunder now enthrals his ear ; Next with the sea-wind's harp he dallies long. The dead hosts, myriads who have passed away, Are marshalled and divided. Some hosts sway The stormy purplest seas : Others, far inland in the forest-nooks, Rule only flowers and birds and rippling brooks And the thyme-scented breeze. The mortal poet, as from sphere to sphere Upon our earth he passes, now can hear The gentler dead hosts speak : Next, full of lordly triumph, he bestows Large speech and song's divine relief on those Whose spirits haunt clouds, mist, and mountain-peak. Therefore his heart is diverse, and his strain Diverse — charged now with a tremendous pain, The anguish of the dead : Next winged amid the woods, and light as air, And buoyant as that butterfly poised there Upon the thistle-head. 440 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Wild spirits' jealous outcries fill the breeze : " Sing us" they say, "before thou singest these ; " " Is not my wave-breast white ? " The ocean-spirit says. " Hath not my face, Full of soft forest-beauty, yet more grace ? " The forest-spirit asks with laughter light. " One sonnet ! " begs the fairy of the rose. " Once let me speak in song that throbs and glows ! " The battle-spirit craves. Dead Cromwell yearns for utterance. Heaven and hell Have each their calm or bitter tale to tell : Each claims its own song-staves. In every varying spot, in each new place, The poet's singing changes heart and face. He meets beside the foam The passionate form of Venus, still as young As when the eager waves that round her clung Were altered, wave by wave, to white flower-bloom. He meets again by yonder vine-tressed hill Dante. His heart can sympathize and thrill At a great city's pain. In Paris blood-red revolution sweeps Superb and dread before his eyes, — then leaps In fierce song from his brain. TO The light of mountains, and the light of skies, Will fade out swiftly from before thine eyes : No more, blue seas will break. Cast off thy faith in heaven ! The earth will fade. Cease to believe in love ! No sunlit glade Will laugh and gleam and brighten for thy sake. Thou standest now in deadly peril, friend. — Lose faith in God and woman — all things end ; All things at least for thee. Thy poethood, so sweet and pure and strong ; The might and force and manhood of thy song ; Thy heart's communion with the stars and sea j These things depend on purity of heart. Lose faith in woman ; desecrate thine art By low base dreams of her ; Pollute thy poethood by thoughts untrue — At the same moment all the sea's wide blue Thou dost defile and change and blot and blur ! Nature and God and woman, — these are one. Thy worship of the rose and of the sun, And of the hills and skies, This worship in thy heart is based indeed On faith in heaven and God. Renounce thy creed, And lo ! that moment thy pure genius dies. 442 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Pause — pause in time. Thou hast the power to teach,- To lift men higher. Thou hast power to reach The fair heights of the Ideal. Defile not thus thy soul with thoughts impure. Lose not thy faith in woman. Be thou sure, Whatever else is false, her love is real. Put doubt and sorrow from thee. Linger not In that malarious and ill-omened spot Where now thy tired feet stand. Shake off the oppressing chains ! Be once again A poet-flame, a light to lesser men ; A light of song to lighten all the land. THE REIGN OF MAN. Woman is what man makes her. Either she Transcends his utmost dream of purity, Or under foot is trod. The same soul that can grovel in the mire Can seek the loftiest stars with starlike fire, And point the road to God. This is the sovereign crime of man, even this — That when God sealed the fragrance in her kiss Of heaven, and shaped each limb With tenderest care, and left the virgin look Still in her eyes which first of all they took From gazing straight at him ; That what God made so fair, we men unmake. The royal look God fashioned for our sake We change into the dread Cold soulless look whose horror passes speech : We silence woman's ringing laugh, and teach The harlot's laugh instead. Ay ! more and more the future of the race Turns upon woman's love and woman's grace : Man's heart has had its day. What wild woes are the product of man's heart ! What strange storm-melodies of wandering Art ! What love-skies cold and grey ! 444 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. The heart of man has made its strong attempt : For countless years the soul of man has dreamt : His dream's result is this — That in our cities so the harlot reigns That hardly now (man's is the shame) remains One pure mouth left to kiss. The horrible blue-pink most bestial face That smiles its frightful smile ; the hideous grace Of women most forlorn ; The leering glance that leaves the thinker mute With wild despair — " For if this be love's fruit, God, why was woman born ? " — The look which with a fiend's precision speaks ; The hollow, but carnation-coloured, cheeks ; The lips, one scarlet line ; The pencilled eyes, whose only girlish dream Is lust and dress ; the eyes that only gleam When the head reels with wine ; These painted tawdry sin-bedizened hosts Who throng the London streets, like evil ghosts From hell's own armies drawn ; These girls, whose hearts should laugh and throb and rim With laughter yet more silvery than of spring, More joyous than of dawn ; These legions, swollen each new day and night By new recruits whom for our base delight We seize on and retain ; These preach, and clearly, not in words occult, The noble large magnificent result Of man's long centuries' reign. THE REIGN OF MAN, 445 Now let the heart of woman have its way ! Give her five free full centuries from to-day To try her hand at rule. Concede at least to her the right to be August and proud in maiden liberty, Not passion's sport and tool. Grant her the sweet right hitherto denied To walk, a pure-souled equal, at man's side : Grant her the right to be A bride, no painted harlot (Does God paint The rose whose richness makes the morning faint With very ecstasy ?) Let this last slave go free. And she shall rise Then, with the birdlike rapture in her eyes, The wifehood in her mien, All gifts of sacred pleasure in her hands. Lo ! where there crouched a slave, beside thee stands An equal and a queen. "THE PURE IN HEART." The beauty of little things we never see ; The beauty of one leaf upon a tree Where thousands wave : The beauty of one shell upon the beach Where thousands crackle at our tread, yet each Buries a sunset in its spiral cave : The olive-green seaweed upon the shore, Strewing the shingly sunlit briny floor, With sunlight cast Through the bright fronds : the stretch of white chalk cliff The white foam-streak behind the arrowy skiff: The yellow moon against the tapering mast : It needs a pure fresh heart to see these things. To catch the music of the west wind's wings The soul must be Freed from harsh labour and laborious care : Then can it drink the beauty of moonlit air And apprehend the message of the sea. • ^ # So with large things. Until the soul is pure God is not seen, nor can the light allure That clothes the line Of the next world's high hill-tops. Nor can she, Woman, whose soul is like the sky or sea, Be apprehended save by love divine. 446 11 THE PURE IN HEART." 447 Who would see God, or woman, or the next World — yes, or even understand the text Of hills or plains — Must purify his inward vision first. Never God's beauty yet, nor woman's, burst Upon the soul that selfishness enchains. A rose to one man's insight is a rose : A woman just a supple form that goes Along the street. But to the pure in heart a rose's breath Is woman's. Rose and woman smile at death. Rose, woman, God, are equal, being so sweet. THE BACKGROUND OF LANDSCAPE. The sweet face loved within the city's smoke Is not the face that, under birch or oak, The poet loves and sings. The wingless love of cities changes form When mixed with ardour of the wild sea-storm, And takes the sea-bird's wings. This gives to love its splendour and its bloom, This, the background of landscape. Love for home Hath all the world indeed. The maiden loved within a wood of firs Is not the maiden of the lone hill-spurs Or austere mountain-mead. Change place, change power of loving. — Each new place Hath its presiding tutelary grace, Its woman-spirit there. The bower of roses gives the poet love : So do the great sun-gilded peaks above, And the large roseless air. The quiet garden gives the poet rest ; The spot where, lip to lip, and breast to breast, Lilies and wall-flowers grow : But so do the grand rolling curves of seas, Deeper and vaster than the waves of trees, Crested with furious snow. 448 THE BACKGROUND OF LANDSCAPE. 449 So who would make the landscape of his heart Superb in aspect, perfect in each part, Must add pure line to line : Must love not only maidens of the sea But maidens born where the cloud-shadows flee O'er rolling slopes of pine- Thus the background of Nature addeth charm To beauty of dark eyes and curve of arm : In each place each is new. Nor did yon beechwood ever seem so fair As when we met that mountain-maiden there With eyes of mountain-blue. For woman adds to Nature charm as well. She adds the witchery to the ferny dell : Without her all is nought. Without the brightness of her eyes, the night Misses and mourns its stars. The lily white With lovelier touch she wrought. She gives and she receives. The charm is hers In truth that adds such magic to those firs Upon the green hill-side. The laughter of those branches in the woods Follows and corresponds to all her moods, To her love-laugh allied. This is why, boyhood being left behind, The man at first seems deaf and dull and blind To Nature's unchanged grace. The boy saw wondrous beauty in the woods : The man sees only leafy solitudes ; He longs for form and face. D.-S. G G #o THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. But, later on, he catches further sight Of woman — feels her in the snow-storm white, In the hills' starlit sleep. His growing worship of the royal rose Is worship of the royal mouth that glows Within the petals deep. Never again is Nature wholly free From woman now. Man knows her in the sea, For Venus nestled there. Man feels with magic and unspoken thrill Her beauty in the beauty of the hill, Her charm i' the sunset air. Nature is woman's minister and slave. The man resumes the worship that he gave To Nature in years gone by. He takes his homage back from flower and tree And sunlit lake and thunder-shadowed sea And star-embroidered sky. He takes again the worship that he gave : The lovely silver laugh o' the leaping wave To woman he transfers. She is the universe : she sways the whole. For her the waters lift their tides and roll. The witching moon is hers. All things are hers, her own, by day, by night. The man again revels in Nature's light, But now loves what he knows. The flowers are no more what the boy's heart dreamed, For something sweeter than the rose has gleamed As it were within the rose. SOUL TO SOUL, IN HELL. This damns our souls, this keeps us ever apart, Apart from life and blue seas and the sun, This, — that we slew an ever-trusting heart : This damns us, — this vast evil we have done. We, — you and I who in this weary hell Gaze at each other with love-lacking eyes, — Had once the chance to do supremely well, Yet did supremely, foully, otherwise. In seeking love, we lied to love. We lied Each to the other, when we lied to her. She might have climbed to heaven's heights at our side We trod her into hell. Did we not err ? Did we not sin beyond all mortal thought, Beyond redemption, in our ghastly dream ? We longed to crown ourselves. A crown we wrought ; But with her blood its hellish blossoms gleam ! That was our love, our passion — to create An endless sorrow for a child to bear : To make our " love " to her seem Satan's hate : To turn her trust to limitless despair. This was our love, our worship of the Lord. And lo ! the Lord in whose high name we swore Stood in our pathway with a fiery sword And barred us back from Eden evermore. 452 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. So great we were, — in our own thought so grand ! So far above, beyond, the vulgar throng ! And yet the humblest heart in all the land Would not have done a child this deadly wrong. We thought to win each other, — and our doom Is endless separation, endless loss. Our bridal-chamber changes to a tomb Which holds the form we nailed upon her cross. GENIUS. No mother owns a son. — Their lives are drawn Together for a time. O'er valley and lawn Of this our earth they pass. But as they older grow, their spheres divide : One seeks by choice the ice-blue mountain-side : The other loves the daisied sunlit grass. Many have lived before. Christ had derived From many a star wherein his soul had lived Soul-learning, lessons high : Perhaps had suffered for another race ; Others perhaps had loved the royal face ; Another cross perhaps had seen him die. And this is genius. — Genius has rehearsed In other lives its tasks, performed them first In other lands than these. On other azure waters Shelley sailed Long ere his watchful guardian-spirit failed To gauge the peril of the Spezzian breeze. Genius has lived and loved. Its head is hoar With strange experience. Centuries before Its birth, it toiled and dreamed. No Phidias ever carved, no Titian drew, Save from remembrance of an art they knew Long ere the earthly stone or canvas gleamed. 454 THE SONG OF RIPE-R MANHOOD. And so with love. — What draws our spirits close Is just remembrance. Lo ! this scent of rose Upon the bridal night That floats with sudden sweetness through the room Brings back the faint remembrance of love-bloom Gathered in regions far beyond man's sight. This subtle scent that in the girl's loose hair Startles her lover — till his thoughts despair, They wander back so far ! What is it but the memory of an hour When she perhaps, ensphered within a flower, Made sweet with that same scent some ancient star. This is what draws our souls together, — this. Not the lips' pressure, but the former kiss Repeated once again. All perfect love is memory, nothing more. Remembrance of a rapture known of yore : A pleasure our souls wrestle to retain. All things are spiritual. In the end Towards spiritual goals and aims they tend. By stage and stage and stage And conquest over time and circumstance We win our endless freedom, and advance Through storm-white waters towards the haven of age. Then, it may be, the death that seems to slay Will be the dawning of a new birthday : Our souls will realize At one vast glance the lives that came before j Will garner all past history in their store j Will meet remembered love in long-lost eyes. GENIUS. 455 Parents in spirit, spiritual friends, Will throng to meet us. — Man, when born, descends From the angelic sphere. Genius has lived before. It must ascend As Christ did, heavenward, homeward, in the end ; Leaving its life's work to bear witness here. DOUBLE PICTURES. This silent river flows in channel deep : Along its margin giant elm-trees sleep, Immersed in dreams. It breathes the placid and thyme-scented air : Past sedges bright and rushes debonair Its blue wave gleams. ii. A foam-belled mountain streamlet leaps along Its rocky banks with swift defiant song, Past boulders springs. Its rippling waters, crystal-pure gold-brown, Come bubbling, boiling, eddying, splashing, down The moor-side rings. i. This Southern girl's heart changes like the stream Yet how divine, how perfect, is the dream That rests and sleeps Within her marvellous eyes. Half cruel, she Is passion's queen and slave, — yet quite love-free, For all she weeps. ii. ==? An English girl, deep-hearted, silent, strong, Is like the river-wave that flows along, Calm, hastening never. Her love once given, is given. Is passion slow To dawn ? Yet, when she loves, for weal or woe She loves for ever. SELF-FORGETFULNESS. This is the secret of triumphant Art, — To lose itself in Nature, pour its heart Upon the winds away. Not to turn pale-hued at the storm-blast's drum, Nor bugles of the wild waves when they come Fanfaring past the headland grey. To lose its single self, and to suspire With Nature's breath ; to know the clouds' desire, The life of stars and trees ; To hold itself suspended in the mid Large tide of things ; to lurk most safely hid Within the soft plumes of the breeze ; This is the life of Art, the life of man : This is the immortal life that ne'er began Nor has it end nor break. We are constituents of the deathless whole. To every golden star the human soul Is linked. The sun shines for our sake. What heart can dread the billows fierce and strong Who hears behind their blue-green ranks the song Of One who leads their charge ? What human soul can sink to final death Beneath .their tides, if that soul breathes the breath Of deathless God through soul-lungs large ? 458 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. The lightning is our own. We tame its wings, And lo ! our messages of love it brings Along the safe straight wire. We use the very force whose flash perturbs. — We make the poison-hearted sluggish herbs Lull human pain at our desire. Nought fails us. Straight down history's iron grooves A spirit cognate to our own heart moves : His dwelling-place is ours. If we once lose ourselves in his superb Vast life, we win the force to chain and curb The giant elemental powers. All loss of self is gain. Love is just this — » Not the mere single isolated kiss, Though every kiss is sweet, But the reception through a woman's eyes Of a new life, as self shrinks up and dies : Heaven opens, when two spirits meet. SIN,— AND FORGIVENESS. A gift was given us once, a gift most rare, To keep : A child, with God's own sunshine in her hair And God's own heart of love most pure and deep. We understood her not. Her ways were not Like ours. We understood her not, because she brought Held tight in childish hands heaven's unknown flowers. And, seeing that her flowers were not of earth Indeed, We pained her soul and mocked her simple mirth And called her choicest flower a worthless weed. Her choicest sweetest flower was perfect trust, Sublime : A flower whose roots rebel against earth's dust And sickly sand and waste infertile slime. This flower from heaven we wildly cast away : We slew Her childlike faith. What searching hand to-day Shall find so sweet a flower where that plant grew ? We thought because the flower was pure and white And frail, Dreading excess of heat and ardent light, That therefore was its scent of small avail. 46o THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. But we know better now. The angels sought And seized What we, poor mad blind mortals, held for nought : With what we heeded not God's heart was pleased. We would not have her flowers. She bore them back To heaven : Yet, passing, dropped one love-flower on the track That we who slew might know ourselves forgiven. AFTER WEARY YEARS. When after weary years the poet dies His chant will still add colour to the skies And paint the sea-line blue. Pure souls shall purer be ; the strong more strong. Young hearts will leap with rapture at his song To whom the world is new. Never one shell upon the golden shore But shall be brighter, freaked and tinted more With rose-light, in that he Watched with sad heart the slowly sinking sun On many an evening when his toil was done Over its parent sea. For all his sorrow past, the future gains. Its joys are deepest for his deepest pains. It reaps the corn he sowed. — A girl's eyes flash with light ? That light has leapt Straight from his song. — A weary soul has slept ? He lifted that heart's load. — Through him the seasons smile, the blossoms bloom. But he, — he sleeps so quiet in the tomb; All round him spreads the dim Night of the dead. Man he has raised indeed ; Laid the foundations of the future's creed ; But, just God, what of him ? «CI TRUE KINGSHIP. Not those who hold earth's thrones are rightful lords, Propped up by brainless and subservient hordes, And fenced by walls of steel. These are not the true kings whose sovereign grace Reveals God's kingship to the human race, To whom the ages kneel. The highest king of earth, who sways wide lands And grips blind millions as with iron bands, When once his foot is set Upon the irreparable spirit-shore May find himself a human being, no more — May find his kingship pending even yet. WOMAN, AND GENIUS. Not genius, genius needs. The fiery touch of genius would exhaust Genius ; 'twas Margaret who conquered Faust. Where genius fails, the simpler heart succeeds. The heart that saves the heart Wherethrough the wild poetic fire-throbs beat Is not the heart wherethrough likewise there fleet Strange fevering dreams of life, and dreams of Art. The heart that saves is this — - The heart that represents in simplest guise Woman. God's light must shine within her eyes ; God's love must hallow her undoubting kiss. The simplest singlest heart, This saves the poet, — not the complex brain, But woman ; simply she ; and she again. She, being herself, transcends all heights of Art. 4fl., LOVE'S TEACHING. Thy life has not been wasted. Thou hast taught Truths beyond thought, Sweet sacred truths beyond my dream, to me. Truths not one other woman could have told Thy lips unfold. Blind was I. Thou hast taught my soul to see. For this I owe Thanks infinite. For this I love thee so, That thou hast shown me woman's heart indeed, - So fair and sweet, So far beyond a poet's dreams of it, So far above man's common thoughtless creed. Ah ! never think thy life is wasted, dear. It blossoms here ; 'Twill blossom tenfold when thy work is done, And when beyond these earthly scenes we go To grasp and know Joys that on earth can only half be won. God surely sent -^ Thy soul to teach love's stormless deep content To me, thou haven of a poet's soul ! For this great end, Love, sweetheart, lady, truest dearest friend, He gave my spirit into thy control. A WOMAN'S HEART. What gift is there that time cannot replace, Not all its grace, Not all the sundry gifts and dowers of time, — A sweeter thing Than all the seasons bring, Than suns' and moons' and stars' gifts more sublime? What gift is there which, if once flung away, Nought can repay, Not all the silent years of loss and grief, — Not heaven indeed, Nor any faith nor creed, Nor summer's bloom, nor autumn's golden leaf? What gift is there which God himself once deigned, Since man complained Of lonely life and of his daily task, With his own hands To bring the sorrowing lands That groaned and grieved, yet knew not what to ask ? What gift is there beyond which lies a gloom Deep as of tomb, — No hope, no sunrise, should its light depart ? The gift is this — A noble woman's kiss, The perfect love of a good woman's heart. D.-S. 465 H H THE STATUE. White, pure, superb, entrancing to the eye, What living form can emulate or vie With this divine Psyche ? Greek art is just the soul of God made clear, Undraped, — his message to the human ear Fresh from his burning lips eternally. In the white perfect figure, nobly shaped, Revealed for ever, beautiful, undraped, Unmarred, unstained, divine, There is a gospel hidden. If we will seek, God preaches through the stately curve of cheek And through each limb's inevitable line. This is God's gospel written in white stone. — Not on the Sinaitic Mount alone He thundered, through the storm. He speaks to mankind's spiritual sense Through beauty, and through the mystery intense That seems to robe^n unrobed perfect form. O wondrous Grecian sculptor, as divine Was thy soul's handiwork in curve and line As work of God can be ! When God was weary and his chisel dropped, He would not let the appointed work be stopped ; He lent his sacred genius-touch to thee ! THE STATUE. 467 That thou might'st show that not alone in one High Art can the everlasting work be done. What Raphael's colours drew, What Beethoven achieved, or what Mozart, Or Shakespeare's verse inspired by Shakespeare's heart, Or Hugo's, as his magic genius grew, — This thou hast likewise perfectly attained. — Woman through thine undying touch has gained Indeed, a godlike goal. Though twenty centuries have passed away We worship here, and wonder at, to-day, Thy revelation of Form's virgin soul. UNCONSCIOUS TEACHING. The thoughts that trouble poets vex not thee : Thy purity Lifts thee for ever to a higher air. Above the mists of life and all its gloom Thou seest the bloom In blue skies of the star-flowers clustered there. We weary souls must struggle, ere we reap ; Toil, ere we sleep ; But thou without an effort enterest straight The golden palace-doors that we unclose By fierce wild blows : At thy mere hand-touch opens wide the gate. Thou art so close to heaven and God indeed That book nor creed Thou needest. Thine own soul is so divine Thou findest ready-graved and written there Commandments fair, Pure law by law, and sacred line by line. If I would learn of God, I come to thee And then I see Straightway what long strange epochs could not reach. Through thee, so simply sweet, I apprehend Life's high true end And learn as thine eyes, all unconscious, teach. «sa RENUNCIATION. Man fears sometimes lest, giving up too much, Things sweet to touch, Things sweet to see, things lovely to possess, He may, perhaps, proceed a step too fast, And, yielding, cast Upon God over-labour, over-stress. " If I give up my dearest heart's desire, Can God inspire His world mine abnegation to repay ? I yield my snowdrop. Can the Lord disclose A queenly rose Whose glory of bloom may light my wandering way ? " Or am I casting over-much of weight, A care too great, Upon the Maker of all stars and flowers ? I shrink from giving up this longed-for thing Lest I should fling On God the burden of dark anxious hours. " Each joy we quit for God, each deed we do Noble and true For his sake, claims its final just reward. Sometimes to pass through self-denial's gate I hesitate, Lest I increase sums owed me by the Lord. " The countless orbs are his, — star beyond star Careering far Through regions infinite of purpling air. Yet can God cash me my one small star-cheque, Ot will it wreck The starlit bank of God, presented there ? " 469 BEYOND, EVER BEYOND. Beyond the outline of the furthest star It may be, new star-globes and sun-globes are, Full of new life and force. Past these again new systems, and past these Eternal ever-blossoming galaxies That urge through the blue depths their fiery course. In each star human beings there may be, And forests full of many a giant tree, And ardent great new flowers, And tides gigantic, plunging through the deep Of oceans beating on vast shores asleep And dull and reckless of the waves like ours. The sun itself, our sun, hurls from its heart Titanic flames aloft. They upward dart, Hundreds of miles on high. They shoot, red-flickering, through the enormous space So tall they almost lick the next star's face And almost traverse the unmeasured sky. There may be stars that sway as many moons As we see stars. The human weak thought swoons Before the space profound. Our sun (and we too) may be whirling fast Around some unseen sun, — careering past Its unseen golden orb without a sound. BEYOND, EVER BEYOND. 47 1 All stars we see may be but one small part Of wide creation. All perhaps may dart, All star-ships in full sail, Around some central sun ; and this, maybe, Round other suns to all eternity ; Sun beyond sun, till brain and eye-ball fail. # * Gods behind gods, vast rulers, there may be : Some gods to whom is given to rule the sea, And some to rule the air. Each star may have a ruler, and each sun A ruler ; or huge depths may own but one Monarch, whose power no rival thrones impair. Beyond Christ, God. — And, beyond God again, New Gods of more Titanic heart and reign : Beyond these we may find New star-gods, ruling depths we cannot see ; God behind God to all eternity, Just as each star suggests a star behind. The Ruler of this earth, this speck in space, May be subservient to the sun-god's face, A tributary lord. Account he renders often, it may be, Of his great dealings with our land and sea To the higher God, for judgment or reward. The God of the gold-tressed gigantic sun May be a mere proconsul-god to one Who rules beyond his gaze : God behind God, and dream beyond our dream, Till the stern eyes of far-off rulers gleam So, faint, they seem like stars in the sea-haze. * # 472 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Yet greater far, and grander, and more high In spirit than all this waste of sunlit sky And God-lit sea and air — More terrible, and more august and strong Than all the sea-winds' wail, the mountains' song, Is one strong human voice, one human prayer. To the one central God-force most akin, The human heart can instant entrance win To even the holiest shrine. It passes stars and suns, and makes its way Beyond the last star's struggling worn-out ray, Beyond the farthest far heavens' frontier-line. The power (of God) that judges God indeed— This power outstrips like lightning book and creed And says— it cannot lie, Being part of God — "Thou God art false, or true : This was a weak unkingly thing to do : That was, or was not, right, thou God most high ! " This is the power beyond the Titan sun In fiery strength, — the giant force of one Who waits and watches all : The power residing in the human heart To judge the whole, itself being but a part ; The power before which thrones and temples fall. The power within the unconquerable soul Of man to judge and analyse the whole And cry with strength sublime " This deed is right, that base. Though all stars praised, Yet would my lonely human voice be raised To call injustice, even in God, a crime." THE BORDER-BATTLE. Yes, weary it is. The days are full of sighing. — Close to our hands the remedy is lying, The cure for sorrow and care. Stretch out thine hand. The poison-draught is ready. See how below that bridge the dark waves eddy ! Are not sleep's lips of all lips the most fair ?-— So pleads the inner voice with dangerous pleading. And yet the soul is great which, rent and bleeding, Lives on and on and on. " Great' souls are strong to live." Great past our knowing Is the brave soul who lives, when hope seems going Where all youth's joys and rainbow-dreams have gone When hopes and joys and friends have crossed the border, Most great is he who, following out God's order, This side the boundary stands Safeguarding their retreat with sword undying And mighty heart, and deathless self-relying Strong fearless hands. As yet no right is ours to cross life's limit. The stream runs there. We may not ford or swim it, Nor follow our friends, nor cry. Silent we stand, our faces lifevvard turning : We may not yet indulge the soul's deep yearning : We must not die. The great soul trusts. The great soul waits, in quiet, Though round him rings the unceasing border-riot Of the red steely storm. He waits till through the dawn, or through the gloaming, He hears the trftmp of the relief-guard coming And sees their Leader's form. THE VOYAGE OF DEATH. Just as the traveller, putting forth from land At sunset, sees the waste on either hand Widen, and sees the shore Slowly diminish, till the last land-breeze Brings the last scent of thyme and scent of trees, One faint waft, then no more : As the night darkens slowly, and the coast Becomes a faint far shadow, while the host Of waters wails around j As still the darkness deepens, till the sail Stands out alone against the sky — one pale Ghost on the black background : As next the gold stars one by one appear, While the moon dominates with silver sphere The darkness wide and deep ; As we forget the flower-delights of land, Holding new star-companions by the hand, While worlds awake from sleep : So life starts from green shores and early vales Full of the scent of thyme, and rich with tales Of youthful fairy-lore j So life trends outward, till the deepening blue Wild waters thrill the heart with laughter new That answers sail or oar. THE VOYAGE OF DEATH. 475 So life steers onward, till the ghostly land Glimmers far off, while strips of yellow sand Shine faintly through the haze ; Till on a sudden stars and moon seem close To the white sail, and sea-wind round us blows, Not land-wind of the bays. Then first with awe we face the silent night ; But afterward with solemn deep delight, Delight that ever grows : For love seems nearer. If our souls give ear, Love speaks through starlit waves with voice more clear Than through the sunlit rose. Love still is with us in the lonely night j Though stars and moon and waters and the white Sail are our only friends. Love still pervades this awe-inspiring realm, And still Love's hand is at the vessel's helm, And still Love's song ascends. Then, as the sense of earth-life fades away, Glimmers a faint pure line of distant grey In front : the dawn is near — The golden morning in whose ardent rays A new land, with new cliffs and green-blue bays, Will make its outline clear. The middle sea is death. The morning-land, Full of flower-scents and rich with golden sand Along its sunlit marge, Is the new morning-life towards which we haste, Travelling across the moonlit landless waste, The flowerless meads and large. 476 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Death's agony, its central pang, is this — The old thyme-scent upon life's shores to miss Ere we can trust the new Eternal sweet illimitable grand Wild waste of water, — ere the morning-land Lifts its faint peaks of blue. This is the agony. But trust the deep ; The stars and waves that through their haunted sleep Murmur and chant and pray. Then sweeter than life's cliffs with all their bloom Shall be death's waves, for just beyond their gloom Lies unimagined day. THE DEPTH OF HELL. Where heaven exists, there must be also hell. — When royal Guinevere succumbed and fell, O singer of Arthurian days, Was there not scope for agony profounder Than if no love passing man's love had crowned her And led her steps through sunlit ways ? In this one point, O poet whose golden tongue Has made the grey-haired far-off epochs young And filled them with immortal bloom — In this one point thou hast failed. Thou hast drawn love's magic, But not love's dark wherethrough there flash the tragic Unearthly lights of hell and doom. A rose once fallen, and smutched and soiled and stained, Is sadder than an oak-leaf sturdy-veined That falls, and little loss is there. Just in proportion to a woman's sweetness Is her great downfall's rigorous completeness, When hell breathes round with burning air. The inconceivable and hopeless change ! The knowledge that, far as the eye can range, No pitying star will intervene : The bitter sense that God has here no power ; That the mad deed of one bewildered hour Is ceaseless, since it once has been : 478 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. The keen most clear inevitable sense That pain most deep, or sorrow most intense, Can never cleanse man's touch away : The passionate grasp of this one fact undying — That she in Lancelot's arms one night was lying ; That in his arms again she lay : This knowledge would rise up till time had end. On either soul this knowledge would descend As the storm lowers on mountain land. The very Maker of the stars and seas, Who can uplift and change and govern these, Could not remove the mark of Lancelot's hand. This is the agony, the hell-deep wrong ; And this, O great true poet, this thy song Softens and veils and half conceals : — The agony that through the day and night As sombre vast eternity took flight Would still stalk close at a doomed Arthur's heels. The agony whose changeless curse, it seems, Not God nor Christ can move — not even in dreams : The agony which grasps with grim Portentous grip that those lips kissed again Would never be the wife's. They would retain The touch of Lancelot, the savour of him. THE ETERNAL DEATH. There is no death. — The death-deep awful gloom We see and dread Is not the real invincible fog-fume Round the death-bed. There is no death, no darkness. All is light. The deepest gloom Is not the murk impenetrable night Around the tomb. There is a deeper darkness than the dark Where no stars beam : A blackness where not one most faint star-spark Can ever gleam. Wrong-doing is death, and this alone is death. Death is sent here That we may shiver at his ice-cold breath And, shuddering, fear : But fear not him, but his similitude — The death more deep Than ever mortal dreamed, the death more rude Than deathlike sleep. The death we, and we only, can create ; The death we bring By fraud and selfishness and wrath and hate And misdoing. 480 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. This is the eternal death. The other death Is just a change, A sudden dreamlike passage underneath A process strange. And all that gives it horror, steeps in gloom Earth's golden springs, Is but a symbol of the eternal doom Wrong-doing brings. DELUSIONS. The human spirit is wronged, it sometimes seems. God leads us by the winding path of dreams ; He gives us what we shun : He sets delusions endless in our way, So that we doubt the dark, we doubt the day, We doubt the noontide sun. Love's rose ungathered lures with lovely red : Yet, once possessed, how soon its tints have fled ! How worthless is the flower ! The whole is huge delusion, — till at last We cease to trust the story of our past, We live but by the hour. True life is growth. At heart all things are one. The same great Titan force that sways the sun And drives the stars along Flushes the daisy, or a woman's cheeks ; Or in the ripple of a hill-stream speaks, Or in a poet's song. God made the spider, and the humming-bird. He dowered with scent the violet ; at his word Then forth the thistle sprang. The Paphian Venus laughed a laugh as clear As that Vhich fettered Dante's soul and ear When Beatrice's rang. d.-s. 481 i i THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Without Napoleon, where would Hugo be ? Or Juvenal without the crimes that he, The Roman poet, scourged ? — Heaven is indebted most of all to hell. Goodness was brought to birth when Satan fell. From darkness light emerged. The murderer of to-day counts link by link His ancestry from heaven. Although we shrink At red war's dripping hand The same one God is lord of war and peace : At his own will he bids the bugles cease, And robes with corn the land. We would be angels ? No, the old earth wins. Our ship veers round and tacks. Our very sins Are used as ballast-weight. We cannot rid us of the sins we loathe : God is both for us and against us, — both : He sometimes bars heaven's gate. Effort seems madness sometimes, when we feel That though we strive and agonize and kneel God is against our prayer : That not one single sin will he displace Nor grant one single good deed scope and grace Till the right hour is there. Strive we, and pray we, never with such force, Still life and fate pursue their wonted course ; They never turn nor budge. We would have flown. Instead of that, along The mountain-path, too weary now for song, We trudge, and tramp and trudge. DELUSIONS. 483 The victory is God's, — it is not ours. At their due season bloom the soul's sweet flowers : We cannot claim the rose In mid December ; nor the soul's full bloom When round us spreads the January gloom ; — Slowly the soul's life grows. Our triumph is as certain, when it comes, As all defeats were certain. Light illumes The lowest and darkest grave. We cannot oscillate, or sway, or fall : Final redemption is the doom of all : God damns, that he may save. The martyr, hanging downward on the cross, Counting all earthly things for Christ's sake loss, Wins through God's power alone : And, when his moment comes, Judas will rise And face his future with heroic eyes ; God never lets fall one. Without a Satan, how would God display His sovereign majesty from day to day? How could he rule or reign Without the patient Arch-Fiend down below ? — Pleasure gains emphasis from previous woe ; Live rapture from dead pain. Without the poor sad maiden in the street Would pureness' blossom smell so strangely sweet ? Would the white bridal-room Be quite as sacred ? Would a pure girl's eyes Seem full of sunshine stolen from heaven's own skies Had hell no deeps of gloom ? 484 THE SON a OF RIPER MANHOOD. Delusion dogs our path. By this we grow. Some day the fields will no more overflow From battle's sanguine tides. War is delusion. Yet how great is Mars ! Decked out with orders, and ablaze with stars, Along the ranks he rides. Life is delusion. Yes, from end to end. We know not whether we can trust a friend : Passion melts through our clutch. God we can trust? Yet God himself destroys, Pulls down, rebuilds, creates. Our griefs and joys Are plastic at his touch. MAN AND GOD. Far through the stars the human heart can reach And mark the waves on some celestial beach Breaking, along the night. Our human deeds affect the furthest stars — Change to blood-red the leaves in iron Mars, Or change the colours of the rings and bars That Saturn bears, storm-bright. Our actions bound before us into space : Not one far heavenly spectral dwelling-place Lambent amid the gloom But burns with deeper or with fiercer hue For the misdeeds and sins of me or you ; The comet-birds who haunt the enormous blue Heaven-sea, our crimes displume. The whole is one. — A single act of will (God cannot stay it) mounts the purple hill, Climbs the stupendous night, And, having struggled up the heavenly stair And passed right through the star-impeded air, Impinging on the farthest star-cliff there Fringes its base with white. Such air-waves are our deeds. God cannot stay The airy course they take. From day to day We mould all things anew. One woman ruined in an English town Alters the fashion of the dainty crown Some far star-blossom bears, and sends a moan For leagues across the blue. 4*5 486 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. The solitude is peopled with our deeds. — Not words and thoughts, and hopes and fears, and creeds, Not these make history grow. Our actions build the stars, and make all space Fit either for the high God's dwelling-place Or a vast temple where our own disgrace Fiend-like tramps to and fro. The slightest noble deed is felt to-day, Though it took place in far-off ages grey. The woman who first clung To the wild dream of woman's purity Passed to the dark unhonoured ; and yet she, None other, saith to her sisters " Ye are free " To-day, and speaks our tongue. The singer hidden in the years unknown Who first had eyes to see and soul to groan For woman unredeemed Passed, — yet his soul is seen in woman's eyes To-day, when through them gleams the light of skies Pure, sweet, unstained, unsullied. In like wise They dream, as once he dreamed. One royal act, one regal stroke of will, Can quite remake the universe, — can thrill The farthest bounds of space. The seas are only blue as we design ; Ours is the sketch, though God's is the outline ; We grant their fruitage to the corn and vine ; We mould and shape the race. MAN AND GOD. And our immortal life is in our hand Likewise. Fate hath no force that can withstand The human force of will. God gives the power to wrench the bolts aside And force an entrance large, an entrance wide, Into the deathless house death will provide : Death has no power to kill. We kill ourselves. Death cannot kill at all. The human will can force the knave to fall And grovel, soon or late. Our misdeeds kill us. Nails and cruel spear, Slaying Christ's body, never came anear His soul. The only death we have to fear Is that which we create. God reaches us, and rules us. And we reach The Lord of all the stars. Our broken speech Can move the King of kings. Not only we are governed ; we affect God by our will, and force him to reject This or that plan. We force him to select New modes and motive-springs. We act upon the stately will of God ; Force it sometimes to choose another road. We, gnats who dance in space, Can none the less affect the central Power : We, creatures whose life lasts one short sweet hour, We, more ephemeral far than the June-flower, Can stir God's dwelling-place. THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. We can so rule our daily devious way That in the end the Lord cannot but say, "This soul must pass the gloom : New labour waits beneath another sun This pale ephemeral, whose one life is done." This life is ended, when the right is won To disregard the tomb. GOD AND MAN. Our minor daily acts are in our hand To do, or not to do. Oar deeds are planned Slowly from day to day. We fix the hour for meeting with a friend. We bring our mapped-out labour to an end. We speak. The months obey. The human will is free. Yes, free indeed ! Along its woodland path it can proceed, Dealing with woodside flowers. It gathers here a pink anemone And there a blue-bell, bluer than the sea In its most sunlit hours. The human will appoints its daily track ; Climbs the steep mountain, — loiters, or turns back ; The human heart is proud : It says, " I will, or will not do this thing ; " It says, " I will see Venice in the spring : " Its laugh is long and loud. " This woman I will love, — or here abstain : " " Here I will yield me to sweet passion's reign, — There exercise control : " " To-day dark hair allures me, — but to-night Strange tresses golden-pure or auburn-bright May magnetise my soul." 489 r 490 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Ah ! so God lets the human spirit dream. He lets us revel in the silver gleam Of the electric light : Then on a sudden through the night's blue damp Flashes his heavenly mountain-shadowed lamp, His moon, full on our sight. He watches us illume pale town on town When dying sunset steals away its crown Of colours from the air ; He marks our glow-worm lamps through street on street Crawl slowly one by one, with flashing feet, Till legions glitter there : He watches through the night the yellow gas Flicker behind the dust-streaked London glass ; He waits till all is done, — Then brings his single golden-armoured knight To quench ten million lustres with one light, Parades his conquering sun. He lets the human will create one flower ; He lets us rear geraniums for one hour, Red petals and green stalks : He lets the human will and human hand Adorn a window-frame with bloom well planned, Or edge the garden walks : And then he spreads the countless tropic bloom As if in mockery through the tropic gloom Of forests dark and dim, Weird places never pierced by human eye, Designing all flower-souls to satisfy With the lone sight of him. GOD AATD MAM. 49 * The human will maps out futurity. " I love this maid. To-morrow she shall be For ever mine, I deem ! " God at the very altar stands austere, Saying, in tones that thrill the human ear, " Your marriage is a dream." God binds what we unbind, and setteth free What we would join. — We marry. Straightway he Annuls the marriage-bond. What we would seal as final, he unseals : Removes the mist of marriage, and reveals Limitless heights beyond. We plan — he finishes : commence — he ends. He takes the old, and gives our hearts new friends. He lifts the gloomy night Far from our gaze, and fills the sky and air With morning's golden rapture, and the fair Song of the new-born light. Again, when we are weary of the day, He hurls the burning ceaseless sun away And hangs in heaven the moon : He spreads across the solemn skies his peace Nocturnal, — darkens daylit towers and trees That stars may gem his throne. We make our strange machines, our doll-like toys : God's hand is stretched across the heavens, and buoys The stars whose wild prows race. We mould and shape our sculpture, wrought of stone ; But God's triumphant sculptor-hand alone Could mould the model's grace. 492 THE SONG OF RIPER MANHOOD. Our gods and heroes, full of strength arid force, Ride down the road of time, that echoing course, With sword and shield and plume : Full of heroic fire of life are they ; Souls reverenced by the race until to-day ; Vast epochs they illume. We mould our leaders. We construct all these : Napoleon, Frederick, Ajax, Hercules, The Caesars, — that wild line. But God constructed, at an epoch's close, The heart of Christ, and filled it with repose Ineffably divine. We plant one tree, and nurture it with care. Jn all stars God can make all seasons bear Their fruited stores of grain. Our tree has withered ? Lo ! a million springs Are bringing forth their green-leaved fosterlings Beneath his bounteous rain. We reap one field in autumn. Lo ! God stands And reaps the far skies with immortal hands j The stars are as his sheaves : And the great comets plunging through the night, Whirling through ceaseless space with wild delight, Glean the lost stars he leaves. We toil all day, and through the midnight hours : We guard our lands with grey grim castle towers : We mark our frontier-line. God sends his wild snow-warriors in the dark : Our lands are like the sea, without an ark — White wastes, from pine to pine ! GOD AND MAN. 493 Our mortal armies meet. We deck them out — • The glittering wrestlers close with curse and shout ; Guns flash, — the quick swords gleam. But lo ! God's moon beholds the hosts at night : Their strength is withered, and their lordly might Has faded like a dream. God's moon is still superb above the plain j But on the ground red heaps of cloth remain, — Red, mixed with green and blue. No eye can tell the Russian from the Turk ; The Southern sword is as the Highland dirk, Wet with the same red dew. All love, all life, God rules. We rule a part : But he with vigilant and ceaseless heart Observes and sways the whole. — A day's delight we plan. The vast surprise Of death he springs on us before the eyes Of our astonished soul. We hold the right to put to shameful death One crime-clad soul, to stay the mortal breath Of one man, — this is ours. But God ? He can with one storm-blast unmake The living universe, — as we can shake One dew-drop from the flowers. NOTES. NOTE A. Sophia Perovskaia. " She was beautiful. It was not the beauty which dazzles at first sight, but that which fascinates the more, the more it is regarded. "A blonde, with a pair of blue eyes, serious, and penetrating, under a broad and spacious forehead. A delicate little nose, a charming mouth, which showed, when she smiled, two rows of very fine white teeth. "It was, however, her countenance as a whole which was the attraction. There was something brisk, vivacious, and at the same time ingenuous, in her rounded face. She was girlhood personified. Notwithstanding her twenty-six years, she seemed scarcely eighteen. A small, slender, and very graceful figure, and a voice as charming, silvery, and sympathetic as could be, heightened this illusion. It became almost a certainty, when she began to laugh, which very hoften happened. She had the ready laugh of a girl, and laughed with so much heartiness, and so unaffectedly, that she really seemed a young lass of sixteen. "She gave little thought to her appearance. She dressed in the most modest manner, and perhaps did not even know what dress or ornament was becoming or unbecoming. But she had a passion for neatness, and in this was as punctilious as a Swiss girl. * " She was very fond of children, and was an excellent schoolmistress. There was, however, another office that she filled even better ; that of nurse. When any of her friends fell ill, Sophia was the first to offer her- self for this difficult duty, and she performed that duty with such gentle- ness, cheerfulness, and patience, that she won the hearts of her patients, for all time. "Yet this woman, with such an innocent appearance, and with such a sweet and affectionate disposition, was one of the most dreaded members of the Terrorist party. * [The fact that, when in prison under sentence of death, Sophia Perov- skaia wrote to her mother asking that some clean collars and cuffs might be sent to her, is a touching comment upon this statement.] 495 496 NOTES. u It was she who had the direction of the attempt of March 13 ; it was she who, with a pencil, drew out upon an old envelope the plan of the locality, who assigned to the conspirators their respective posts, and who, upon the fatal morning, remained upon the field of battle, receiving from her sentinels news of the Emperor's movements, and informing the conspirators, by means of a handkerchief, where they were to proceed. "What Titanic force was concealed under this serene appearance? What qualities did this extraordinary woman possess ? " She united in herself the three forces which of themselves constitute power of the highest order : a profound and vast capacity, an enthusiastic and ardent disposition, and, above all, an iron will." 11 Sophia Perovskaia belonged, like Krapotkine, to the highest aris- tocracy of Russia. The Perovski are the younger branch of the family of the famous Rasumovsky, the morganatic husband of the Empress Eliza- beth, daughter of Peter the Great, who occupied the throne of Russia in the middle of the last century (1 741-1762). Her grandfather was Minister of Public Instruction ; her father was Governor-General of St. Petersburg ; her paternal uncle, the celebrated Count Perovsky, conquered for the Emperor Nicholas a considerable part of Central Asia. "Such was the family to which this woman belonged who gave such a tremendous blow to Czarism. " Sophia was born in the year 1854. Her youth was sorrowful. She had a despotic father, and an adored mother, always outraged and humili- ated. It was in her home that the germs were developed in her of that hatred of oppression, and that generous love of the weak and oppressed, which she preserved throughout her whole life." " Underground Russia : Revolutionary Profiles and Sketches from Life." By Stepniak. Translated from the Italian. London: 1883. Pp. 126, 127, 128. NOTE B. "The story of this crime has been related in full detail, but there is at present in Paris a lady who knew Madame Sihida personally, and who was for some time her companion in exile. From this lady I have ascer- tained a few supplementary details which only paint in darker colours the drama of the Ust-Kara prison-house. Madame Sihida was not more than twenty-seven years old at the time she was flogged to death. She was the daughter of a merchant, and completed her education at the gymnasium of her native town, Taganrog. When her examinations had all been NOTES. 497 successfully passed, she became a school teacher, and exercised her pro- fession in the same town. . . . " Ust-Kara, where Madame Sihida was imprisoned, is the first of the villages which, taken together, constitute the gold-mining district of Kara. It is a large village, boasting of three shops, and inhabited principally by Russians, who live either by agricultural pursuits or by trade. Here is the female political prison. . . . The atmosphere, or rather the small rooms, are very damp and unwholesome. The prisoners complain that there is no ambulance chest provided in this prison, though it exists in the ordinary convict gaols. The service also is not done by women but by gendarmes, which is, of course, very unpleasant for the female prisoners. It was in this damp prison, and in a climate where the temperature, in winter, falls sometimes to 48 Reaumur below zero, and 42 Reaumur of cold is quite usual, that Madame Soluzeff-Kovalsky was dragged from bed in her night-dress, and made to walk down the passage to the officer's room. Here even her slender night garment was torn from her, and convict's robes substituted, amid the jeers of brutal soldiers or gaolers. Three times the women organized a hunger strike to obtain the removal of Masukoff, the director of the prison, who had caused this outrage to be committed. The last of these strikes, it will be remembered by those who have read the account, lasted twenty-two days. The women were only kept alive by food mechanically forced upon them. Then at last, Madame Sihida, that energetic ' bundle of nerves ' as her friends describe her, contrived to box Masukoff 's ears ; and, instead of being hung as she had hoped for this offence, she was flogged to death. The Russian Govern- ment boasts that it has abolished the knout, but it has established in its stead the plet, a sort of birch which, according to the testimony of Russian officers, quoted by Mr. George Kennan, can be made to cause death in a hundred blows. It was precisely to a hundred blows that Madame Sihida was condemned, and this in spite of the protest of the prison doctor, who refused to be present." Universal Review, April, 1890 (art. By " Administrative Order ! ") NOTE C. "This Kara drama followed closely upon the massacre of the exiles under ' administrative order ' at Yakoutsk, which has also been fully de- scribed. I need only briefly recall the main facts. Thirty political prisoners had petitioned the Governor, ad interim — Ostachine — to revert to the old rules for travelling to further stations, as his proposed alterations would entail the probable death, from starvation, of a large proportion of D.-S. K K 498 NOTES. the exiles. Ostachine Instructed the petitioners to await his answer in the house of an exile named Notkine, and said he did not wish the exiles to come to the Government House in a body, as this looked like a political demonstration. While they were waiting in Notkine's house, an officer of police came and ordered them to follow him to the Government House. The exiles hesitated, for this was against the Governor's directions, and they therefore asked for some explanation. For all answer they were set upon by the soldiers and butchered. Six were killed outright, and nine were wounded. All those who escaped were tried by court-martial ; three were condemned to death, and the others to long terms of penal servitude. The three men, Hausmann, Kohan- Bernstein, and Zotoff, were hung, and this in spite of the fact that Zotoff and Kohan- Bernstein had both been wounded. Bernstein was struck by four bullets, and he had to be carried to the gibbet in his bed. The unfortunate man had the fatal noose placed round his neck as he lay suffering from his wounds, and then the bed was taken away from under him, and he was left to hang and die slowly by strangulation, for there could be no drop contrived at such an execution. Yet no one can have read the letter he wrote, shortly before his death, without being impressed by the firmness he displayed, in spite of his wounds, and the near approach of so terrible an end. The execution took place in the grey of the early morning ; and, it is said, was witnessed at a distance, by Bernstein's wife ; who, for her participation in the Yakoutsk affair, had been condemned to fifteen years' hard labour. It seems incredible that the authorities should have allowed this unfortunate woman to be lodged in such a place as to render it possible for her to witness this last tragedy in her husband's career." Universal Revieiv, April, 1890 (art. By "Administrative Order ! '") OF THE UNIVERSITY OF Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frorae, and London. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THE PAGEANT OP LIFE. Second Edition, Crown 8vo, 4s. 6d. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE PAGEANT OF LIFE. " A new poet has arisen among us ; an indisputable poet, forcible, graceful, earnest, courageous ; having something of real interest and great moment to say, and knowing how to express his strong, bold thoughts in words of extra- ordinary power, and lines of rare beauty. . . . Those who do not share Mr. Barlow's opinions, cannot fail to be impressed by the passionate reality of his reverence for the omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent Creator, to whom some of the finest of his magnificent invocations are addressed. . . . We are unable, to our regret, to devote any further space to Mr. Barlow's Epic, or to its incidental lyrics. His fellow-countrymen should read the poem ; few will withhold admiration from its lofty thoughts and splendid diction, which entitle its author to high rank among the ' British Bards' of the Victorian Age. ' ' — Da ily Telegraph . " Very many of the single lyrics are full of beauty, and rich in music. That Mr. Barlow is a genuine and often a very sweet singer, it were vain to deny." — Manchester Examiner. "This is a very remarkable book : nor is it with any intention to depreciate the value of the verse contained therein, if we say that the preface is by no means its least striking portion. Twenty years ago such a preface, so calm, so clear, so modest in intention, and yet so entirely heretical in its assertions, would have been impossible." — Universal Reviezv. "Rare gifts of mind and song. Since Byron, never has 'British Philis- tinism ' been scouted in such bitter terms as by Mr. Barlow's Satan. . . . Of undoubted power and quite exceptional poetical merit." — Morning Post. ' ' Has made its mark, and is bound to create a deep and lasting impression. Much of the poetry is very fine. Some of it rises to audacious heights rarely aspired to by human genius. The book will arouse the inquiry of all. Mr. Barlow is not only a true poet, he is also a great thinker.'' — Birmingham Mail. "Many of the lyrics and ballads are particularly bright and good." — Academy. " This is a work by a new poet— a great poet— a disciple of Shelley, it would seem, and to be, if he likes, as great as his master. The Song of Christ is 499 perhaps the noblest of all the noble songs, ballads, and odes in this wonderful book. . . . The poem, as a poem, may stand beside Paradise Lost, and Byron's Cain — more human than the first, more tender than the second." — Metropolitan. "Mr. Barlow is a master of passionate and picturesque verse. His com- mand of imagery, the force and fire of his ideas, the clearness and vigour of his style, are unmistakable. There are many powerful and beautiful passages in this book, and hardly a weak line from cover to cover. . . . Mr. Barlow's thoughts on women and children are always good and true.'' — Light. "That wonderful book, The Pageant of Life, which has created so great a sensation in the literary world." — Vanity Fair. " This extraordinary Epic poem in five books, which treats of life and love and sin and misery, and in which ' Christ ' and * Satan ' figure as rival com- batants." — Spectator. " We have enjoyed reading Mr. Barlow's book. It is daring and interesting. . . . There is no part of Mr. Barlow's book which lacks interest. He seems to have speculated much, and felt keenly. His sympathies are true and his dreams have wings. He has many of the gifts for which we love poets ; originality, tenderness, grace, beauty of thought and expression. We hope our readers may spend as pleasant hours over his pages as did we." — To-day. " A new poet has risen above the literary horizon, and a new poet is an entity not to be ignored under any circumstances, and under some to be dis- tinctly grateful for. . . . The author's conception of the character of Christ is ideally noble and divinely beautiful. . . . The Pageant of Life must be regarded as no ordinary volume. Indeed, the new poet has fairly earned a cordial welcome." — The Gentleman. " Mr. Barlow's book is poetry, and poetry, too, of a very high order. Mr. Barlow, indeed, appears to live in poetry, to breathe in poetry ; and hence his ordinary thought, his ordinary speech, is poetic. Throughout the whole of the four hundred and fifty pages, there is hardly a bad or unpoetic line to be found. . . . Few recent books of poems have been so brimful of poetry as this."— The Writer. " Contains much vigorous and though tfulwriting, as well as many beautiful passages. ... All who read Mr. Barlow's book will be forced to recognise its undoubted ability." — Literary World. ' ' In many of the ballads and love lyrics, and throughout the whole poem, there is manifested great lyrical sweetness, along with occasional dramatic power. " — Scotsman. "Such stirring numbers as The Song of Abou Klea and England, Ho! for England, reflect the spirit of the inimitable Campbell, and create a yearning for more material of the same kind.'' — Liverpool Post. 500 UNIVEBSTTY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, BERKELEY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW Books not returned on time are subject to- a fine of 50c per volume after the third day overdue, increasing to $1.00 per volume after the sixth day. Books not in demand may be renewed if application is made before expiration of loan period. • JUN 8 1925 f& <§ 1947 Ilia '630DX #3 ask m ms n , 15»M2,"24 Ut?^'7