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 .v^'sS 
 
 *JOHN PAYNE 
 
 
 
 J^4
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 NEW POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN PAYNE. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 NEWMAN AND CO., 
 
 4 3, HART STREET, OXFORD STREET. 
 
 1880.
 
 m 
 
 Si^'^ 
 
 ?6 
 
 O^U 
 
 TO 
 
 THE BELOVED MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 
 
 cfX €\}^:^
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 TOURNESOL . . . • 
 
 A FUMERAL SONG FOR THEOPHILE GAUTIER 
 
 CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE 
 
 WITH A COPY OF HENRY VAUGHAN's SACRED POEMS 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE. KING's ORCHARD . 
 
 J. B. COROl 
 
 THORGERDA 
 
 A BIRTHDAY SONG 
 
 VIRELAY . 
 
 ALOE-BLOSSOM 
 
 RONDEAU REDOUBLE 
 
 AZIZEH's TOMB 
 
 DREAM-LIFE 
 
 SONNET 
 
 the ballad of isobel 
 
 indian summer . 
 
 love's amulet 
 
 double ballad of the singers of the time 
 
 madrigal GAI ..... 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 ID 
 13 
 
 i6 
 
 17 
 
 89 
 
 91 
 
 95 
 96 
 98 
 
 99 
 
 100 
 
 lOI 
 
 122 
 
 125 
 
 127
 
 vm 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 KALLAD OF POETS 
 
 . 131 
 
 FADED LOVE .... 
 
 • ^oZ 
 
 VILLANELLE .... 
 
 • 134 
 
 RITOURNEL , . . . , 
 
 . 136 
 
 RONDEL ..... 
 
 . 140 
 
 LIGHT O' LOVE .... 
 
 . 141 
 
 BALLAD OF PAST DELIGHT 
 
 . iSo 
 
 RONDEAU . 
 
 . 182 
 
 SAD SUMMER .... 
 
 . 183 
 
 BALLAD OF LOVE's DESPITE 
 
 . 184 
 
 RONDEL ..... 
 
 . 1S7 
 
 THE LAST OF THE GODS . 
 
 . 1S8 
 
 RONDEAU . . 
 
 . 190 
 
 GHAZEL ..... 
 
 . 191 
 
 SALVESTRA . . . . 
 
 . 193 
 
 VILLANELLE . . 
 
 . 276 
 
 CINQUAIXS .... 
 
 . 278 
 
 love's AUTUMN .... 
 
 . 280 
 
 ASPECT AND PROSPECT , 
 
 . 284 
 
 MELISANDE .... 
 
 . 292
 
 T IKE as the sunflower lifts 2ip to the sun 
 Its star of suvuner, in the noontide heat. 
 Following the saa-ed circuit of his feet. 
 What while towards the house of Night they run ; 
 Nor when the glad Day's glory is fordone 
 And the sun ceases from the star?y street, 
 It leaves to turn to his celestial seat, 
 Seeking his face behind the shadorcs dun ; 
 
 Even so my heart, from out these darkling days, 
 
 Whose little light is sad for winter'' s breath, 
 
 Strains upward still — ivith song and prayer and praise 
 
 Ensuing ever, through the gathering haze, 
 
 Those twin suns of our dai-kness — Love and Death — 
 
 That ride the back^vard and the foj'ward ways.
 
 TOURNESOL. 
 
 A Prelude. 
 
 r^ EOFFREY OF RUDEL ! How the name 
 Leaps to the Hps Hke a flower of flame, 
 Holding the heart with a dream of days 
 When Ufe lay yet in the flowered ways 
 
 And the winds of the world were stirred and strong 
 
 With blast of battle and silver of song ! 
 When love was long and women were true 
 And the bell of the steadfast sky was blue 
 
 Over a world that was white as yet 
 
 From load of labour and fruitless fret 
 Of hunger for gain and greed of gold, 
 That now have made us our young world old ! 
 
 I hail thee, honest and tender time ! 
 
 I, last of many, that with rude rhyme 
 Ring out reproach to the cheerless air 
 And chide the age that it is not fair.
 
 2 TOURNESOL. 
 
 And first of any the blames I bring, 
 I chide it for lack of love-liking, 
 
 For fall of faith and hope grown cold, 
 For love turned lusting and youth grown old. 
 For where, I pray you, in this our day 
 Dwells there the lover that loves alway ? 
 And where is the lady whose constant eye 
 Shall seek one only until she die ? 
 Alack ! for Rudel and Carmosine, 
 Whose love, as the constant sun his sheen. 
 Burns like a beryl in lays of yore ! 
 Their day is dead as the bale they bore 
 For faithful fancy ; and now alone 
 In minstrels' making their name is known. 
 Their thought is perished, their peerless fame 
 Faded and past as the marish flame 
 That flees from the blink of the breaking day ; 
 And love is dead with them — wel-a-way ! 
 For now men's love is a fitful fire, 
 A wayless desert of waste desire ; 
 And women's love is a cold caprice, 
 A wind that changes withouten cease. 
 For the lifelong love that in days of old 
 Was dearer than lands and grain and gold,
 
 TOURNESOL. 
 
 The love that possessed men's heart and soul 
 In life and Hesse, in death and dole — 
 That stirred their spirits to many a deed 
 Of noble daring, — that was the meed 
 Of haughty honour and high emprize, — 
 That made men look in their lady's eyes 
 For gain and guerdon of all their strife, — 
 This love lack we in our modern life. 
 For the folk through the fretful hours are hurled 
 On the ruthless rush of the wondrous world, 
 And none has leisure to lie and cull 
 The blossoms that made life beautiful, 
 In that old season when men could sing 
 For dear delight in the risen Spring 
 And Summer ripening fruit and flower. 
 Now carefulness cankers every hour ; 
 We are too weary and sad to sing ; 
 Our pastime's poisoned with thought-taking. 
 The bloom is faded from all that's fair, 
 And grey with smoke is the grievous air. 
 None lifts to luting his hand and voice 
 Nor smites the strings with a joyful noise ; 
 For all that sing In the land are pale ; 
 Their voice is the voice of those that wail
 
 TOURNESOL. 
 
 For beauty buried, and hang the head 
 For the dream of a day evanished. 
 
 How shall we say sweet things in rhyme 
 Of this our marvellous modern time, 
 We that are heavy at heart to sing, 
 But may not rejoice for remembering ? 
 We care not, we, for the gorgeous glow 
 Of wealth and wonder, the stately show 
 Of light and luxury, that sweeps past, 
 Unheeded, before our eyes downcast. 
 The pageant of passion and pride and crime 
 That fills the face of the turncoat time. 
 The gold that glitters, the gems that glow, 
 Hide not from us the wasting woe 
 
 That gnaws at the heart of the hungry age. 
 The starving soul in the crystal cage 
 Looks through the loop of the blazoned bars, 
 As out of heaven the sorrowing stars 
 Gaze on the grief of the night newborn. 
 
 What shall we do for the world forlorn, 
 We that drink deep of its sorrowing ? 
 What can we do, alas ! but sing ?
 
 TOURNESOL. 
 
 Sing as the bird behind the wire, 
 
 That pours out his passion of dear desire, 
 His fret for the forest far away, 
 His hunger of hope for the distant day 
 
 When peradventure shall ope for him 
 
 The door that darkens on heaven's rim — 
 What can we do, bird-like, but pour 
 Into our singing the dreams of yore, 
 
 The long desire of the soul exiled 
 
 From some sweet Eden grown waste and wild ? 
 And if, by fortune, we turn our feet. 
 Torn with long travel, towards that sweet, 
 
 That happy haven of " long ago," 
 
 And tune our lutany soft and low 
 To some dear ditty of things that were, 
 Memoried with melodies faint and fair. 
 
 Shall any blame us for this that we 
 Fordid time's tyranny, and forgot 
 Awhile life's lovelessness ? I trow not ; 
 
 For song is sinless, and fancy free.
 
 A FUNERAL SONG FOR 
 THEOPHILE GAUTIER.* 
 
 1 X rn AT shall our song be for the mighty dead, 
 For this our master that is ours no more ? 
 
 Lo ! for the dead was none of those that wore 
 The laurel lightly on a heedless head, 
 Chanting a song of idle lustihead 
 
 Among the sun-kissed roses on the shore ! 
 
 This our beloved, that is gone before, 
 Was of the race of heroes battle-bred 
 That, from the dawn-white to the sunset-red, 
 Fought in the front of war ! 
 
 Lo ! this was he that in the weary time. 
 In many a devious and darkling way, 
 Through dusk of doubt and thunder of dismay, 
 Held our hearts hopeful with his resonant rhyme, 
 Lifting our lives above the smoke and slime 
 
 * Written for " Le Tombeau dc Thcophile Gautier."
 
 A FUNERAL SONG FOR THEOPHILE GA UTIER. 7 
 
 Into some splendid summer far away, 
 Where the sun brimmed the chaUce of the day 
 With gold of heaven, and the accordant chime 
 Of woods and waters to the calm sublime 
 Carolled in roundelay ! 
 
 This was our poet in the front of faith ; 
 Our singer gone to his most sweet repose. 
 Sped to his summer from our time of snows 
 
 And winter winding all the world with death. 
 
 Who shall make moan or utter mournful breath 
 That this our noblest one no longer knows 
 Our evil place of toil and many woes, 
 
 Lying at the last where no voice entereth ? 
 
 Who shall weave for him other than a wreath 
 Of laurel and of rose ? 
 
 Hence with the cypress and the funeral song ! 
 Let not the shrill sound of our mourning mar 
 His triumph that upon the Immortals' car 
 Passes, star-crowned ; but from the laurelled throng 
 That stand await, let every voice prolong
 
 S A FUNERAL SONG FOR THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 
 
 A noise of jubilance that from afar 
 Shall hail in heaven the new majestic star 
 
 That rises with a radiance calm and strong, 
 
 To burn for ever unobscured among 
 
 The courts where the Gods are ! 
 
 Ay, let the trumpets and the clarions blow, 
 The air rain roses, and the sky resound 
 With harpings of his peers that stand around, 
 WTiat while the splendours of the triumph go 
 Along the streets and through the portico ! 
 I too, who loved the dead, as from the ground 
 The glow-worm loves the star, will stand, brow- 
 bound 
 With winter-roses, in the sunset-glow, 
 And make thin music, fluting soft and low 
 Above his funeral mound. 
 
 I too, who loved him, from beyond the sea 
 Add my weak note to that sublime acclaim 
 That, soaring with the silver of his name, 
 
 Shall shake the heavens with splendid harmony, 
 
 Till all who listen bend in awe the knee,
 
 A FUNERAL SONG FOR THEOPHILE GA UTIER. 9 
 
 Seeing a giant's spirit, like a flame, 
 
 Remounting to that heaven from which it came, 
 And many weep for very shame to see 
 The majesty they knew not till 'twas free 
 
 From earthly praise or blame. 
 
 Hail, O our master ! From the hastening hours 
 This one we set above its grey-veiled peers, 
 Armed with thy name against the night that nears ! 
 
 We crown it with the glory of the flowers. 
 
 We wind it with all magic that is ours 
 
 Of song and hope and jewel- coloured tears ; 
 We charm it with our love from taint of fears \ 
 
 We set it high against the sky that lowers, 
 
 To bum, a love-sign, from the topmost towers, 
 Through glad and sorry years. 
 
 -oOj«o
 
 CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD 
 OF LOVE. 
 
 r\ MOST fair God ! O Love both new and old, 
 
 That wert before the flowers of morning blew, 
 Before the glad sun in his mail of gold 
 
 Leapt into light across the first day's dew. 
 That art the first and last of our delight, 
 That in the blue day and the purple night 
 
 Holdest the hearts of servant and of king, 
 
 Lord of Hesse, sovran of sorrowing, 
 That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key. 
 
 And hell beneath the shadow of thy wing, 
 T/iou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee ! 
 
 What thing rejects thy mastery ? Who so bold 
 But at thine altars in the dusk they sue ? 
 
 Even the strait pale Goddess, silver-stoled. 
 
 That kissed Endymion when the spring was new, 
 
 To thee did homage in her own despite. 
 
 When in the shadow of her wings of white
 
 CHANT ROYAL CF THE GOD OF LOVE. ii 
 
 She slid down trembling from her mooned ring 
 To where the Latmian youth lay slumbering, 
 
 And in that kiss put off cold chastity. 
 
 Who but acclaim, with voice and pipe and string, 
 
 Thou art my Lord to n'hojn I bend the knee ? 
 
 Master of men and gods, in every fold 
 
 Of thy wide vans, the sorceries that renew 
 
 The labouring earth tranced with the winter's cold 
 Lie hid, the quintessential charms that woo 
 
 The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might 
 
 Of the dead year, and draw them to the light. 
 Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling : 
 Skyward and seaward, whilst thy white palms fling 
 
 Their spells of healing over land and sea. 
 One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, 
 
 Th^u art tny Lord to whotn L bend the knee ! 
 
 I see thee throned aloft : thy fair hands hold 
 Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue : 
 
 Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled, 
 And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue : 
 
 But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright. 
 
 The heart's blood shines of many a hapless wight.
 
 12 CHANT ROYAL OF THE GOD OF LOVE 
 
 Thou art not only fair and sweet as Spring : 
 Terror and beauty, fear and wondering, 
 
 Meet on thy front, amazing all who see. — 
 All men do praise thee — ay, and every thing ! 
 
 Thou art my Lord to whofn I bend the knee ! 
 
 I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold 
 The sheer sun burning in the orbed blue, 
 
 What while the noontide over hill and wold 
 Flames like a fire, except his mazed view 
 
 Wither and tremble ? So thy splendid sight 
 
 Fills me with mingled gladness and affright. 
 Thy visage haunts me in the wavering 
 Of dreams, and in the dawn, awakening, 
 
 I feel thy splendour streaming full on me. 
 Both joy and fear unto thy feet I bring : 
 
 Thou art my Lord to whom L bend the knee ! 
 
 Envoi. 
 God above gods. High and Eternal King ! 
 Whose praise the symphonies of heaven sing, 
 
 I find no whither from thy power to flee 
 Save in thy pinions' vast o'ershadowing : 
 
 Thou art my Lord to whom L bend the knee !
 
 WITH A COPY OF HENRY 
 VAUGHAN'S SACRED POEMS. 
 
 T AY down thy burden at this gate and knock. 
 
 What if the world without be dark and drear ? 
 For there be fountains of refreshment here 
 Sweeter than all the runnels of the rock. 
 Hark ! even to thy hand upon the lock 
 A wilding warble answers, loud and clear, 
 That falls as fain upon the heart of fear 
 As shepherds' songs unto the folded flock. 
 
 This is the quiet wood-church of the soul. 
 Be thankful, heart, to him betimes that stole, 
 
 Some Easter morning, through the golden door — 
 Haply ajar for early prayer to rise — 
 
 And brought thee back from that song-flowered 
 shore 
 These haunting harmonies of Paradise.
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S 
 ORCHARD. 
 
 From T/t£odore de Banville^ 
 
 T_J ERE, where wakens the flowering year, 
 
 The forest bears on its boughs a score 
 Of dead folk hanged by the neck ; and sheer 
 
 Gold of the dawn on them doth pour. 
 
 Strangest fruits ever forest bore 
 Under the oak-boughs hang in a string, 
 
 Fruits unheard of by Turk or Moor : 
 // is the orchard of Louis the King. 
 
 • This ballad, together with its companion " The Ballad 
 of the Common Folk " (see " Songs of Life and Death," 
 1872), was, at the express request of M. de Banville, translated 
 in 1871 for M. Aublet's English adaptation of "Gringoire," 
 which it was then in contemplation to produce at a London 
 Theatre.
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE KINGS ORCHARD. 15 
 
 All the poor devils shrivelling here, 
 Thinking thoughts silent for evermore, 
 
 Dance in a hurly-burly drear, 
 With hearts whose panting is hardly o'er : 
 The sun-heat burns and scorches them sore : 
 
 Wondering heavens, see how they swing 
 
 In the dawn-glow growing behind and before ! 
 
 It is the orchard of Louis the King. 
 
 Hanged poor folk, in the devil's ear, 
 
 They call for more gallows-fruit and more — 
 
 Call and call, whilst the sky grows clear 
 And the dews float up from the forest floor. 
 Through the air that glitters like Heaven's door ; 
 
 Round their heads flapping and fluttering, 
 Chatter and peck at them birds galore : 
 
 // is the orchard of Louis tJie King. 
 
 Envoi. 
 
 Prince, I know of a wood where store 
 
 Of hanged poor folk to the branches cling, 
 
 Lapt and shrouded in leafage hoar : 
 // is the orchard of Louis the King,
 
 J. B. COROT. 
 
 Died 22nd February, 1875. 
 
 "DEFORE the earliest violet he died,— 
 
 That loved the new green and the stress of Spring 
 So tenderly ! He knew that March must bring 
 The primrose by the brook, and all the wide 
 Green spaces of the forest glorified 
 
 With scent and singing, when each passing wing 
 Would call him and each burst of blossoming : 
 He knew he could not die in the Spring-tide. 
 
 Yet he was weary, for his task was done, 
 
 And sleep seemed sweet unto the tired eyes : 
 Weary ! for many a year he had seen the sun 
 Arise; so in the season of the snows 
 He put off life — ere Spring could interpose 
 To hold him back — and went where Gautier lies.
 
 THORGERDA. 
 
 C
 
 THORGERDA. 
 
 Voices in the Air. 
 
 T^HE night is riven from earth and heaven ; 
 The day is blue in the sweet sky-dome ; 
 The glad sea glimmers with soft sun-shimmers ; 
 The white sea fairies float on the foam. 
 
 The storm has faded from day new-braided 
 
 With webs of azure above the seas : 
 Shore-spirits, come, whilst the blast is dumb, 
 
 And the seaflowers sway to the fragrant breeze. 
 
 I hear a ringing of sea-nymphs' singing, 
 
 Far out to sea in the golden haze : 
 Sweet sisters, haste, ere the noon have chased 
 
 The cool- haired dawn from the sweet sea-ways. 
 
 The air is golden : the storm is holden 
 In sapphire chains of the sleepless stars : 
 
 I see the flashing of mermaidens plashing 
 And merrows glinting in sea-shell cars. 
 
 Come swift, sweet sisters ! Our witch-wife trysters 
 Will soon in the distance fade and flee : 
 
 Wide-winged we travel through the thin foam-ravel, 
 To ride on the weed-weft mane of the sea.
 
 20 THORGERDA. 
 
 The Witch. 
 
 T O ! what a golden day it is ! 
 
 The glad sun rives the sapphire deeps 
 Down to the dim pearl-floored abyss 
 Where, cold in death, my lover sleeps ; 
 
 Crowns with soft fire his sea-drenched hair. 
 
 Kisses with gold his lips death-pale, 
 Lets down from heaven a golden stair, 
 
 Whose steps methinks his soul doth scale. 
 
 This is my treasure. White and sweet, 
 He lies beneath my ardent eyne. 
 
 With heart that never more shall beat, 
 Nor lips press softly against mine. 
 
 How like a dream it seems to me, 
 The time when hand-in-hand we went 
 
 By hill and valley, I and he, 
 Lost in a trance of ravishment !
 
 THORGERDA. 2i 
 
 I and my lover here that lies 
 
 And sleeps the everlasting sleep, 
 We walked whilere in Paradise ; 
 
 (Can it be true ?) Our souls drank deep 
 
 Together of Love's wonder-wine : 
 
 We saw the golden days go by, 
 Unheeding, for we were divine ; 
 
 Love had advanced us to the sky. 
 
 And of that time no traces bin. 
 
 Save the still shape that once did hold 
 
 My lover's soul, that shone therein. 
 As wine laughs in a vase of gold, 
 
 Cold, cold he lies, and answers not 
 Unto my speech ; his mouth is cold 
 
 Whose kiss to mine was sweet and hot 
 As sunshine to a marigold. 
 
 And yet his pallid lips I press ; 
 
 I fold his neck in my embrace ; 
 I rain down kisses none the less 
 
 Upon his unresponsive face :
 
 22 THORGERDA. 
 
 I call on him with all the fair 
 
 Flower-names that blossom out of love ; 
 I knit sea-jewels in his hair ; 
 
 I weave fair coronals above 
 
 The cold sweet silver of his brow ; 
 
 For this is all of him I have ; 
 Nor any Future more than now 
 
 Shall give me back what Love once gave. 
 
 For from Death's gate our lives divide ; 
 
 His was the Galilean's faith : 
 With those that serve the Crucified, 
 
 He shared the chance of Life and Death. 
 
 And so my eyes shall never light 
 Upon his star-soft eyes again ; 
 
 Nor ever in the day or night, 
 By hill or valley, wood or plain, 
 
 Our hands shall meet afresh. His voice 
 Shall never with its silver tone 
 
 The sadness of my soul rejoice, 
 
 Nor his breast throb against my own.
 
 THORGERDA. 23 
 
 His sight shall never unto me 
 
 Return whilst heaven and earth remain : 
 Though Time blend with Eternity, 
 
 Our lives shall never meet again. 
 
 Never by grey or purple sea, 
 
 Never again in heavens of blue, 
 Never in this old earth — ah me 
 
 Never, ah never ! in the new. 
 
 For he, he treads the windless ways 
 
 Among the thick star-diamonds, 
 Where in the middle aether blaze 
 
 The golden City's pearl gate-fronds ; 
 
 Sitteth, palm-crowned and silver-shod, 
 Where in strange dwellings of the skies 
 
 The Christians to their Woman-God 
 Cease nevermore from psalmodies. 
 
 And I, I wait, with haggard eyes 
 
 And face grown awful for desire, 
 The coming of that fierce day's rise 
 
 When from the cities of the fire
 
 24 JHORGERDA. 
 
 The wolf shall come with blazing crest^ 
 And many a giant armed for war ; 
 
 When from the sanguine-streaming West,. 
 Hell-flaming, speedeth Naglfar.* 
 
 II. 
 
 I was a daughter of the race 
 
 Of those old gods the Christians hurled 
 
 From their high heaven-hilled dwelling-place,. 
 Gladsheimr, poised above the world. 
 
 My mother was the fairest child 
 
 The Norse-land knew — so strangely fair. 
 
 The very gods looked down and smiled 
 At her clear eyes and lucent hair. 
 
 And Thor the Thunderer, enspelled 
 
 By hunger of a god's desire 
 For mortal love, came down, compelled 
 
 And did possess her like a fire. 
 
 * The enchanted ship, in which, according to the Norse 
 mythology, the Jotuns, or giants, and the demons that dwell 
 in Muspelheim (the land of fire) shall at the last day sail over 
 sea and land, led by the Fenris-wolf and the Rlidgard serpent, 
 to the assault of Asgard, the dwelling of the gods.
 
 THORGERDA. 25 
 
 And from the love of god and maid 
 There was a child of wonder born, 
 
 On whom the gods for guerdon laid 
 Gifts goodlier than lands and corn. 
 
 There was to her the queendom given 
 O'er all the sprites of earth and sea, 
 
 O'er every wind that rends the heaven, 
 All lightnings through the clouds that flee. 
 
 Gifts did they give to her for flight 
 
 Athwart the crystal waves of air, 
 To cleave the billows green and white 
 
 And float among the sea-nymphs fair. 
 
 Her eyes pierced all the veils of mist 
 
 And all the crannies of the sea : 
 There was no hill-cave but she wist 
 
 To master all its mystery. 
 
 And since she was the last of all 
 
 The godlike race upon the earth 
 That could endure the Christian's thrall, 
 
 Being so mingled in her birth,
 
 26 THORGERDA. 
 
 A spell was laid upon her life, 
 
 A charm of thunder and of fire, 
 That she should wage an endless strife, 
 
 For Thor the Thunderer's sake, her sire. 
 
 With that pale god, the Nazarene, 
 
 And all his servants on the earth. 
 Smite all their days with dole and teen 
 
 And waste their every work with dearth ; 
 
 For that alone by sea and land 
 She should do battle for the gods 
 
 And for the ^sir* champion stand, 
 
 Far banished from the green Norse sods. 
 
 That child was I, Thorgerda hight 
 
 For memory of my mighty sire, 
 The last one of those maids of might 
 
 That ruled the fiends of air and fire. 
 
 III. 
 I am the old gods' sword-bearer : 
 
 Upon this world of life and death, 
 Alone against the Christ I rear 
 
 The standard of the ancient faith : 
 
 * Aisir, the ISTorthem gods, so called from their supposed 
 Asian origin.
 
 THORGERDA. 27 
 
 I am their champion, that do wage 
 
 Unending and remorseless war 
 Against the new and barren age 
 
 That knows not Odin — no, nor Thor. 
 
 I am the witch of Norroway, 
 
 The sorceress that rides the blast, 
 That sends the whirlwind on its way 
 
 To rend the sail and snap the mast. 
 
 By day and night, by sea and land, 
 
 I wreak on men unnumbered ills ; 
 I hurl the thunder from my hand, 
 
 I pour the torrent from the hills. 
 
 I stand upon the height of heaven 
 And smite the world with pestilence ; 
 
 The Christ and his Archangels seven 
 Cannot prevail against me thence. 
 
 But more especially the night 
 
 Is given to me to work my will : 
 Therein, with ravening delight, 
 
 Of ruin red I take my fill.
 
 28 THORGERDA. 
 
 When as the sun across the wave 
 Has drawn the colour from the sky, 
 
 And o\er all the dead day's grave 
 
 The grisly night mounts wide and high,. 
 
 My heart throbs loud, my wings expand, 
 
 I rush, I soar into the air. 
 And, falcon-like, o'er sea and land. 
 
 Valley and hill, I fly and fare. 
 
 I hover o'er the haunts of men, 
 
 Above the white town-dotted coasts. 
 
 The hollow, moon-bemaddened glen, 
 Brimmed with the bodiless grey ghosts. 
 
 I scatter curses far and near, 
 
 I fill the air with deaths that fly : 
 
 The pale folk tremble as they hear 
 My rushing wings that hurtle by. 
 
 And often when the world is white 
 
 Beneath the moon, and all things sleep,. 
 
 I wake the storm-fiends in the night 
 And loose the whirlwind o'er the deep.
 
 THOKGERDA. 29 
 
 I sink the great ships on the sea, 
 
 I grip the seamen by the hair 
 And drag them strangHng down with me 
 
 To drown among the corals rare. 
 
 I bid the volleying thunders roar, 
 The lightnings leap^ the rushing rain 
 
 Swell up the sea against the shore, 
 To overwhelm the fated plain, 
 
 I stand upon the hills and hurl 
 
 The crashing thunderbolts afar, 
 Until the wild waves in their swirl •" 
 
 Blot out the sight of moon and star. 
 
 I slay the cattle in the stall, 
 
 I smite the sheep upon the fells ; 
 The great pines in the forest fall, 
 
 Stricken and blasted by my spells. 
 
 The Christians call upon their God, 
 
 That cannot ward them from my power : 
 
 No living thing dares stir abroad 
 When as I rule the midnight hour.
 
 THORGERDA. 
 
 No man that meets me in the night, 
 But he is numbered with the dead : 
 
 The world until the morning light 
 Is given to me for death and dread. 
 
 But when the break of morning-grey 
 The cloudwrack in the east divides 
 
 And wan and woeful comes the dav. 
 The tempest in my soul subsides ; 
 
 And weary with the night's turmoil, 
 I seek some middle mountain cave, 
 
 Where sleep falls down on me like oil 
 Poured out upon the whirling wave. 
 
 Or else I cleave the glancing glass 
 
 Of the still sea, and through the deep 
 
 Down to some sea-nymph's grotto pass, 
 Vv'hereas the quiet corals sleep, 
 
 Unheeding if the sky is blue 
 
 Or if the storm in heaven is seen : 
 
 No whisper of the wind sinks through 
 The ceiling of that deep serene.
 
 THORGERDA. 31 
 
 Sometimes, when heaven, frowning-browed, 
 Hangs o'er the earth a leaden dome, 
 
 I cleave the canopy of cloud 
 And in the middle tether roam ; 
 
 Seeking some token of my race, 
 
 Some sign to fill my void desire. 
 So haply I may see the face 
 
 Of Odin or my dreadful sire. 
 
 But vast and void the aether lies ; 
 
 My wings arouse no echo there. 
 Nor my songs, ringing through the skies, 
 
 Evoke an answer from the air. 
 
 Blank is the world : there seems no sign 
 
 Of all that was ; the days forget 
 The gods that drank the wonder-wine 
 
 Of Freya's* grapes whilere. And yet 
 
 Behind the setting, now and then, 
 I see a crown of flame and smoke 
 
 Burn up above the fiery fen 
 Wherein, until the sable cloak 
 
 * Freya, the Northern Venus, who prepared from grapes or 
 apples the drink that gave the gods eternal youth.
 
 32 THORGERDA. 
 
 Of Time from sea and land be torn 
 And the God's Twilight* fill the sky, 
 
 The Jotuns 'gainst the battle-morn 
 Forge weapons everlastingly. 
 
 And in my joumeyings through the night 
 Across the billows' rushing race, 
 
 IMidmost the main, far out of sight 
 Of land, I come upon a place 
 
 Where in mid-ocean, storm-possest, 
 When with the sky the stem sea wars, 
 
 The Snaket lifts up his horrid crest 
 And hisses to the pallid stars. 
 
 Bytimes, too, as cold-eyed I sail 
 Across the wastes of middle air, 
 
 A blithe breeze wafts aside the veil 
 
 Of clouds heaped up and floating there ; 
 
 And dimly through the rift of blue 
 Turrets and hill-peaks I discern. 
 
 And for a space behold anew 
 
 The golden gates of Asgard burn. 
 
 * Ragndrok, the end of the \\oi Id. 
 
 t The Midgaid-serpent, that lies coiled around the world.
 
 THORGERDA. 33 
 
 And as the vision grows, meseems 
 
 Valhalla rises, grey and wide ; 
 And dim and vast as thunder-dreams, 
 
 The old gods gather side by side. 
 
 Upon his throne of elfin gold 
 
 Allfather Odin sits : his beard 
 Streams o'er his bosom, fold on fold, 
 
 Like mosses on an oak bolt-seared. 
 
 And all the gods around him stand, 
 
 Forset, Frey, Balder — ay, the dead 
 Joined to the live, an awful band : 
 
 And in the midst, with drooping head. 
 
 The semblance of my mighty sire, 
 Leant on his hammer, stands apart, 
 
 His sunk eyes gleaming like the fire 
 
 That glows within some mountain's heart. 
 
 A golden glimmer cleaves the gloom ; 
 
 And momently, as if there rose 
 The sun upon some giant's tomb. 
 
 The haloed hair of Freya glows. 
 
 3
 
 34 THORGERDA. 
 
 On Odin's breast she lies and sleeps, 
 Whilst to his left, and to his right, 
 
 A Valkyr armed the wild watch keeps, 
 By Friga, sitting stern and white. 
 
 Anon a Raven* stirs and shakes 
 His sable wings athwart the hall ; 
 
 And for a second Freya wakes, 
 
 And in their sleep the gods stir all : 
 
 And Thor lifts up his sunken head 
 
 And poises in his shadowy hand 
 His awful hammer ; but, outspread. 
 
 Sleep falls again upon the band. 
 
 The Raven folds his wings anew ; 
 
 The gleam of Freya's hair fades out ; 
 And suddenly as first they drew. 
 
 The clinging cloud-wreaths fold about 
 
 The City of the sevenfold Hill. 
 
 But I am glad for many a year : 
 For I have seen the gods live still, 
 
 And looked on Thor the Thunderer. 
 
 * Odin was fabled to have two Ravens, Thought and Memory,, 
 who brought him tidings of all that went on in the world.
 
 THORGERDA. 35 
 
 And yet but seldom do the gods 
 
 Bow down unto my long desire : 
 But seldom in the sunset nods 
 
 Odin or Asa-Thor* my sire 
 
 Strides on before me through the din 
 Of thunders in the midnight wild ; 
 
 Nor on the hills the Nornast spin : 
 The gods are angry with their child. 
 
 Thor hides his visage from his maid 
 For that, some little space whilere 
 
 Of days and nights, aside she laid 
 Her mission terrible and fair 
 
 And stooped to love as women love, 
 But fiercelier far than woman can, 
 
 The eagle pairing with the dove, 
 
 The heaven-born mating with a man. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It chanced, one summer's night of blue, 
 When nought but stars in heaven were, 
 
 And, like a rain of pearls, the dew 
 Slid through the golden August air, 
 
 * The Asian Thor, the special title of the Thunder-god. 
 t Nomas, the Northern Fates.
 
 36 THORGERDA. 
 
 My wings had borne me from the sea 
 To where the curving down sloped slow 
 
 Into a cirque of lilied lea, 
 
 Whereon sheep wandered to and fro. 
 
 Laid in the lap of cliff and hill, 
 
 The velvet down seemed fast asleep 
 
 Save for the murmur of a rill 
 
 That trickled past the browsing sheep. 
 
 And now and then the herd-bells broke 
 The sleep of sound ; and faint and far, 
 
 The ripple of the sea-surge woke 
 A drowsy echo. Not a star 
 
 Twinkled ; but in the drowsy dream 
 Of hill and down, it was as if 
 
 No storm was aye ; and it did seem 
 No breakers roared behind the cliff. 
 
 The charm of peace that brooded there 
 Weighed on my wings ; and wearyvvise 
 
 I floated on the quiet air, 
 
 Under the dreamy evening skies.
 
 THORGERDA. 37 
 
 For momently the fierce delight 
 
 Of storm and vengeance died in me ; 
 
 And some desire rose in my spright 
 Of rest and peace in days to be. 
 
 I was aweary of long strife : 
 
 The passion of my awful sire, 
 That had informed my lonely life 
 
 To wreak on men his dread desire, 
 
 Seemed weakening in me ; and instead, 
 
 The earthly part in me arose, 
 Like to some fire that shows its head 
 
 Of flame above the boreal snows : 
 
 And as the keen heat melts the ice 
 
 And drives the winter-woe away, 
 So in my heart's fierce fortalice 
 
 Awhile the woman's wish held sway. 
 
 The godlike part in me awhile 
 
 Fainted; and in my woman's breast 
 
 The memory of my mother's smile 
 The empty place of hate possessed.
 
 38 THORGERDA. 
 
 And many a longing, vague and sweet, 
 Welled up like fountains in the spring : 
 
 My heart glowed with a human heat, 
 
 And in my thought new hopes took wing. 
 
 Wish woke in me to put away 
 
 The wonted stress of doom and power, 
 
 That gave me empire o'er the day 
 And night in every changing hour 
 
 And made my soul a scathing fire, 
 
 An immortality of death ; 
 And therewithal the soft desire 
 
 To breathe the kindly human breath, 
 
 To know the charm in life that lies, 
 To be no longer curst and lone, 
 
 To meet the glance of kindred eyes 
 And feel warm lips upon my own. 
 
 And as I wavered, half aswoon 
 With anguish of unformed desire, 
 
 The silver presence of the moon 
 
 Rose in the silence. High and higher
 
 THORGERDA. 39 
 
 Into the quiet sky she soared ; 
 
 And as she Ut the tranquil sheep 
 And the pale plain, upon the sward 
 
 I saw the shepherd lie asleep. 
 
 Upon a little knoll he lay, 
 
 With face upturned towards the sky, 
 Bareheaded : and the breeze at play 
 
 Stirred in his hair caressingly. 
 
 The sudden sight to me did seem 
 The clear fulfilment of my thought, 
 
 As if at ending of a dream 
 
 The half-seen hope to shape were wrought 
 
 And day informed the wish of night : 
 For he was young and passing fair, 
 
 A very angel of delight. 
 With sleep-sealed eyes and floating hair. 
 
 And as I gazed upon him, lo ! 
 
 The fierceness of die first love smote 
 The age-old ice in me with throe 
 
 On throe of passion : I forgot
 
 40 JHORGERDA. 
 
 My destiny in that sweet hour, 
 And all my birth had doomed me to, 
 
 AUfather Odin and his power. 
 The stars stood in that night of blue 
 
 And spoke of nought but love fulfilled, 
 And sweets of life with life new knit : 
 
 And through their glamour grave and stilled;. 
 Love spoke and bade me worship it 
 
 I could but yield : the hot blood welled 
 Like balms of fire through heart and brain 
 
 My every motion seemed compelled 
 To some strange ecstasy of pain, 
 
 So sharp and sweet the new wish was : 
 And as it grew, my tired wings closed, 
 
 And down I sank upon the grass, 
 
 Hard by the place where he reposed. 
 
 Then, drunken with a fearful bliss, 
 I clasped my arms about his breast,. 
 
 And in the passion of a kiss, 
 My lips upon his lips I press'd.
 
 THORGERDA. 41 
 
 The hot touch burnt me like a flame : 
 
 And he with a great start awoke 
 And (for sleep still his sense did claim 
 
 And the dream held him) would have broke 
 
 The prison of my clasping arms : 
 
 But could not, for aloud I cried 
 The softest, sweetest of my charms ; 
 
 And as I chanted, white and wide, 
 
 My glad uangs opened, and I rose 
 
 Into the middle midnight air, 
 Like some night-hawk that homeward goes^ 
 
 Bearing a culver to its lair. 
 
 The breeze sang past me, as I clave 
 
 The crystals of the sky serene ; 
 And presently the plashing wave 
 
 Sounded, and past the marge of green 
 
 The long blue lapses of the main 
 
 Swept to the dawnward, and the foam 
 
 Slid up and fled and rose again. 
 
 Like white birds wheeling in the gloam.
 
 42 THORGERDA. 
 
 Down through the deeps of yielding blue 
 I plunged with that fair youth I bore, 
 
 Harmless, until we sank unto 
 
 Where through the dusk the golden floor 
 
 And pearl-hung ceiling of a cave 
 Opened upon the sombre sea : 
 
 But by my charms the whirling wave 
 Drew back and left the entry free. 
 
 Therein upon a bank of sand, 
 
 Bordered with corals white and red, 
 
 I laid my lover. Cold his hand 
 Was, and his face cold as the dead, 
 
 And the lids fallen upon his eyes : 
 But soon my sorceries had drawn 
 
 The life back; and like some sweet skies 
 That break blue underneath the dawn, 
 
 His clear eyes opened on my own ; 
 
 The life-blood gathered in his cheek. 
 And gradually his sweet face shone, 
 
 And his lips moved as if to speak :
 
 THORGERDA. 43 
 
 For at the first he saw me not ; 
 
 But his eyes moved from side to side 
 •Of that pearl-floored and golden grot, 
 
 As if with wonder stupefied. 
 
 Then, as they rested on my place, 
 
 At first, the pallor of affright 
 Drew all the rose-blush from his face 
 
 And made its brilliance marble-white. 
 
 But soon, assured that I was fair, 
 
 (For of a truth new-born desire 
 Had bathed my beauty in a rare 
 
 Splendour as of ethereal fire) 
 
 A slow smile gathering on his lips 
 
 Broke into brightness, as the sun, 
 After some quickly-past eclipse, 
 
 Grows golden through the darkness dun. 
 
 His blue eyes glittered with soft light, 
 And on his forehead's lambent snow, 
 
 The angel of a new delight 
 Brooded with pinions all aglow.
 
 44 THORGERDA. 
 
 The passion in my veins that burned 
 Passed to his own like magic wine : 
 
 He raised himself with mouth that yearned 
 And eyes that fastened upon mine. 
 
 Then, as insensibly I drew 
 
 Nearer to him, moved by the spell, 
 
 About my neck his arms he threw, 
 And on each other's breast we fell. 
 
 * «! # # 
 
 * * * 
 
 * * 
 
 * 
 
 The dawn aroused me. To the dome 
 Of purple sea that ceiled our cave, 
 
 The lances of the light struck home 
 Across the emerald-hearted wave. 
 
 Through weed and pearl the sheer sun smote 
 And turned the gloom of middle sea 
 
 To liquid amber, mote on mote. 
 Threading the air with jewelry.
 
 THORGERDA. 45 
 
 And as the many-coloured rays 
 
 Played on his face, I leant my head 
 
 Upon my hand and fed my gaze 
 Upon my lover's goodlihead. 
 
 Long, long I gazed on him, entranced 
 
 With wonderment of dear delight, 
 Until the frolic motes, that glanced 
 
 Across his eyelids, waxed so bright 
 
 That needs his sleep must yield to it. 
 
 His fair face quivered, and his hand 
 Drew out of mine that folded it. 
 
 And then, as if some soft wind fanned 
 
 The petals of a flower apart, 
 
 That in their snowy bell confine 
 The dewy azure of its heart, 
 
 His blue eyes opened full on mine. 
 
 Once more the look of wonderment 
 Rose in their depths ; but ere it grew 
 
 Fulfilled, its faint beginning blent 
 Into a sun-sweet smile that knew
 
 46 THORGERDA. 
 
 No thought save of perfected love 
 And happiness too sweet for speech ; 
 
 And in that greeting our hands clove 
 And our lips grew each unto each. 
 
 Voices in the A ir. 
 
 We are glad for the golden birth of the noon, 
 
 We are filled with the fragrant breath of the breeze 
 The Day-god walks on the woof of the seas ; 
 
 The green deeps laugh to his shining shoon ; 
 
 And far in the fair sea-shadow the tune 
 Of harps and singings flutters and flees : 
 
 The sea-nymphs call us to follow soon, 
 To revel with them in the liquid leas. 
 
 All hail, sweet singers ! We follow fast ! 
 
 We follow to float on the white wave-run. 
 
 We stay but to finish the spells begun, 
 To rivet the chains of the bound en blast, 
 To seal the storm in the sea-caves vast 
 
 With the last few charms that are yet undone : 
 Then hey ! for the plains where the whale sails past 
 
 And the white sea-nixes sport in the sun !
 
 THORGERDA. 47 
 
 AU hail ! the sweet of the day is ours ! 
 
 Our wings are wet with the salt of the sea ! 
 
 Our task is over, our feet are free 
 To fare where the foam-bells shiver in showers 
 And the seaweeds glitter with glory of flowers. 
 
 The lines of the land do faint and flee : 
 We come to the heart of the mid-sea bowers 
 
 On the race of the running billows' glee ! 
 
 What power shall let us ? Our lives are light ; 
 
 Our hearts beat high with the laugh of the day ! 
 
 We have sundered our souls from the dawning grey : 
 We have done with the dream of the darksome night ; 
 We have set our face to the foam-line white, 
 
 To dream in the nooning the hours away, 
 Where the sea-swell heaves, and the spray is bright, 
 
 And the petrels wheel in the mid sea-way !
 
 48 THORGERDA. 
 
 The Witch. 
 
 My life put on from that sweet hour 
 Another nature : thence, no more 
 
 I thought to wield my baleful power, 
 Nor treasures of my dreadful lore. 
 
 There was no magic now for me 
 In stirring up the stormy strife 
 
 'Twixt heaven and earth and air and sea 
 The memory lapsed out of my life 
 
 Of my dread mission : faded out 
 Was all my passion of wild hate, 
 
 My WTath ancestral, like a rout 
 
 Of dreams, the sunbeams dissipate. 
 
 And I forgot the fearsome spell 
 
 That sealed my god-born life erewhen 
 
 With all the powers of hate and hell 
 To wreak the ^sir's curse on men.
 
 THORGERDA. 49 
 
 The vengeance of the gods unseen, 
 
 Whilom with such a fiery smart 
 Kindled against the Nazarene, 
 
 No longer rankled in my heart. 
 
 The old gods died out of my thought, 
 As though in me they had no share : 
 
 The change Love had within me wrought 
 Blotted the past-time from my air. 
 
 No more I roamed the affrighted night. 
 Smiting the haunts of men with death. 
 
 The hamlets stood, unharmed and white, 
 Unblasted of my burning breath. 
 
 No curses slew the wandering folk 
 
 Belated on the wild sea-moors : 
 No pines beneath the thunderstroke 
 
 Crashed down among the trembling boors. 
 
 The sea slept calm beneath the sun : 
 
 No spells of mine across the sky 
 Unloosed the storm-clouds red and dun, 
 
 Or hurled the thunders far and nigh. 
 
 4
 
 so THORGERDA. 
 
 But full and still the sunlight lay 
 Across the lapse of sea and land ; 
 
 Save for the dancing ripple's play, 
 No sea-surge thundered on the sand. 
 
 Love had transformed me : now I knew 
 None but his strife, no other bliss 
 
 Than in my lover's eyes of blue 
 To watch the coming of a kiss. 
 
 For him, I was an ocean-nymph, 
 One of the sweet fantastic kind, 
 
 That sport beneath the emerald lymph 
 And in their hair sea-corals wind. 
 
 Nought could his boyish wisdom read 
 Of my weird past within my eyes : 
 
 For aye with happy love indeed 
 
 They bathed in dreams of Paradise.. 
 
 And over all my haughty face 
 
 The glamour of the time had shed 
 
 A tender glow of timid grace. 
 
 The splendour of revengeful dread,.
 
 THORGERDA. 51 
 
 That once had marked me, was subdued 
 
 Into a glory faint and fair 
 That rayed out from my softer mood 
 
 Like sunshine in the April air. 
 
 VI. 
 
 All day within our cave we slept ; 
 
 And when the sunset's scarlet shoon 
 Over the happy heaven swept, 
 
 And in the faint-hued sky the moon 
 
 Mounted, — across the quiet land, 
 
 By hill and valley, wood and dale. 
 We wandered often, liand-in-hand, 
 
 Under the silver splendour pale. 
 
 And often, seated side by side, 
 
 Lost in each other's deep of eyes, 
 Insensibly the night would glide 
 
 Till morning glittered in the skies. 
 
 For nothing but our love we knew 
 
 In earth and air, in sky and sea ■. 
 No heaven to my gaze was blue 
 
 As that within his eyes for me. 
 
 4—2
 
 52 THORGERDA. 
 
 I could not tire of his fair sight : 
 
 Whenever on his face I fed 
 My eyes, the first supreme deh'ght 
 
 Relived in all its goodlihead. 
 
 And ever, when from sleep I woke 
 And saw him lying by my side, 
 
 The same sweet wonder on me broke 
 As when his beauty first I spied. 
 
 Ah me, how fair he was ! Meseems, 
 
 Since God made heaven and earth and air, 
 
 He hath not in His wildest dreams 
 Made any creature half so fair. 
 
 About his forehead's lambent pearl, 
 Blushed with the rose-tints of a shell, 
 
 The gold locks clustered, curl on curl. 
 Like daffodils about the bell 
 
 Of some fair haughty lil3--cup, 
 
 That in the marges of a wood 
 Lifts its broad snowy bosom up 
 
 And tempts the bees to light and brood.
 
 THORGERDA. 53. 
 
 And in its eyebrow's arching lines 
 
 Each deep-blue eye seemed, as it were, 
 
 A tarn dropped in a curve of pines, 
 Upon some snow-white mountain-stair. 
 
 What fruit was ever yet so sweet 
 
 As his sweet mouth, where day and night 
 
 For me failed never from his seat 
 The angel of fulfilled delight. 
 
 No sunlight glittered like the smile 
 
 That blossomed from his flower-cup lips ; 
 
 Whereat my thirsty soul the while 
 Did hover, as a bee that sips. 
 
 No snows of silver could compare 
 
 With the white splendour of his breast : 
 
 Whilst that my head lay pillowed there, ■ 
 No angel knew a sweeter rest. 
 
 His face to me was as a sun 
 
 That smote the winter-thoughts apart, 
 
 Scattering old memories every one, 
 
 And made new Springtime in my heart.
 
 54 THORGERDA. 
 
 Love had brought back the age of gold : 
 For me, a new and fairer birth 
 
 Had made me radiant, as of old 
 Ask* in the Paradisal earth. 
 
 It was as if a veil were drawn 
 That long had lain before my eyes : 
 
 Each hour upon ray sense did dawn 
 Some splendour new in earth and skies. 
 
 The pageants of the sundown burst, 
 A new delight, upon my sense : 
 
 And night was radiant as the first 
 That fell on Embla's* innocence. 
 
 The primrose-blooms of daybreak came, 
 A new enchantment to my soul : 
 
 And noontide, with its flowers of flame, 
 Like philters on my passion stole. 
 
 Till that sweet time, the silver Spring 
 Had come and waned without my heed : 
 
 Nor with its flush of blossoming, 
 A glory fallen on hill and mead, 
 
 * Ask and Embla, the Nortlieni Adam and Eve.
 
 THORGERDA. 55 
 
 The royal Summer had prevailed 
 To stir the frost-time in my breast : 
 
 Nor yet the Autumn crimson-mailed : 
 Winter alone my heart possess'd. 
 
 But now each change of land and sea, 
 Each cloud that glittered in the sky, 
 
 Each flower that opened on the lea, 
 Each calling bird that flitted by, 
 
 Woke in my breast a new concent 
 
 Of deep delicious harmony : 
 My soul was grown a lute that blent 
 
 Its note with all sweet sounds that be. 
 
 My heart was grown a singing fire 
 That with each hour a new sweet strain 
 
 Mixed with the many-mingling choir 
 Of birds and flowers, of sea and plain. 
 
 VII. 
 
 My memory fails to count the lapse 
 Of time that held our happiness : 
 
 So full a mist of glory wraps 
 
 Its golden hours, and such a stress
 
 $6 THORGERDA. 
 
 Of splendour folds it, that meseems 
 It might have been as time appears, 
 
 That in the dim delight of dreams 
 Holds in an hour a thousand years. 
 
 For all things yield to love fulfilled : 
 To those that walk in Paradise, 
 
 The falling feet of Time are stilled ; 
 They know not if he creeps or flies. 
 
 A moment to their spreading bliss 
 May pass a century away ; 
 
 Or in the passion of a kiss 
 A thousand years be as a day. 
 
 Ah me ! though I remembered not 
 The seal my birth on me had set, 
 
 The wrath of Him that me begot 
 And the old gods did not forget. 
 
 For evermore some omen sent 
 
 A thrill of anguish through my soul : 
 
 Some levin through the clear sky rent ;. 
 Thor on the mountain-tops did roll.
 
 THORGERDA. 57 
 
 And now and then, on our delight, 
 
 Across the amber wave would fall 
 The shadow of a raven's flight : 
 
 The great gods on their child did call 
 
 In wailing voices of the storm ; 
 
 And in the sunset's gold and red, 
 Methought T saw the Thunderer's form 
 
 Grow in the gloaming, dim and dread. 
 
 But no sign rankled in my mind : 
 
 Love so possessed my heart and brain, 
 
 All else was but an idle wind, 
 
 A passing breath of summer rain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 One night, when not a zephyr's breath 
 Broke on the deep delicious swoon 
 
 Of hill and plain, and still as death, 
 
 The white world slept beneath the moon, 
 
 We tracked the quiet stream, that made 
 Its silver furrow through the strand 
 
 And fell into the sea that played, 
 Lapping, upon the curving sand,
 
 58 THORGERDA. 
 
 Up through wild wood and fern-grown fell 
 To where, — a silver thread across 
 
 The weeded pebbles, — like a bell, 
 
 Its fountain trickled through the moss. 
 
 And parting back the lush sweet growth 
 Of waterweeds, — that there did cling, 
 
 As if the rivulet were loath 
 
 To yield the secret of its spring, — 
 
 Climbing through reed and fern, we found 
 Where at the last the young spring shot 
 
 Its spire of silver from the ground, 
 Midmost a virgin forest-grot. 
 
 The clustered clematis hung there, 
 Trailed curtain-like the place before. 
 
 As if some wood-nymph with her hair 
 Had made the grot a fairy door : 
 
 And through the tangle wild and sweet 
 Of woodbind and convolvulus, 
 
 The silver streamlet, in a sheet 
 Of crystal multitudinous.
 
 THORGERDA. 59 
 
 Poured arched above the entering, 
 And curving down athwart the roof, 
 
 Along the pearly floor did sing. 
 Threading between a tangled woof 
 
 Of moss and stonecrop, till it slid 
 
 Into a cranny of the stone, 
 wherein it seemed the Naiad hid, 
 
 On green of leafage laid alone. 
 
 The place was sweet with jasmine-breath : 
 
 Across the silver- spangled grail, 
 Starred with blue blossoms, wreath on wreath, 
 
 Pervinck and saxifrage did trail. 
 
 And in the ultimate recess 
 
 A crowding growth of fragrant thyme 
 Had made a couch, such as might press 
 
 Some huntress-maid of olden rhyme. 
 
 The falling fountain of the stream 
 
 Alone the charmed silence broke. 
 Like bell-chimes hearkened in a dream. 
 
 Unknowing if one slept or woke.
 
 6o THORGERDA. 
 
 The drowsy sweetness of the place 
 
 Stole on our sense ; and. we, content, 
 Gave up ourselves unto that grace 
 
 And mingling charm of sound and scent- 
 Reclined upon that fragrant bed, 
 
 We lay embraced, perceiving not 
 Aught but the spell of slumber shed 
 
 From all that sleep-enchanted grot. 
 
 And soon the tinkle of the spring 
 
 And the soft cloud of woodland scents, 
 
 That in the dreamy air did cling, 
 
 Laid hands of balm upon our sense : 
 
 And sleep fell down upon our eyes, 
 
 As softly and unconsciously 
 As noontide from the August skies 
 
 Falls on the ripple of the sea. 
 
 He first did yield him to the charms 
 Of that sweet sleep ; and I awhile 
 
 Lay gazing on him ; till mj- arms 
 
 Relaxed, and in my thought his smile
 
 THORGERDA. 6i 
 
 Blent with a dream of summer days ; 
 
 And his face seemed to me a flower 
 That from the marging woodland ways 
 
 Burns in the golden midday hour. 
 
 And so sleep fell upon me too ; 
 
 The grot died out before my sight : 
 But yet the stream- song did pursue 
 
 My slumbrous senses, like some light 
 
 Chime of sweet bells in Faerie, 
 
 Threading upon a silver string 
 Of mingling dreams its rosary 
 
 Of pearls. But as the crystal ring 
 
 Murmured unceasing in my ear, 
 
 Dulled with the dream, meseemed it grew 
 Slowly less sweet, less silver-clear : 
 
 A change across my spirit drew ; 
 
 And gradually, — as with those 
 
 Upon whose head slow water drops, 
 
 Unceasing, till the soft fall grows 
 An anguish horrible, that stops
 
 62 THORGERDA. 
 
 The pulse of life, — so in my brain 
 The ceaseless sound of that soft stream 
 
 Waxed to a terror and a pain 
 
 Within the chambers of the dream. 
 
 Methought at first it was a knell 
 That sounded for Love's funeral : 
 
 And then, again, its tinkle fell 
 
 Like storm-waves on a cavern wall : 
 
 But ever loudlier ; until 
 
 It was the distant-seeming roar 
 
 Of thunder, over wood and hill 
 Growing and nearing evermore. 
 
 Louder and nearer still it came, 
 Until meseemed above my head 
 
 The bolts broke, and the lightning's flame 
 Tore up the heaven with rifts of red. 
 
 And in the dream I heard the car 
 Of Thor across the hill-tops roll, 
 
 Shaking to ruin every star : 
 The world trembled from pole to pole
 
 THORGERDA. 
 
 With that fierce clamour, and the air 
 Rang with the startled nightbirds' cries. 
 
 And as I lay and listened there, 
 
 The Thunderer hurled across the skies 
 
 His awful hammer. Full and straight, 
 Meseemed it clove the screaming heaven, 
 
 Ruddy as flame, and fierce as fate, 
 Full at my lover's brow was driven. 
 
 Down at my very feet it fell, 
 
 Flaming, and cleft the quaking ground 
 Down to the inmost heart of hell : 
 
 And from the rift, a roaring sound 
 
 Of fires innumerous burst into 
 The midnight air : the very core 
 
 Of the abysmal Avorld shone blue 
 And awful. Then again a roar 
 
 Of thunders unendurable 
 
 The cloisters of the ?ether broke, 
 
 So terrible that the dream-spell 
 Was cloven away, and I awoke.
 
 64 THORGERDA. 
 
 IX. 
 The grot was still, save for the sound 
 
 Of waters whispering through the air ; 
 The moonlight lay along the ground 
 
 And lit my lover sleeping there. 
 
 The terror of the dream possess'd 
 My waking sense : with fearful ear 
 
 I listened, half affrighted lest 
 
 Some horror should be drawing near. 
 
 But not a breath the stillness clave : 
 The wind was silent : even the sea 
 
 Bore not thus far its rippling wave, 
 And the birds slept on bush and tree. 
 
 Perfected peace held everything. 
 
 And yet there lingered in my head 
 The terror of remembering : 
 
 A cold sweat over me was shed, 
 
 And my heart fainted in my breast : 
 I could not conquer with my will 
 
 The tremors that upon me press'd, 
 The thrill of thunders echoing still.
 
 THORGERDA. 
 
 Some fearful presence seemed to brood 
 Above the place. Its every nook 
 
 Was lit with moonlight : yet I could 
 Awhile not lift my head to look. 
 
 At last, moved by some hidden spell, 
 I raised my eyes from off the floor ; 
 
 And where the middle moonlight fell, 
 I saw a shadow in the door. 
 
 I could nor speak nor move for fear : 
 I could but gaze ; and as I gazed, 
 
 The shadow darkened and drew near, 
 
 And from its depths two great eyes blazed 
 
 Like fiery stars. Darker it grew 
 And taller, till the cave was filled 
 
 With the weird presence, and I knew 
 The awful shape of him that killed 
 
 Skadnir ;* for now the dusk had ta'en 
 
 Terror and beauty ; and before 
 My shrinking sight there stood again 
 
 The figure of the Thunderer Thor, 
 
 A Norse Titan, who scaled Asgard and was slain by Tlior. 
 
 5
 
 66 THORGERDA. 
 
 Leant on his hammer. Not a word 
 Came from the god's lips ; but his eyes 
 
 Blazed like a bale-fire. On the ground 
 I crouched before him, suppliant-wise, 
 
 With hands outstretched in silent dread : 
 For in the terror of his look 
 
 The anger of the gods I read, 
 
 As in some judgment-angel's book. 
 
 But still his eyes of changeless flame 
 Burnt on my own ; and as they shot 
 
 Their splendours on me, a strange shame 
 Rose in me, for that I forgot 
 
 The great gods banished from the earth. 
 The anguish of my mighty sire 
 
 And all the passion of my birth, 
 To follow forth a weak desire. 
 
 And as I looked upon him, still 
 The fulgent glory of his gaze 
 
 My every vein and thought did thrill 
 With memories of the olden days.
 
 THORGERDA. 67 
 
 Before their searching light meseemed 
 The earthly part fled forth from me ; 
 
 And it was but as if I dreamed 
 Love and its human ecstasy. 
 
 The woman's weakness of desire 
 Forsook my brain j and in its stead, 
 
 The old divine revengeful fire 
 
 Rose up within me, fierce and red. 
 
 Once more the wild wrath in me burned, 
 
 The passion of ancestral rage : 
 And once again my spirit yearned 
 
 To loose the storm-winds from their cage, 
 
 To cleave the quiet air with doom, 
 To ride the thunder through the sky, 
 
 To chase the Christians to the tomb 
 With lightnings darting far and nigh. 
 
 Then as I rose, dreadful and fair 
 
 With that new fearfulness of birth, 
 The Thunder god waxed brighter there, 
 
 Until it seemed the cowering earth 
 
 5—2
 
 68 THORGERDA. 
 
 Trembled beneath his flaming sight. 
 
 To me he beckoned, and I grew 
 In stature to my godlike height ; 
 
 And still my steps to him he drew. 
 
 And as I strode out of the grot 
 
 And stood beneath the quiet moon, 
 
 Behold, I looked and saw him not : 
 But in the sky, rune upon rune. 
 
 The stars, in characters of blood, 
 Shone like a scroll of fate and fear : 
 
 And as possessed there I stood, 
 I heard the thunder drawing near. 
 
 Then like some fierce volcanic sea. 
 The weird possession of my race 
 
 Rose, myriad-minded, up in me. 
 
 One after one, like hawks that chase 
 
 Each other through the quivering air. 
 The spells, that startle from their rest 
 
 The tempest-demons in their lair, 
 Burst up, tumultuous, from my breast.
 
 THORGERDA. 69 
 
 And as they winged it south and north, 
 The thunder broke across the sky : 
 
 The snakes of doom shot hissing forth, 
 Crested with bale-fires blue and high. 
 
 And from the rifted clouds, that shone 
 Livid with sulphur-flames, there fell 
 
 Rain, hail and many a blazing stone. 
 As though to the sheer heaven hell ■ 
 
 Had leapt, and surging o'er the world 
 
 Like to a canopy of doom, 
 Upon the cowering valleys hurled 
 
 The fires and furies of its womb. 
 
 Then my wings spread out wide and white ; 
 
 And through the turmoil I had made. 
 Drunk with wild wrath, into the night 
 
 I mounted. ISLiny a meteor played, 
 
 Crown-like, about my haughty head : 
 
 And as across the sky I swept, 
 Like serpents following where I led, 
 
 Around my path the lightnings leapt
 
 70 THORGERDA. 
 
 From every corner of the sky 
 
 I heard the rush of flaming wings : 
 
 The fiends across the world did fly, 
 And the air teemed with fearful things. 
 
 All demons in the earth that dwell 
 Or in the caverns of the sea 
 
 Gathered : the grisly ghouls of hell, 
 And all the monstrous shapes that be 
 
 Within the air and in the fire 
 
 Flocked to my call, to wTeak on men 
 
 The deadly passion of my sire 
 
 And the old gods : and now and then. 
 
 As, on the pinions of the wind, 
 Among the dragons I did stride, 
 
 With hair that flamed out far behind, 
 Methought I saw the Valkyrs ride. 
 
 And I the while chanted aloud 
 My sternest sorceries and hurled 
 
 My deadliest charms abroad and strowed 
 A rain of ruin on the world.
 
 THORGERDA. 
 
 Each word I sang, each sign I made, 
 Was fraught with terror and affright. 
 
 Obedient, the levins rayed, 
 
 The hailstones hurtled through the night. 
 
 A flood of fierce destruction rained 
 
 Upon the terror-stricken earth : 
 The hosts of hell were all unchained 
 
 To whelm the world with death and dearth. 
 
 The ocean burst its age-old bounds 
 
 And rushed upon the shuddering shore : 
 
 As 'twere a herd of demon-hounds, 
 The whirling waves did leap and roar. 
 
 And soon no limit marked the place 
 
 Where the sea was and where the plain ; 
 
 But over all the prospect's face, 
 The raging waters spread amain. 
 
 X. 
 
 And so all night I rode the blast; 
 
 And all night long, spell upon spell, 
 Rang, trumpet-sounded, fierce and fast, 
 
 My summons to the host of hell.
 
 72 THORGERDA. 
 
 Until across the lurid gloom 
 
 A streak of wavering white was drawn, 
 And like a grey ghost from the tomb, 
 
 Arose the pale phantasmal dawn. 
 
 Then from the world my sorcery ceased ; 
 
 The demons vanished to the dead ; 
 And at the token in the East, 
 
 The sullen ocean sought its bed. 
 
 Into the night the thunders died. 
 With wailing echoes o'er the hills ; 
 
 And all the snakes of lightning vied 
 In flight before the morning's sills. 
 
 And then the pallid sun arose. 
 Ghastly with horror : like a flame 
 
 On funerals its light that throws. 
 Across the wasted world it came. 
 
 Beneath its rays the earth spread cold 
 And stark as in the swoon of death : 
 
 The flocks lay dead upon the wold, 
 The cattle lifeless on the heath.
 
 THORGERDA. 73 
 
 7'he homesteads lay in ruined heaps 
 Or stood a void of sea-stained stone, 
 
 Save where upon the mountain-steeps 
 Some bolt-seared castle rose alone. 
 
 And everywhere the folk lay dead, 
 
 Mother by daughter, sire by son : 
 No live thing seemed to lift its head 
 
 Under the epicedial sun. 
 
 Save where, perchance, a shivering group 
 
 Of peasants on some lofty crest, 
 \\'hither for safety they did troop, 
 
 Each against each in terror press'd. 
 
 No bird-songs hailed the hopeless morn : 
 The thrush sat dead upon the tree ; 
 
 The lark lay drowned among the corn. 
 The cuckoo blasted on the lea. 
 
 The forests lay in tangled lines, 
 
 Smitten against the ravaged ground ; 
 
 And out to sea, great rooted pines 
 
 Whirled in the eddies round and round.
 
 74 THORGERDA. 
 
 Upon its seething breast, as 'twere 
 The trophies of that night of fear, 
 
 The hollow-sounding ocean bare 
 
 The drowned folk floating far and near. 
 
 Upon the waves their lank hair streamed 
 Like weeds ; and in their open eyes, 
 
 As on the surge they rocked, meseemed 
 I saw the dreams of death arise. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Above the wrack of death and dread 
 I floated — like some bird of prey, 
 
 Worn with long rapine— in the dead 
 And stillness of the growing day. 
 
 And in my heart the fierce delight 
 Of ruin and destruction waned ; 
 
 The drunken madness of the night 
 Ebbed ; and but weariness remained. 
 
 Landward my tired wings carried me. 
 Following the rill, that now no more, 
 
 A silver ribbon, joined the sea, 
 But swollen into a torrent's roar,
 
 THORGERDA. 75 
 
 Swept raging o'er its rocky bed : 
 
 And as I floated, knowing not 
 Whither, I saw that chance had led 
 
 My pinions to the river-grot. 
 
 All bare it lay : the raging wave 
 
 Had stripped the creepers from the stone, 
 And in the opening of the cave 
 
 The rocky pillars overthrown. 
 
 The silver singing fountain-thread 
 
 Trickled no longer from the door, 
 An arching crystal : in its stead, 
 
 A foaming flood of water tore 
 
 The clinging clematises' woof. 
 
 The place lay open to the sky ; 
 For in the storm the rocky roof 
 
 Was cloven and scattered far and nigh. 
 
 And as I looked upon the waste 
 Of what had been so fair a place, 
 
 With all its beauty now erased, 
 The memory of my lover's face
 
 76 THORGERDA. 
 
 Smote on my spirit suddenly ; 
 
 And in that flash of backward thought, 
 Remembrance startled up in me 
 
 Of all the change the night had wrought. 
 
 The anguish of past love again 
 
 Revived in me ; and mad with fear 
 
 And love foreboding, I was fain 
 To call upon him, loud and clear. 
 
 Across the air my shrill cries rang ; 
 
 But no voice answered to my own : 
 Only the calling echoes' clang 
 
 Rose up and died from rock and stone. 
 
 Again I called him by his name ; 
 
 And still across the quivering air 
 The hollow-sounding echoes came. 
 
 For sole response to my despair. 
 
 Then, dazed with agonized affright, 
 I plunged into the surging wave, 
 
 That filled up to its utmost height 
 The hollow bosom of the cave ;
 
 THORGERDA. 77 
 
 And in the water-darkened grot, 
 With trembling hands and pallid face, 
 
 Madly I sought but long found not 
 My lover in that mournful place. 
 
 At last, as in the dusk I groped — 
 
 Probing each innermost recess, 
 To find I scarce knew what I hoped 
 
 Or feared — a floating tangled tress 
 
 Caught in my hands, as 'twere a weed 
 
 That in its flight the water bare : 
 But as I looked, I saw indeed 
 
 It was my lover's golden hair. 
 
 Then diving through the pool of foam, 
 
 I saw, upon a mossy bed 
 That wavered in the watery gloam. 
 
 Where lay my lover drowned and dead. 
 
 Dead by my hand ! In my embrace 
 I caught his cold form hard and close ; 
 
 And spurning back the water's race, 
 Up to the outer air I rose.
 
 78 THORGERDA. 
 
 And with all swiftness of my flight, 
 
 Across the desolated plain 
 I bore him, lying still and white, 
 
 Unto my cave beneath the main. 
 
 There as the 'reaved lioness 
 
 Moans, raging, o'er her stricken young. 
 Long days and nights my arms did press 
 
 The dead, and on his neck I hung. 
 
 And all my sorceries I essayed, 
 If haply some imperious spell 
 
 The gentle spirit might persuade 
 Asiain in that fair form to dwell. 
 
 ^iy- 
 
 And many a fierce and forceful prayer 
 Unto the gods I cried and said, 
 
 That for my service and despair 
 
 They would but give me back my dead. 
 
 But every charm was all in vain; 
 
 And to my prayers no answer came : 
 Only above the rippling main 
 
 Murmured in mockery, aye the same.
 
 THORGERDA. 79 
 
 At last, worn weary of my life 
 
 For uselessness of prayer and spell, 
 
 I did forsake the empty strife 
 
 'Gainst death ; and on the nymphs that dwell 
 
 In every coral-wroughten cave 
 
 And every pearl and golden hall 
 That lies beneath the whirling wave, 
 
 With one last effort I did call. 
 
 Then came they and with hallowing hands 
 
 Bathed him in savours of the sea, 
 Wound his fair breast with silken bands 
 
 jMade potent with strange balsamry. 
 
 And many a sweet and secret verse 
 And many a rude and antick rhyme — 
 
 Fraught with a spell — they did rehearse 
 About the dead, that — till the time 
 
 When like the flaming of a scroll 
 
 The heaven and earth shall pass away — 
 
 His perfect body fair and whole 
 Should know no vestige of decay.
 
 So THORGERDA. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Since then, the gods have seized again 
 Their full imperial sway on me : 
 
 For evermore, in heart and brain, 
 I am their maid by land and sea : 
 
 I am their servant day and night 
 To work on men their wrathful will, 
 
 To stand their champion in the fight 
 Against the Nazarene, until 
 
 That unimaginable day, 
 
 When in the throes of death and birth 
 The olden gods shall pass away ; 
 
 When from the sea a new green earth 
 
 Shall rise, where in a glorious band, 
 Transfigured and regenerate. 
 
 The new-born heavenly ones shall stand 
 Before a new Valhalla's gate : 
 
 When I, content with ended strife. 
 Shall with my glorious kindred die, 
 
 Haply to live with a new life 
 In a new Asgard of the sky.
 
 THORGERDA. 8i 
 
 But lo ! the night draws on apace ; 
 
 The sun is sunken in the west ; 
 And in the clouds meseems I trace 
 
 The scarlet-burning Serpent's crest 
 
 Hurled up against the heaven. The flame 
 Of the gods' ^^Tath burns up in me ; 
 
 And through my veins a searching shame 
 Surges and will not set me free. 
 
 The maddening memory of my fall 
 From the gods' service to the deep 
 
 Of woman's weakness, in the gall 
 Of bitterness my soul doth steep. 
 
 And as I call back to my thought 
 
 The time when I awhile resigned 
 Myself to love, my heart is wrought 
 
 To rage, and wrath grips on my mind. 
 
 The bygone love for one man turns 
 
 To hate against the world of men : 
 Within my soul the old fire burns. 
 
 The thirst for ruin swells again. 
 
 6
 
 82 THORGERDA. 
 
 Across the gathering gloom of sky 
 
 The dun clouds mass ; and back and forth 
 
 See where the calling ravens fly 
 East unto west and south to north. 
 
 And lo ! where in the sunset cloud, 
 
 Red as a sacrificial fire, 
 The form of Odin, thunder-browed, 
 
 Beckons unto my dread desire. 
 
 I know those signs : the old gods call 
 
 Upon their daughter to arise 
 From sloth, and on the storm-wind's spall, 
 
 To ride the tempest through the skies. 
 
 The thunder wakens : Odin nods, 
 And the sky blackens o'er the main : 
 
 My wings spread out : I come, great gods ! 
 Your maid is wholly yours again !
 
 THORGERDA. 83 
 
 Voices in the Air. 
 
 The soft skies darken ; 
 
 The night draws near ; 
 I lie and hearken ; 
 For in my ear 
 The land bf eeze rustles across the mere ; 
 The corby croons on the haunted brere. 
 
 The sea has shrouded 
 
 The dying sun; 
 The air is clouded 
 
 With mist-wreaths dun : 
 The gold lights flicker out one by one : 
 The day is ended, the night begun. 
 
 6—2
 
 S4 THORGERDA. 
 
 The pale stars glisten ; 
 
 The moon comes not : 
 I lie and listen 
 I know not what : 
 Meseems the breath of the air is hot, 
 As though some levin across it shot. 
 
 The petrels flutter 
 
 Along the breeze : 
 A moaning mutter 
 Is on the seas : 
 A strange light over the billows flees ; 
 The air is full of a va2:ue unease. 
 
 ^t)^ 
 
 Alas, sweet sister, 
 
 What fear draws nigh ? 
 What witch-lights glister 
 Athwart the sky ? 
 My heart with terror is like to die ; 
 And some spell holds me : I cannot fly. 
 
 Was that the thunder ? 
 
 A strange sound fled 
 And fainted under 
 
 The Westward red
 
 THORGERDA. 85 
 
 My weak wings fail me for dint of dread ; 
 The silence weighs on my weary head. 
 
 O help me, sweetest ! 
 
 Of all our race 
 Thou that art fleetest 
 And most of grace ! 
 The dread of the night draws on apace, 
 And we are far from our resting-place. 
 
 Lo, there a levin ! 
 
 From shore to shore 
 Of midmost heaven 
 Hell-bright it tore ! 
 And hark, the thunder ! on heaven's floor 
 It breaks and volleys in roar on roar. 
 
 The witch ! She rises 
 Higher and higher ! 
 The gleam of her eyes is 
 A blue bale-fire. 
 Her stern face surges; her wings aspire; 
 Her gold hair flames like a funeral pyre.
 
 86 7H0RGERDA. 
 
 Her incantations 
 Are in the air : 
 From out their stations 
 On heaven's stair 
 The angels flutter in wild despair ; 
 The clouds catch fire at her floating hair. 
 
 Her spells have blotted 
 The stars from sight ; 
 The sea is clotted 
 
 With foam-wreaths white : 
 The storm-clouds shut out the heaven's light 
 Hell's peoples gather across the night. 
 
 The sea grows higher, 
 
 And evermore 
 The storm draws nigher, 
 The billows roar : 
 The levins lighten us o'er and o'er ; 
 The fire-bolts hurtle on sea and shore. 
 
 Is there no fleeing ? 
 
 Sweet sister, speak. 
 Hearing and seeing 
 
 Grow dim and weak.
 
 THORGERDA. 87 
 
 Is't grown too late and too far to seek 
 The land and the grot by the little creek ? 
 
 I see death hover ; 
 
 I cannot fly : 
 Is all hope over ? 
 And must we die ? 
 My voice is failing : I can but sigh : 
 Can this be death that is drawing nigh ? 
 
 I call her vainly ; 
 
 She answers not : 
 Alas ! too plainly 
 The cause I wot. 
 Her sweet face sleeps in the dim sea-grot : 
 The sea snakes over her bosom knot 
 
 The weed is clinging 
 Her locks among ; 
 The sea is singing 
 Her wild death-song : 
 Farewell, sweet sister ! but not for long : 
 Upon me also the death-chills throng.
 
 88 THORGERDA. 
 
 The stern sea surges 
 
 Against the sky; 
 Like sobbing dirges 
 The wild winds sigh ; 
 My sea-drenched wings all powerless lie ; 
 The light is fading from heart and eye. 
 
 The billows thunder ; 
 
 The foam-bells flee : 
 My head sinks under 
 The raging sea : 
 The life is fainting, is failing me : 
 I come, sweet sister, I come to thee !
 
 A BIRTHDAY SONG. 
 
 T^HE rose-time and the roses 
 Call to me, dove of mine ; 
 I hear the birdsong-closes 
 
 Ring out in the sunshine ; 
 In all the wood-reposes 
 
 There runs a magic wine 
 
 Of music all divine. 
 
 All things have scent and singing ; 
 The happy earth is ringing 
 
 With praise of love and June : 
 
 Have I alone no tune, 
 No sound of music-making 
 To greet my love's awaking 
 
 This golden summer noon ?
 
 90 A BIRTH DA V SONG. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah, love ! my roses linger 
 For sunshine of thine eyes ; 
 
 For Love the music-bringer, 
 My linnets wait to rise ; 
 
 All dumb are birds and singer : 
 The song in kisses dies 
 And sound of happy sighs. 
 
 What need of songs and singing, 
 When love for us is ringing 
 
 Bells of enchanted gold ? 
 
 Dear, whilst my arms enfold 
 My love, our kisses fashion 
 Tunes of more perfect passion 
 
 Than verses new or old.
 
 VIRELAY. 
 
 A S I sate sorrowing, 
 
 Love came and bade me sing 
 A joyous song and meet : 
 For see (said he) each thing 
 Is merry for the Spring, 
 
 And every bird doth greet 
 The break of blossoming, 
 That all the woodlands ring 
 Unto the young hours' feet 
 
 Wherefore put off defeat 
 And rouse thee to repeat 
 
 The chime of merles that go, 
 With flutings shrill and sweet, 
 In every green retreat,
 
 92 VIRELA V. 
 
 The tune of streams that flow 
 And mark the young hours' beat 
 With running ripples fleet 
 
 And breezes soft and low. 
 
 For who should have, I trow, 
 Such joyance in the glow 
 
 And pleasance of the May — 
 In all sweet bells that blow. 
 In death of winter's woe 
 
 And birth of Springtide gay, 
 When in wood-walk and row 
 Hand-link'd the lovers go — 
 
 As he to whom alway 
 
 God giveth, day by day, 
 To set to roundelay 
 
 The sad and sunny hours — 
 To weave into a lay 
 Life's golden years and grey, 
 
 Its sweet and bitter flowers — 
 To sweep, with hands that stray 
 In many a devious way, 
 
 Its harp of sun and showers ?
 
 VIRELA Y. 93 
 
 5 
 
 Nor in this life of ours, 
 Whereon the sky oft lowers, 
 
 Is any lovelier thing 
 Than in the wild wood bowers 
 The cloud of green that towers 
 
 The blithe birds welcoming 
 The vivid vernal hours 
 Among the painted flowers 
 
 And all the pomp of Spring. 
 
 True, hfe is on the wing, 
 And all the birds that sing 
 
 And all the flowers that be 
 Amid the glow and ring, 
 The pomp and glittering 
 
 Of Spring's sweet pageantry, 
 Haveliere small sojourning; 
 And all our sweet hours bring 
 
 Death nearer, as they flee. 
 
 Yet this thing learn of me : 
 The sweet hours fair and free 
 That we have had of yore, 
 The fair things we did see, 
 The linked melody
 
 94 VIRELA y. 
 
 Of waves upon the shore 
 That rippled in their glee, 
 Are not lost utterly, 
 
 Though they return no more. 
 
 But in the true heart's core 
 Thought treasures evermore 
 
 The tune of birds and breeze ; 
 And there the slow years store 
 The flowers our dead Springs wore 
 
 And scent of blossomed leas ; 
 There murmurs o'er and o'er 
 The sound of woodlands hoar 
 
 With newly burgeoned trees. 
 
 So for the sad soul's ease 
 Remembrance treasures these 
 
 Against time's harvesting, 
 That so — when mild Death frees 
 The soul from Life's disease 
 
 Of strife and sorrowing — 
 In glass of memories 
 The new hope looks and sees 
 
 Through death a brighter Spring.
 
 ALOE-BLOSSOM. 
 
 T IFE stayed for me within a breach of days, 
 
 Sundered athwart the grey and rocky years : 
 Above, the day was dim to me for fears 
 
 And memories of the many-chasmed ways 
 
 Through which my feet had struggled. At amaze, 
 Silent I stood and listened with wade ears, 
 As for the coming of some Fate that nears 
 
 At last across the moon-mist and the haze. 
 
 The haggard earth lay speechless at my feet ; 
 But as I waited, suddenly there came 
 Within me as the flowering of a flame ; 
 
 And like the mystic bud that bursts to meet 
 Its hundredth Spring with thunder and acclaim, 
 
 Love flowered upon me, terrible and sweet.
 
 RONDEAU REDOUBLE. 
 
 A/T Y day and night are in my lady's hand ; 
 I have no other sunrise than her sight : 
 
 For me her favour glorifies the land ; 
 Her anger darkens all the cheerful light, 
 Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, 
 
 When all a-flower in May the hedge-rows stand 
 Whilst she is kind, I know of none affright : 
 
 My day and night are in my lady's hand. 
 
 All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned : 
 
 Her smile is softer than the Summer night, 
 Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand : 
 
 I have no other sunrise than her sight. 
 
 Her silver speech is like the singing flight 
 Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand. 
 
 Her kiss, a dream of delicate delight ; 
 For me her favour glorifies the land.
 
 RONDEA U REDO UBL^. SI 
 
 What if the Winter slay the Summer bland ! 
 
 The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright : 
 If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned ; 
 
 Her anger darkens all the cheerful light 
 
 Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight 
 And in her service every ill withstand : 
 
 Love is my lord, in all the world's despite, 
 And holdeth in the hollow of his hand 
 My day and night.
 
 AZIZEH'S TOMB. 
 
 T PASSED by a ruined tomb in the midst of a 
 
 garden-way, Upon whose letterless stone 
 
 seven blood-red anemones lay. 
 " Who sleeps in this unmarked grave ?" I said ; and 
 
 the earth, " Bend low ; For a lover lies here 
 
 and waits for the Resurrection Day." 
 '•' God keep thee, O victim of love !" I cried, " and 
 
 bring thee to dwell In the highest of all the 
 
 heavens of Paradise, I pray ! 
 "■ How wretched are lovers all, even in the sepulchre, 
 
 For their very tombs are covered with ruin 
 
 and decay ! 
 " I-o ! if I might, I would plant thee a garden round 
 
 about. And with my streaming tears the thirst 
 
 of its flowers allay !" 
 
 ' From the Arabic.
 
 DREAM-LIFE. 
 
 T T seems to me sometimes that I am dead 
 
 And watch t!ic live world in its ceaseless stream 
 Pass by me through the pauses of a dream. 
 
 The dawn breaks blue on them, the sunset's red 
 
 Burns on their smiles and on the tears they shed ; 
 The moonlight floods them with its silver gleam : 
 To me they are as ghosts that do but seem ; 
 
 Their grief is strange to me, their gladness dread. 
 
 Life lapses, like a vision dim and gre)', 
 
 Before my sight, a cloud- wrack in the sky : 
 Since I am dead I can no longer die : 
 Ah, can it be this doom is laid on me^, 
 To see the tired world slowly pass awa}-, 
 Nor die, but live on everlasting!}- ?
 
 SONNET. 
 
 /^ HIDE me who will for that my song is sad, 
 And all my fancy follows on the wave 
 That bears our little being to the grave ! 
 
 When did it fail that those — whose lives were glad 
 
 For lack of light and want of virtue had 
 
 To know the mystery and the hair-hung glaive 
 That shadow all our life so seeming brave — 
 
 The accusing wail of those that weep forbad ? 
 
 Peace, trifiers ! Peace, dull ears and heedless eyne I 
 Yet haply Time unto your foolish fears 
 Shall yield a mocking accord, and the years, 
 Falling full-fated on these days of mine, 
 Crush from the grapes of grief a bitter wine 
 Of laughters, sadder than the saddest tears.
 
 THE BALLA.D OF ISOBEL.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 
 
 'T^HE day is dead, the night draws on, 
 
 The shadows gather fast : 
 'Tis many an hour yet to the dawn, 
 Till Hallow-tide be past. 
 
 Till Hallow-tide be past and sped, 
 
 The night is full of fear ; 
 For then they say the restless dead 
 
 Unto the live draw near. 
 
 Between the Saints' day and the Souls' 
 The dead wake in the mould ; 
 
 The poor dead, in their grassy knolls 
 They lie and are a-cold. 
 
 They think upon the live that sit 
 
 And drink the Hallow-ale, 
 AVhilst they lie stark within the pit, 
 
 Nailed down with many a nail.
 
 ro4 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 
 
 And sore they wonder if the thought 
 Live in them of the dead ; 
 
 And sore with wish they are distraughr 
 To feel the firelight red. 
 
 Betwixt the day and yet the day 
 The Saints' and Souls' divide, 
 
 The dead folk rise out of the clay 
 And wander far and wide. 
 
 They wander o'er the sheeted snow, 
 Chill with the frore of death, 
 
 Until they see the windows glow 
 With the fire's ruddy breath. 
 
 And if the cottage door be fast 
 
 And but the light win out. 
 All night, until their hour is past, 
 
 The dead walk thereabout. 
 
 And all night long, the live folk hear 
 Their windy song of sighs, 
 
 And waken all for very fear, 
 Until the white day rise.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. loj 
 
 But if the folk be piteous 
 
 And pity the poor dead 
 That weary in the narrow house, 
 
 Upon the cold earth's bed, 
 
 They pile the peats upon the fire 
 
 And leave the door ajar, 
 That so the rosy flame aspire 
 
 To where the grey ghosts are. 
 
 And syne they sweep the cottage floor 
 
 And set the hearthside chair : 
 The sad dead watch beside the door, 
 
 Till midnight still the air. 
 
 And then toyi^ards the friendl)- glow 
 
 Come trooping in the dead ; 
 Until the cocks for morning crow, 
 
 I'hey sit by the fire red. 
 
 II. 
 
 " Oh, I have wearied long enough ! 
 
 I'll weary me no more ; 
 But I will watch for my dead love 
 
 Till Hallow-tide be o'er."
 
 io6 THE BALLAD OF IS OB EL. 
 
 He set the door across the sill ; 
 
 The moonlight fluttered in : 
 The sad snow covered heath and hill, 
 
 As far as eye could win. 
 
 The thin frost feathered in the air; 
 
 All dumb the white world lay ; 
 Night sat on it as cold and fair 
 
 As death upon a may. 
 
 He turned him back into the room 
 
 And sat him by the fire : 
 Night darkened round him in the gloom 
 
 The shadowtide rose higher. 
 
 He rose and looked out o'er the hill 
 
 To where the grey kirk lay ; 
 The midnight quiet was so still, 
 
 He heard the bell-chimes play. 
 
 Twelve times he heard the sweet bell chime ; 
 
 No whit he stirred or spoke ; 
 Eut his eyes fixed, as if on Time 
 
 The hour of judgment broke.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ISO BEL. lo; 
 
 And as the last stroke fell and died. 
 
 Over the kirkyard grey 
 Himseemed he saw a blue flame glide, 
 
 Among the graves at play. 
 
 A flutter waved upon the breeze 
 
 As of a spirit's wings : 
 A wind went by him through the trees, 
 
 That spoke of heavenly things. 
 
 Himseemed he heard a sound of feet 
 
 Upon the silver snow : 
 A rush of robes by him did fleet, 
 
 A sighing soft and low. 
 
 He turned and sat him down again ; 
 
 The midnight filled the place : 
 The tears ran down like silent rain 
 
 Upon his weary face. 
 
 " She will not come to me," he said ; 
 
 "The death-swoon is too strong : 
 She hath forgot me with the dead, 
 
 Me that she loved so long.
 
 lo8 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 
 
 *' She will not come : she sleeps too stveel 
 
 Within the quiet ground. 
 What worth is love, when life is fleet 
 
 And sleep in death so sound ? 
 
 " She will not come !" — A soft cold air 
 
 Upon his forehead fell : 
 He turned him to the empty chair ; 
 
 And there sat Isobel. 
 
 His dead love sat him side by side, 
 His minnie white and wan : 
 
 Within the tomb she could not bide, 
 Whilst he sat weeping on. 
 
 Ah, wasted, wasted was her face 
 And sore her cheek was white : 
 
 But in her eyes the ancient grace 
 Burnt with a feeble light. 
 
 Upon her breast the grave-weed grey 
 
 I-'ell to her little feet : 
 But still the golden tresses lay 
 
 About her bosom sweet.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ISO BEL. 109 
 
 " Ah, hov/ is't with ye, Isobel ? 
 
 How pale ye look and cold ! 
 Ah, sore it is to think ye dwell 
 
 Alone beneath the mould ! 
 
 " Is't weary for our love ye've grown 
 
 From dwelling with the dead, 
 ( )r shivering from the cold grave-stone 
 
 To find the firelight red ?" 
 
 '• Oh, "tis not that Fm lorn of love 
 
 Or that a-cold I lie : 
 I trust in God that is above 
 
 To bring you by-and-bye. 
 
 '■ I feel your kisses on my face, 
 
 Your kisses sweet and warm : 
 Your love is in the burial-place ; 
 
 I fear nor cold nor worm. 
 
 " I feel the love within your heart 
 
 That beats for me alone : 
 I fear not change upon your part 
 
 Nor crave for the unknown.
 
 no THE BALLAD OF LSOBEL. 
 
 " For to the dead no faint fears cling : 
 
 All certainty have they : 
 They know (and smile at sorrowing) 
 
 Love never dies away. 
 
 " No harm can reach me in Death's deep i 
 
 It hath no fear for me : 
 God sweetens it to lie and sleep, 
 
 Until His face I see : 
 
 " He makes it sweet to lie and wait, 
 
 Till we together meet 
 And hand-in-hand athwart the gate 
 
 Pass up the golden street. . 
 
 "But vvhere's the babe that at my side 
 
 Slept sweetly long ago ? 
 So sore to me to-night it cried, 
 
 I could not choose but go. 
 
 " I heard its voice so full of wail, 
 
 It woke me in the grave : 
 Its sighs carne to me on the gale, 
 
 Across the wintry wave.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. in 
 
 " For though death lap her wide and mild, . 
 
 A mother cannot rest, 
 Except her little sucking child 
 
 Be sleeping at her breast." 
 
 " Ah, know'st thou not, my love ?" he said : 
 
 " Methought the dead knew all. 
 When in that night of doom and dread 
 
 The moving waters' wall 
 
 " Smote on our ship and drove it down 
 
 Beneath the raging sea, 
 All of our company did drown, 
 
 Alas ! save only me. 
 
 " And me the cruel billows cast 
 
 Aswoon upon the strand \ 
 Thou dead within my arms held fast. 
 
 Hand locked in other's hand. 
 
 " The ocean never to this day 
 
 Gave up our baby dead : 
 Ah, woe is me that life should stay. 
 
 When all its sweet is fled !"
 
 J 12 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 
 
 " Go down,"' said she, " to the seashore : 
 
 God taketh ruth on thee : 
 Search well ; and I will come once more 
 
 Ere yet the midnight be." 
 
 She bent her sweet pale mouth to his : 
 
 The snowdrift from the sky 
 Falls not so cold as did that kiss : 
 
 He shook as he should die. 
 
 She looked on him with yearning eyes 
 And vanished from his sight : 
 
 He heard the matin cock crow thrice ; 
 The morning glimmered white. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then from his place he rose and sought 
 
 The shore beside the sea : 
 And there all day he searched ; but nought 
 
 Until the eve found he. 
 
 At last a pale star glittered through 
 
 The growing dusk of night, 
 And fell upon the waste of blue, 
 
 A trembling wand of light.
 
 THE BALLAD OF IS OB EL. irj 
 
 And lo ! a wondrous thing befell : 
 
 As though the small star's ray 
 Availed to break some year-old spell 
 
 That on the water lay. 
 
 A white form rose out of the detj) 
 
 Where it so long had lain, 
 Cradled within the cold death-sleep : 
 
 He knew his babe again. 
 
 It floated softly to his feet ; 
 
 White as a flower it lay : 
 God's love had kept its body sweet 
 
 Unravished 6f decay. 
 
 He thanked God weeping for His grace f 
 
 And many a tear he shed 
 And many a kiss upon its face 
 
 That smiled as do the dead. 
 
 Then to the kirkyard where the maid 
 
 Slept cold in clay he hied ; 
 And with a loving hand he laid 
 
 The baby by her side. 
 
 8
 
 114' "^I^E BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The dark fell down upon the earth ; 
 
 Night held the quiet air : 
 He sat before the glowing hearth, 
 
 Beside the empty chair. 
 
 Twelve times at last for middle night 
 Rang out the kirkyard bell : 
 
 Ere yet the twelfth was silent quite, 
 By him sat Isobel. 
 
 AVithin her arras their little child 
 Lay pillowed on her breast : 
 
 Death seemed to it as soft and mild 
 As heaven to the blest. 
 
 Ah, no more wasted was her face, 
 Nor white her cheek and wan 1 
 
 The splendour of a heavenly grace 
 Upon her forehead shone. 
 
 She seemed again the golden girl 
 Of the long-vanished years : 
 
 Her face shone as a great sweet pearl. 
 Washed and made white in tears.
 
 THE BALLAD OF I SO BEL. 115 
 
 The light of heaven filled her eyes 
 
 With soft and splendid flame ; 
 Out of the heart of Paradise 
 
 It seemed as if she came. 
 
 He looked upon her beauty bright ; 
 
 And sore, sore weepit he, 
 To think how many a day and night 
 
 Between them yet must be. 
 
 He looked at her with many a sigh ; 
 
 For sick he was with pain, 
 To think how many a year must fly 
 
 Ere they two met again. 
 
 She looked on him : no sadness lay 
 
 Upon her tender mouth ; 
 And syne she smiled, a smile as gay 
 
 And glad as in her youth. 
 
 " Be of good cheer, dear heart," said she : 
 
 " Yet but a little year 
 Ere thou and I together see 
 
 The end of doubt and fear. 
 
 8—2
 
 Ii6 THE BALLAD OF ISO BEL. 
 
 " Come once again the saints' night ring 
 
 Unto the spirits' feet, 
 'Glad with the end of sorrowing, 
 
 Once more we three shall meet : 
 
 " We three shall meet no more to part 
 
 For all eternitj' ; 
 'Gin I come not to thee, sweetheart, 
 
 Do thou come then to me." 
 
 Another year is past and gone : 
 Once more the lingering light 
 
 Fades from the sky, and dusk falls down 
 Upon the Holy Night. 
 
 The hearth is clear ; the fire burns red ; 
 
 The door stands open wide : 
 He waits for the beloved dead 
 
 To come with Hallow-tide. 
 
 The midnight rings out loud and slow 
 
 Across the frosty air : 
 He sits before the firelight-glow, 
 
 Beside the waiting chair.
 
 THE BALLAD OF LSOBEL. W] 
 
 The last chime dies into the night : 
 
 The stillness grows apace : 
 And yet there comes no lady bright 
 
 To fill the empty place. , 
 
 No soft hand falls upon his hair ; 
 
 No light breath fans his brow : 
 The night is empty everywhere ; 
 
 The birds sleep on the bough. 
 
 "Ah woe is me ! the night fades fast ; ' 
 
 Her promise is forgot : 
 Alas !" he said, *' the hours fly past, 
 
 And still she cometh not ! 
 
 '* So sweet she sleeps, and sleeps with her 
 
 The baby at her breast, 
 No thought of earthly love can stir 
 
 Their undesireful rest. 
 
 " Ah, who can tell but Time may lay 
 
 Betwixt us such a space 
 That haply at the Judgment Day 
 
 She will forget my face."
 
 Ii8 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 
 
 The still night quivered as he spoke ; 
 
 He felt the midnight air ; 
 Throb, and a little breeze awoke 
 
 Across the heather bare. 
 
 And in the wind himseenied he heard 
 His true love's voice once more : 
 
 Afar it came, and but one word 
 " Come !" unto him it bore. 
 
 A faint hope flickered in his breast •: 
 
 He rose and took his way 
 Where underneath the brown hill's crest 
 
 The quiet kirkyard lay. 
 
 He pushed the lychgate to the wall : 
 
 Against the moonless sky 
 The grey kirk towered dusk and tall : 
 
 Heaven seemed on it to lie. 
 
 Dead darkness held the holy ground ; 
 
 His feet went in and out 
 And stumbled at each grassy mound, 
 
 As one that is in doubt.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 1 19 
 
 Then suddenly the sky grew white'; 
 
 The moon thrust through the gloom : 
 The tall tower's shade against her light 
 
 Fell on his minnie's tomb. 
 
 Full on her grave its shadow fell, 
 
 As 'twere a giant's hand, 
 That motionless the way doth tell 
 
 Unto the heavenly land. 
 
 He fell upon his knees thereby 
 
 And kissed the holy earth, 
 Wherein the only twain did lie 
 
 That made life living-worth. 
 
 o 
 
 He knelt ; no longer did he weep ; 
 
 Great peace was on his soul : 
 Sleep sank on him, a wondrous sleep, 
 
 Assaining death and dole. 
 
 And in the sleep himseemed he stood 
 
 Before a high gold door, 
 Upon whose midst the blessbd Rood 
 
 Burnt like an opal's core.
 
 I20 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. 
 
 Christ shining on the cross to see 
 
 Was there for all device : 
 Within he saw the almond-tree 
 
 That grows in Paradise. 
 
 He knew the fallen almond-flowers 
 That drop without the gate, 
 
 So with their scent the tardy hours 
 Be cheered for those that wait. 
 
 And as he looked, a glimmering light 
 Shone through the blazoned bars : 
 
 The wide tall gate grew blue and bright 
 As Heaven with the stars. 
 
 A postern opened in his face ; 
 
 Sweet savours breathed about ; 
 And through the little open space 
 
 A fair white hand came out : 
 
 A hand as white as ermolin, 
 
 A hand he knew full well, 
 Beckoned to him to enter in — 
 
 The hand of Isobel.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ISOBEL. \z\ 
 
 Lord Christ, Thy morning tarricth long : 
 
 The shadows come and go : 
 These three have heard the angels' song : 
 
 Still many wait below. 
 
 These three on Heaven's honey feed, 
 
 And milk of Paradise : 
 How long before for us indeed 
 
 The hills of Heaven rise ? 
 
 How long before, joined hand-in-hand 
 
 With all the dear loved dead. 
 We pass along the heavenly land 
 
 And hear the angels' tread ? 
 
 The night is long : the way is drear : 
 
 Our hearts faint for the light : 
 Vouchsafe, Lord Christ, the day draw ]:iear, 
 
 The morning of Thy sight 1
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 T SAID " The time of grief is overpast : 
 The mists of morning hold the plains no more ; 
 The flowers of Spring are dead ; the woods that 
 wore 
 
 The silver suits of Summer o'er them cast 
 
 Are stripped and bare before the wintry blast. 
 Is it for thee to weary and implore 
 The ruthless Gods, to beat against their door 
 
 For ever and for ever to the last ? 
 
 Rise and be strong — yonder the new life lies. 
 Who knows but haply, past the sand-hills traced 
 Bounding the prospect, Destiny have placed 
 
 A sunny land of flowers and sapphire skies, 
 
 For balm of hearts and cure of loves laid waste ?' 
 
 Up, and leave weeping to a woman's eyes !"
 
 INDIAN SUMMER. i2j 
 
 II. 
 
 Then turned I sadly to the olden signs 
 By which I had so long lived lingering ; 
 The faded woods, the birds long ceased to sing 
 
 And the dead grapes dried on the withered vines, 
 
 And the thin rill that through the time-worn lines- 
 Of grey-leaved herbs fled faintly murmuring 
 Its ghostly memories of the songs of Spring, 
 
 Weird whispers of the wind among the pines. 
 
 Farewell I bade them all, with heart as sad 
 Well-nigh as when Love left me long ago, 
 
 And turned into the distance. Long I had 
 Their murmur in my ears, as long and slow 
 
 The melancholy way^id spread and wind 
 
 That left the memories of youth behind. 
 
 III. 
 At last a new land opened on my view : 
 
 No phantom of tlie dear dead Spring of old 
 It was, but a fair land of Autumn gold 
 And corn-fields sloping to a sea of blue : 
 And I looked down upon its face and knew 
 The Autumn land of which my heart had toll, 
 The land where Love at last should be consoled
 
 124 INDIAN SUMMER. 
 
 And balm flower forth among Life's leaves of rue. 
 A sunset-land it was ; and long and sweet, 
 
 The shadows of the setting lay on it : 
 
 And through the long fair valleys there did Hit^ 
 Strange birds with pale gold wings, that did repeat 
 
 The loveliest songs whereof men aye had wit ; 
 
 And over all the legend " Peace" was writ. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And as I gazed on it, my heart was filled 
 With rapture of the sudden cease of pain : 
 And in my spirit, ever and again, 
 
 There rang the golden legend, sweet and stilled 
 
 With speech of birds; and in the pauses rilled 
 
 Fair fountains through the green peace of the plain, 
 That with the tinkle of their golden rain 
 
 Made carol to the songs the linnets trilled ; 
 
 A'Vhilst, over all, the waves upon the shore 
 Throbbed with a music, sad but very sweet, 
 
 'i'hat had in it the melodies of yore, 
 Softened, as when the angels do repeat, 
 
 In heaven, to souls in rapture of new birth, 
 
 The names that they have sadly borne on earth.
 
 LOVE'S AMULET. 
 
 O OXG, be strong and true to hold 
 Love within thy locks of gold : 
 
 Bind my lady's thought with rhyme ; 
 
 Kiss her if her lips grow cold ; 
 
 Bring her thoughts of Summer-prime, 
 
 Lest her heart catch winter-time. 
 Song, be quick and bold. 
 
 Take her flowers of love and light. 
 Blossoms of her soul's delight, 
 Roses of her heart's desire ; 
 Bind her brow with lilies white ; 
 Lilies" snow and roses' fire 
 Hold love's summer ever by her, 
 In the world's despite. 
 
 Strew the Springtime in her way, 
 Lest she weary of the day,
 
 126 LOVE'S A MULE 7. 
 
 Lest the lonely hours be long ; 
 Be her season ever May, 
 May, when Love is safe from wrong 
 And with larks' and linnets' song 
 All the world is gay. 
 
 Sweet, I wind thee with a chain. 
 Verses linked in one refrain, 
 " Love me, love, who love but thee," 
 Piping ever and again ; 
 Bind thy thought and heart to be 
 Constant aye to Love and me 
 Thorowjoy and pain.
 
 DOUBLE BALLAD 
 
 Of the Singers of the Time. 
 
 I. 
 
 "\^7^HY are our songs like the moan of the main, 
 
 When the wild winds buffet it to and fro, 
 (Our brothers ask us again and again) 
 
 A weary burden of hopes laid low ? 
 
 Have birds ceased singing or flowers to blow ? 
 Is Life cast down from its fair estate ? 
 
 This I answer them — nothing mo'— 
 Songs and singers are out of date. 
 
 II. 
 
 What shall we sing of? Our hearts are fain, 
 Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow. 
 
 Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gain. 
 For shameful honour, for wealth and woe.
 
 128 DOUBLE BALLAD. 
 
 Hunger and luxury, — weeds that throw 
 Up from one seeding their flowers of hate ? 
 
 Can we tune our hites to these themes? Ah no ! 
 Sovgs and singers are out of date. 
 
 III. 
 
 Our songs should be of Faith without stain, 
 Of haughty honour and deaths that sow 
 
 The seeds of life on the battle-plain, 
 Of loves unsullied and eyes that show 
 The fair white soul in the deeps below. 
 
 AVhere are they, these that our songs await 
 To wake to joyance ? Doth any know ? 
 
 Songs and singers are out of date. 
 
 IV. 
 
 What have we done with meadow and lane ? 
 
 ^Miere are the flowers and the hawthorn-snow? 
 Acres of brick in the pitiless rain, — 
 
 These are our gardens for thorpe and stow ! 
 
 Summer has left us long ago, 
 Cione to the lands where the turtles mate 
 
 And the crickets chirp in the wild-rose row. 
 Songs and singers are out of date.
 
 DOUBLE BALLAD. 
 
 129 
 
 V, 
 
 We sit and sing to a world in pain : 
 
 Our heartstrings quiver sadly and slow : 
 
 But, aye and anon, the murmurous strain 
 Swells up to a clangour of strife and throe, 
 And the folk that hearken, or friend or foe, 
 
 Are ware that the stress of the time is great 
 And say to themselves, as they come and go, 
 
 Songs and singers are out of date. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Winter holds us, body and brain : 
 
 Ice is over our being's flow ; 
 Song is a flower that will droop and wane. 
 
 If it have no heaven towards which to grow. 
 
 Faith and beauty are dead, I trow 
 Nothing is left but fear and fate : 
 
 Men are weary of hope ; and so 
 Songs and singers are out of date.
 
 MADRIGAL GAL 
 
 T^HE summer-sunshine comes and goes ; 
 The bee hums in the heart of the rose : 
 Heart of my hope, the year is sweet ; 
 The Ulies Hghten about thy feet. 
 
 A new Hght gUtters on land and sea ; 
 The turtles couple on every tree. 
 Light of my life, the fields are fair ; 
 Gossamers tangle thy golden hair. 
 
 The air with kisses is blithe and gay ; 
 Love is so sweet in the middle May. 
 Sweet of my soul, the brook is blue ; 
 Thine eyes with heaven have pierced it through. 
 
 Now is the time for kisses, now 
 
 When bird-songs babble from every bough ! 
 Sweetest, my soul is a bird that sips 
 Honey of heaven from out thy lips.
 
 BALLAD OF POETS. 
 
 TIT" HAT do we here, who with reverted eyes 
 
 Turn back our longings from the modern air 
 To the dim gold of long-evanished skies, 
 When other songs in other mouths were fair ? 
 Why do we stay the load of life to bear, 
 To measure still the weary worldly ways. 
 Waiting upon the still-recurring sun. 
 That ushers in another waste of days, 
 Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays — 
 IV/iy but because our task is yet undone ? 
 
 II. 
 
 Were it not thus, could but our high emprize 
 Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear 
 To seek that haven where contentment lies ? 
 Who would not doff at once life's load of care, 
 To sleep at peace amid the silence there ? 
 
 9—2
 
 132 BALLAD OF fOETS. 
 
 Ah, who alas ? — Across the heat and haze, 
 Death beckons to us in the shadow dun. 
 Favouring and fair — " My rest is sweet," he says : 
 But we reluctantly avert our gaze ; 
 IVliy but because our task is yet undone ? 
 
 III. 
 Songs have we sung, and many melodies 
 Have from our lips had issue rich and rare : 
 But never yet the conquering chant did rise, 
 That should ascend the very heaven's stair, 
 To rescue life from anguish and despair. 
 Often and again, drunk with delight of lays, 
 " Lo," have we cried, " this is the golden one 
 That shall deliver us !" — Alas ! Hope's rays 
 Die in the distance, and life's sadness stays : 
 Why but because our task is yet undone? 
 
 Envo'i. 
 Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise, 
 Grant that the aim of rest for us be won ! 
 Let the light shine upon our life that strays, 
 Disconsolate, within the desert maze. 
 Why but because our task is yet undone ?
 
 FADED LOVE. 
 
 'PAREWELL, sweetheart: Farewell, our golden 
 days ! 
 So runs the cadence, ringing out the tune 
 Of sighs and kisses : for the tale of June 
 
 Is told, and all the length of flowered ways 
 
 Fades in the distance, as the new life lays 
 Its hand upon the strings, and all too soon 
 Breaks the brief song of birds and flowers and 
 moon 
 
 That held the Maytime — what is this that stays ? 
 
 — A white-robed figure, with sad eyes that hold 
 A far-off" dream of never-travelled ways, — 
 
 Wan with white lips and hands as pale and cold 
 As woven garlands of long vanished Mays, 
 
 And the sun's memory halo-Hke above 
 
 Its head ? — It is the thought of faded Love.
 
 T 
 
 VILLANELLE. 
 
 HE air is white with snow-flakes clinging ; 
 Between the gusts that come and go 
 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 
 
 Methinks I see the primrose springing 
 On many a bank and hedge, although 
 The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 
 
 Surely, the hands of Spring are flinging 
 Wood-scents to all the winds that blow : 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 
 
 Methinks I see the swallow winging 
 Across the woodlands sad with snow ; 
 The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 
 
 Was that the cuckoo's w-ood-chime swinging ? 
 Was that the linnet fluting low ? 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
 
 VILLAXELLE. Ij5 
 
 Or can it be the breeze is bringing 
 The breath of violets ? Ah no \ 
 The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 
 
 It is my lady's voice that's stringing 
 Its beads of gold to song; and so 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 
 
 The violets I see upspringing 
 Are in my lady's eyes, I trow : 
 The air is white with snowflakes clinging. 
 
 Dear, whilst thy tender tones are ringing. 
 Even whilst amidst the winter's woe 
 The air is white with snowflakes clinging, 
 Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.
 
 RITOURNEL. 
 
 r\ CENSOR of Love ! Thou that art bright as- 
 the day, 
 P"ortunate, clad with delight as the trees in May 
 If Fate with its cruel hand should thee assay, 
 Then wilt thou taste of its bitter cup and say, 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array ! 
 A'ly heart with his flatnivg fires is burnt away. 
 
 But to-day thou art safe as yet from his fell com- 
 mands, 
 And his perfidy holds thee not in its iron bands ; 
 So scoff not at those that languish beneath his hands 
 And cry, for excess of passion that doth them slay, 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array ! 
 My heart luith his flaming fires is burnt away.
 
 RITOURNEL. 137 
 
 Be not of those that look on Love with disdain, 
 But rather excuse and pity the lover's pain, 
 Lest thou be bound one day in the self-same chain, 
 And drink of the self-same bitter draught as they. 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array I 
 My heart with his flayning fires is burnt away. 
 
 There is none that can tell of Love and its bitter- 
 ness 
 But he that is sick and weak for its long excess, 
 He who has lost his reason for love-distress, 
 Whose drink is the bitter dregs of his own dismay. 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array ! 
 My heart with his flafuing fires is burnt away. 
 
 How many a lover watches the darksome night, 
 His eyes forbidden the taste of sleep's delight! 
 How many whose tears, like rivers adown a height. 
 Course down their cheeks ! How many are they that 
 
 say, 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array i 
 My heart with his fiaming fires is btirnt away. 
 
 How many a lover wasteth for sheer despair. 
 Wakeful, for void of sleep is the dusky air ! 
 Languor and pain are the clothes that he doth wear,
 
 138 RITOURNEL. 
 
 And even his pleasant dreams have gone astray. 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array ! 
 My heart with his Jlaf?nng fires is burnt away. 
 
 I too of old was empty of heart and free 
 And lay down to rest in peace till I met with thee : 
 The taste of the sleepless nights was strange to me 
 Till Love did beckon and I must needs obey, 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array ! 
 My heart with his flatning fires is burnt away. 
 
 How often my patience fails and my bones do 
 
 waste, 
 And my tears, like a fount of blood, stream down in 
 
 haste ! 
 For my life, that of old was pleasant and sweet of 
 
 taste, 
 A slender maiden hath bittered this many a day. 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array ! 
 My heart with his flaming fires is burnt away. 
 
 Alack for the man among men that loves like me 
 And watches the wings of the night through the 
 
 shadows flee ! 
 Who drowns in his own despair as it were a sea,
 
 RITOURNEL. i39 
 
 Who cries in the stress of an anguish without allay, 
 Alas for Love and out on his whole array ! 
 My heart with his flatning fires is burnt arvay. 
 
 Whom hath not Love stricken and wounded 
 indeed ? 
 Who has been aye from his easy fetters freed ? 
 Whose life is empty of Love, and who succeed 
 In winning their hearts' delight without affray ? 
 Alas for Love and out o?t his whole array ! 
 My heart with his flaming fires is burnt away. 
 
 From the Arabic.
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 T^ ISS me, sweetheart, the Spring is here, 
 And Love is lord of you and me ! 
 The bluebells beckon each passing bee ; 
 The wild wood laughs to the flowered year : 
 There is no bird in brake or brere 
 
 But to his little mate sings he, 
 " Kiss me, sweetheart, the Spring is here, 
 And Love is lord of you and me." 
 
 The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear ; 
 The missel-thrush upon the tree 
 Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free ; 
 
 And I go singing to my dear, 
 
 " Kiss me, sweetheart, the Spring is here. 
 And Love is lord of you and me !"
 
 LIGHT O' LOVE.
 
 LIGHT O' LOVE. 
 
 "\T /"E dwelt within a wood of thought, 
 
 I and my days ; and no man sought 
 Or cared to comfort us in aught. 
 
 A strange sad corripany we were, 
 Calm with the quiet of despair, 
 As sunset in the autumn air. 
 
 No thing we had, nor cared to win, 
 Of all for which men toil or spin : 
 We took no kind of joy therein. 
 
 Nor any glimpse to us was given 
 Of that wherefor we once had striven, 
 The love that likens earth with heaven.
 
 144 LIGHT 0' LOVE. 
 
 But some strange spell was wound about 
 Our lives, a charm of hope and doubt, 
 That severed us from hves without ; 
 
 A charm that was not weft of flowers 
 Of night alone or winter hours — 
 This binding gramarye of ours, — 
 
 But grew of delicate sweet blooms 
 That, found of old in woodland glooms, 
 Had drawn us from the waste world-rooms 
 
 To seek the singing solitudes. 
 Where some unforced enchantment broods, 
 And never any foot intrudes. 
 
 And drinking deep of dews that fell 
 And sparkled in some woodflower' s bell, 
 Made potent with a drowsy spell. 
 
 The charm on us had taken hold. 
 And like a mist about us rolled. 
 The pale dreams wavered white and cold. 
 
 A mist of charms that spread between 
 Us and the world, so that, I ween, 
 We were not heard of men or seen.
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. 145 
 
 But folk passed by and knew us not : 
 And day by day, the fatal lot 
 A stronger grasp upon us got 
 
 Until the sighs and tears we spent 
 About us for bewilderment 
 Did fructify, and earth was sprent 
 
 Around us with a flush of flower 
 Sad-hued ; and tall dusk trees did tower 
 And clung about us like a bower. 
 
 So that, one day, when we awoke, 
 I and my days, and would have broke 
 The dream and let the gold sun-stroke 
 
 Into our lives, the outward way 
 Was set with hawthorns white and grey 
 And trees that shouldered back the day. 
 
 And from the world of men there came 
 Nor sound of bell nor sight of flame, 
 And no man called us by our name. 
 
 But outerward we heard the roll 
 Of daily life through joy and dole 
 And pleasant labour ; but no soul 
 
 10
 
 146 LIGHT C LOVE. 
 
 Strayed from the highway or the mart 
 To where within the wild wood-heart 
 I and my days we sat apart. 
 
 Then to my days I said, " Behold, 
 The memory of our life is cold, 
 And no man knows us as of old. 
 
 " Shall we go forth and seek for grace ? 
 Lo, men have all forgot our face ! 
 Another sitteth in our place. 
 
 " Let us sit down again, my days. 
 Here where our dreams have built a maze 
 Of flowers for us and woodland ways. 
 
 " For of a surety no thing 
 Shall profit us of sorrowing, 
 Nor strife can comfort to us bring. 
 
 " Here will we sit and let the sweep 
 Of life roll by : in this wood-deep. 
 Our dreams shall carol us to sleep." 
 
 Then in that pleasant woodland-shade, 
 I and my days full fain we made 
 A dwelling-place, and therein stayed.
 
 LIGHT C LOVE. i^j 
 
 Most fair that forest was, and full 
 Of birds and all things beautiful ; 
 And many a pleasant green-set pool 
 
 Was there, where fawns came down to drink 
 At eventide : and on the brink 
 The nodding cuckoo-bells did blink. 
 
 By one of these, thick-bowered among 
 A nest of hawthorns, all a-throng 
 With birds that filled the air with song, 
 
 We builded us a dwelling-place, 
 Set in a little sun-screened space, 
 Midmost the forest's dreamy grace. 
 
 And there full many a day we spent, 
 Lost in a dream of dim content, 
 I and my days, what while there went 
 
 Without the many-coloured hours, 
 Golden or sad. With flush of flowers 
 We calendared this life of ours. 
 
 For many a precious thing and fair 
 We had heaped up and garnered there, 
 And many a jewel bright and rare ; 
 
 lO — 2
 
 148 LIGHT O' LOVE. 
 
 And of a truth our hands were full 
 Of memories most beautiful, 
 And dreams whose glitterance did dull 
 
 Remembered sunlight in our thought : 
 So rich we were, that memory brought 
 No yearning for the world in aught. 
 
 And too, each one of these my days 
 Had, wandering in the wild wood-ways, 
 Caught from the birds some note of lays 
 
 More sweet than waking ears can deem 
 Or in the mazes of the dream 
 Had found some gem of all that teem 
 
 Within the mystery of thought, 
 Some pearl of hidden arts, or caught 
 Some strange sweet secret, all inwrought 
 
 With scent of leaves and forest-flowers 
 And glitter of enchanted showers 
 Fallen athwart the sunset-towers. 
 
 And all the wonders of the wood, 
 And all the pleasance that did brood 
 Within that silver solitude,
 
 LIGHT O' LOVE. 149 
 
 Jewelled with cups of gold and blue 
 And veined with waters cleaving through 
 The live green of the leafage new, 
 
 Some one of these could bring to sight. 
 One led to where, like living light, 
 The clearest thread of streams took flight 
 
 Across the mosses, and could tell 
 The hour when on the water fell 
 The shadow of some mystic spell 
 
 That called the hidden nymphs to sight, 
 And from the dell-deeps, in the night. 
 The wood-girls flashed out, tall and white, 
 
 Across the moonbeams ; or the time, 
 When through the birds' sunsetting chime 
 The glades rang with the tinkling rhyme 
 
 Of the wild wood-folk : and one knew 
 Where such a flush of violets grew. 
 That therewithal the earth was blue. 
 
 And yet another one could show 
 The wood-nooks where the blue-bells blow, 
 And banks are sweet with lily-snow.
 
 ISO LIGHT 0' LOVE. 
 
 And one had heard the wild bird sing- 
 In some dim close, where in a ring 
 The apple-trees together cling — 
 
 So sweet a song, it seemed the breath 
 Of souls that know not life nor death, 
 In fields where Heaven's Spring flowereth. 
 
 And one, the youngest of them all, 
 Had heard the elf-dance rise and fall, 
 Where with the moon the woodbind-wall 
 
 Shines silver in the wood-glooms deep : 
 And one had seen the white nix leap. 
 When the blue water lay asleep. 
 
 And one had caught the mystic tune 
 The sea sings underneath the moon. 
 When earth with Summer lies aswoon. 
 
 And one had lit by fairy grace, 
 Wandering afield, upon a place 
 Where, if a man shall lie a space 
 
 And slumber in the flower swaths dim, 
 The sweet dreams whisper love to him. 
 Till night burns dawn-red at the rim.
 
 LIGHT C LOVE. 15» 
 
 And yet another, wandering, 
 Had found the caves where rubies ding 
 To earth, and many a precious thing 
 
 Of jewelries burns manifold 
 Within the darkness, and the mould 
 Is spangled with the dust of gold. 
 
 And some had trod the secret ways 
 Where in the dusk the sun's lost rays 
 Harden into the diamond's blaze ; 
 
 And threading through the hill-caves brown, 
 Had lit upon vast chambers, strown 
 With coloured crystals, — and had known 
 
 The silver splendours of the caves 
 That run out underneath the waves, 
 Walled with thick pearl and hung with glaives 
 
 Of branching coral, — and the maze 
 Of all the golden sweet sea-ways. 
 Where, jewel-like, the thin light strays 
 
 On golden fish and pearled sand, 
 And like a wood, on either hand, 
 The waving banks of seaweed stand.
 
 152 LIGHT a LOVE. 
 
 And Others of the band could tell 
 Tales of the lands delectable, 
 Upon whose glory, like a spell, 
 
 The splendour of the unknown lies ; 
 Stories of Ind and Orient skies. 
 Of far East isles where never dies 
 
 The golden noonlight quite away. 
 But night is like a silver day ; 
 And of vast cities, which men say 
 
 Gods built \ or that sweet Syrian stead, 
 The city rose-engarlanded, 
 Girdled with many a silver thread 
 
 Of rivers running sweet and wild 
 Through gardens tamarisk-enisled 
 And orange-groves with blossom piled ; 
 
 Or that clear Paradise that stands, 
 Builded of old by giant hands, 
 Invisible among the sands 
 
 Of those enchanted plains of Fars, 
 Where from the East narcissus-stars 
 Spread white towards the sunset-bars ;
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. i5j 
 
 And stories of the strange sweet lands 
 Where, like a tower, the tulip stands 
 And jasmines through the wood link hands ; 
 
 Where curtain-like the mosses fall, 
 Silver, athwart the banyan-hall, 
 And in the night the wild swans call ; 
 
 And of the clear-eyed lakes that shine 
 Bright as the laughing heart of wine, 
 Alive with flower-hued snakes that twine 
 
 Round mystic flowers therein that are, 
 Blue lotus and gold nenuphar 
 And many a silver lily-star. 
 
 These all they knewj and many a thing 
 Yet lovelier in remembering : 
 And eke full many an one could sing 
 
 Such soul-sweet songs, the very deer 
 Came down at eventide to hear : 
 And as they rang out soft and clear, 
 
 The singing echoes of the wood 
 Woke up out of their silent mood, 
 And with full tones the strains pursued
 
 154 LIGHT 0' LOVE. 
 
 Through all the lengthening cells of sound, 
 And all the trees that stood around 
 Waved to the rhythm, music-bound. 
 
 Some clarion-shrill, some softliest 
 Did sing ; and some sighed as the west 
 Sighs to the night ; but in my breast 
 
 A nest of singing birds I had, 
 AVhose song was sweet, but very sad ; 
 And yet by times it made me glad. 
 
 And these, past all, I loved to hear. 
 What time they fluted, low and clear. 
 Soft songs that did caress my ear 
 
 With memories of a Paradise, 
 That ne'er before my weary eyes 
 Had risen, nor should ever rise 
 
 Till Death (mayhap) should set the gate 
 Open for me, and I, elate, 
 See all my hopes for me await. 
 
 And sometimes many a weary day 
 The birds within my bosom lay 
 Voiceless and still. And then full grey
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. I55 
 
 And sick my life was even to death ; 
 Till, with a swift and sudden breath 
 Of impulse, as of some sweet faith 
 
 New risen, all the silence fled, 
 The voices rose up from the dead, 
 And with one gush of music spread 
 
 New waves of peace through all my soul ; 
 And then my life put off its dole, 
 And of my grief I was made whole. 
 
 So many days this life we led, 
 Curtained with solitudes and fed 
 With drink of dreams ; and as the dead 
 
 Hear afar off, with listless ears. 
 The hurry of the outer years, 
 But sleep, absolved of doubts and fears, 
 
 So unto us sometimes would come 
 An echo of the worldly hum. 
 Breaking our silence spirit-dumb.
 
 156 L1GH7 0* LOVE. 
 
 And stirred our thought to memories 
 Of earthly passion : but, like sighs 
 Of some vague melody that dies 
 
 If one give heed unto its strain, 
 The distant hum did faint and wane \ 
 And peace encurtained us again. 
 
 For all our life was filled and sweet 
 With fair glad dreams ; and every beat 
 Of the clear-echoing hours did greet 
 
 Our sense with some new ravishment 
 Of thoughts and fancies : and a scent 
 Of mystic unseen flowers was blent 
 
 For ever with our daily air, 
 As if some angel, hovering near, 
 Shook odours from his floating hair. 
 
 And thus our days went by for long, 
 Filled with the glory of a song ; 
 And not a touch of care did wrong 
 
 The eternal Springtide of our dream. 
 And not a ripple broke the gleam 
 That slept along our life's full stream.
 
 LIGHT a LOVE. i57 
 
 But as the years went on and on, 
 All gradually our lives grew wan 
 With some vague yearning ; and there shone, 
 
 Day after day, less gloriously 
 The softened splendour in the sky ; 
 And one by one, the lights did die 
 
 Within our spirit. Day by day, 
 Less joy we took in all that lay 
 Of beauty in wood-dell or way ; 
 
 And the heaped jewels in the shade 
 Of our new gloom did change and fade 
 And waste before our eyes dismayed. 
 
 And no more did we love to go 
 About the woodlands, in the glow 
 Of noonday, or to watch the flow 
 
 Of rillets through the flower-ringed grass, 
 Or see the dappled shadows pass 
 Across the lake's fuU-lilied glass. 
 
 But all our early joys seemed dead 
 And colourless to us : like lead. 
 Upon our lives the stillness weighed.
 
 158 LIGHT C LOVE. 
 
 The ringdove's voice and every note 
 The wild lark shook out from his throat 
 And all the linnet's music smote 
 
 Upon our senses Hke a knell ; 
 And day by day, a sterner spell 
 Of hopeless yearning on us fell. 
 
 And each fair thing, that we had won 
 In times bygone, did seem fordone 
 Of all its loveliness : and none 
 
 Of all my days had aught of price 
 Or any delicate device, 
 Could cheer them ; but the cruel ice 
 
 Of death seemed on them all to lie, 
 And all their dainty lore laid by ; 
 So that they saw with careless eye 
 
 The secret things they loved so well, 
 And wandered on through wood and dell, 
 Careless of aught to them befell. 
 
 And some, on treasure having lit, 
 Had dug a grave and buried it. 
 So that it gladdened them no whit.
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. i59 
 
 And now each sound of toil or sport, 
 That reached our weary ears athwart 
 The wood-screens of our forest court, 
 
 Maddened our yearning : and full fain 
 We grew towards the world again ; 
 And gladly would we now have ta'en 
 
 The olden burdens : but the way 
 Was shut with tangled woods that lay 
 And closed each exit to the day. 
 
 And oftentimes, our weary feet 
 Did wander from the wood-deeps sweet, 
 Green-golden in the noontide heat, 
 
 Into a little path, that led, 
 Through tangling hawthorns blossom-spread, 
 To where sea-cliffs rose white and red 
 
 Above a many-coloured beach ; 
 And through a rugged mountain-breach, 
 We came to where the sea did reach 
 
 Into the golden-margined sky : 
 And there wide ripples came to die 
 Upon the sands, with one long sigh
 
 i6o LIGHT 0' LOVE. 
 
 So sad and so monotonous, 
 In very sooth it seemed to us 
 It was our own grief rendered thus. 
 
 And there we loved to sit and hear 
 The long waves murmur in our ear, 
 And watch the ripples low and clear 
 
 Lengthen across the swelling tide : 
 And now and then our eyes espied 
 A distant snowy glimmer glide 
 
 Along the sky-line, as it were 
 Some white-sailed vessel that did fare 
 Towards the shore. But never near 
 
 The vision drew : and wearily 
 We watched the glimmer fade and flee, 
 Then turned our footsteps from the sea. 
 
 But yet, a spark of old delight 
 Gladdened us sometimes ; and the light 
 Slid over all and made life bright 
 
 By times awhile : for in my breast 
 The songbirds sang out from their nest 
 Sweetlier than ever (though the rest
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. i6i 
 
 Were silent). And my days and I, 
 We listened, as the hours went by : 
 It seemed all hope could never die, 
 
 Whilst in my heart the sweet birds sang, 
 That therewithal the whole wood rang, 
 And all the thrushes with their clang 
 
 Of joyful music answered it. 
 Yet often through my heart would flit 
 A stinging fear lest it were writ 
 
 That some sad day the birds should fly 
 Away, and leave me there to die. 
 But day by day, more lovelily 
 
 The sweet notes quivered through the air ; 
 And day by day the singing bare^ 
 Its wonted solace to my care. 
 
 So went the days by, one by one, 
 
 And many a year was past and done, 
 
 Until one morning, with the sun 
 
 II
 
 i62 LIGHT ff LOVE. 
 
 A new sweet freshness seemed to rise, 
 And all things shone before our eyes, 
 As with the dews of Paradise. 
 
 And none the less on us took hold 
 An unformed hope, a joy untold : 
 And in our hearts, all blank and cold, 
 
 There sprang a new sweet prescience, 
 That was like wine of life, a sense 
 Of some expectant glad suspense, 
 
 A waiting, sure of its desire, 
 For some new gladness to transpire 
 And touch our pallid lips with fire. 
 
 Nor was our yearning hope belied ; 
 For, as the clear fresh morning died 
 Into the golden summer-tide 
 
 That fills the noonday, there came one 
 That brought into the woodlands dun 
 The fulfilled splendour of the sun. 
 
 Along a slope of grass she came : 
 And as she walked, a virgin shame 
 Lit up her face's snow with flame.
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. 163 
 
 Full slight and small she was, and bent 
 Her lithe neck shyly, as she went, 
 In some childlike bewilderment. 
 
 Gold was the colour of her hair ; 
 The colour of her eyes was vair ; 
 The sun shone on her everywhere. 
 
 O fair she was as hawthorn-flowers ! 
 It seemed the flush of the Spring-hours 
 Lay on her cheeks, and Summer-showers 
 
 Had bathed her in a sweet content, 
 A virginal faint ravishment 
 Of peace ; for with her came a scent 
 
 Of flowers plucked with a childish hand 
 In some forgotten Fairyland, 
 Where all arow the sweet years stand. 
 
 And all the creatures of the wood 
 Crept from their leafy solitude. 
 And wondering around her stood. 
 
 The fawns came to her, unafraid. 
 
 And on her hand their muzzles laid : 
 
 And fluttering birds flew down and stayed, 
 
 II — 2
 
 104 LIGHT C LOVE. 
 
 Singing, upon her breast and hair 
 Most fearlessly, and nestled there, — 
 Such charms of peace about her were. 
 
 Then all my weary days arose. 
 As doves rise from the olive-close. 
 When the dawn opens like a rose, 
 
 And said, " We have been sad too long 
 From morning-gold to even-song, 
 We have bemoaned ourselves for wrong ; 
 
 " And now, the pleasant years are fled, 
 (Say, is our mouth the early red ?) 
 And our life hastens to the dead. 
 
 " And yet our yearning is unstayed. 
 But now the hope for which we prayed 
 Is found ; the comfort long-delayed 
 
 " Shines in our sight. We will arise 
 And go to her ; for in her eyes 
 The promise of the new Spring lies. 
 
 " Lo ! this is the Deliverer, 
 Awearied for from year to year ; 
 See, the sun's sign is gold on her."
 
 LIGHT a LOVE. 165 
 
 Then with a strange and sudden thrill, 
 A new life seemed to rise and fill 
 The channels of my brain, until 
 
 The old sad solitary peace 
 Fell off from me ; and there did cease 
 From round me, with a swift decrease, 
 
 The ancient agony of doubt 
 And yearning for the things without : 
 And therewithal my soul flowered out 
 
 Into a rapture of desire 
 Celestial ; and some new sweet fire 
 Of hope rose in me high and higher. 
 
 For in her kind child-eyes there shone 
 A radiance tender as the dawn ; 
 And by their light my heart was drawn 
 
 To auguries of life fulfilled ; 
 And hope o'erleapt the line grey-hilled 
 That shut my days in, sad and stilled, 
 
 Into some fresh clear world beyond, 
 Where thought is with fulfilment crowned, 
 And Life to Love alone is bond.
 
 i66 LIGHT a LOVE. 
 
 To me she came and laid to mine 
 The velvet of her lips divine, 
 And looked into my faded eyne 
 
 With eyes that seemed to swim in gold 
 Of perfect passion and to hold 
 The Love that never shall grow cold. 
 
 And there with hers my life was made 
 One, as it seemed. From dell to glade, 
 The wild wood lifted off its shade ; 
 
 And through the aisles the frank sun leapt, 
 And startled out the dreams that slept, 
 And filled with smiles the eyes that w'ept. 
 
 And all ray tearful days and sad 
 Put off their gloom, and were made glad ; 
 For there was that in her forbad 
 
 The sourest sorrow to abide, 
 Where once its place was glorified 
 By that clear presence sunny-eyed : 
 
 And like the wild rose after rain, 
 They lifted up their eyes again, 
 The clearer for the bygone pain,
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. 167 
 
 Love-led by hers : and all their store 
 They gave, and taught her o'er and o'er 
 The secrets of their dainty lore. 
 
 So Hope and I made friends anew, 
 Whilst over all the morning dew 
 Fell down ; the clouded sky broke blue 
 
 Through tears of joy and ravishment ; 
 And all my lifeless life was blent 
 With faith and peace, what time we went, 
 
 I and my lady, hand in hand, 
 Where all the hours run golden sand, 
 In Love's enchanted Fairyland. 
 
 Ah love, how sad remembrance is 
 Of lips joined in the first love-kiss, 
 And all the wasted early bliss ! 
 
 Ah, bitter sad it is to stand, 
 A}id look back to the ghostly strand, 
 Where our lost dreams lie hand in hand 
 
 Arid slujnber in the grey of years ! 
 Ah, weary sad to rain doiun tears 
 Up 071 their graves, until the biers
 
 1 68 LIGHT <9' LOVE. 
 
 Give up to earth the much-loved dead, 
 And one by one, with drooping head, 
 Our dead hopes jiass by us adread ! 
 
 Each with its beauty of the Past, 
 Pale with iong prison and aghast. 
 Whilst on the wind there shrills a blast 
 
 Of jnoaning dirges that for us 
 Of old were songs melodious. 
 Our sweet days rendered to us thus I 
 
 Ah, sadder still to live and live. 
 Till Death itself it seems can give 
 Hardly the rest for which we strive / 
 
 How long the new life lasted me, 
 I cannot tell : the hours did flee 
 Like summer winds across the sea, 
 
 Unseen, unheard ; for day was knit 
 To golden day, and night was lit 
 With such delight, I had no wit 
 
 Of Time. The shadow of his flight 
 Scarce showed against the blaze of light 
 Wherewith love flooded day and night.
 
 LIGHT a LOVE. 169 
 
 And in that new illumining 
 Of Hope and Faith, each precious thing, 
 From which the light had taken wing 
 
 In our old night of dreariment, 
 Put off its sadness and was blent 
 With our new life in ravishment. 
 
 Ah, how we loved, my days and I, 
 To lead her where old dreams did lie, 
 Buried of yore with many a sigh, — 
 
 To clear the rank grass from the tomb 
 And watch the dead delight out-bloom. 
 Lovelier than ever, from the gloom, 
 
 At one glance of her radiant eyne, 
 And all those desert wastes of mine, 
 Conscious of her, arise and shine. 
 
 So went I with her, hand in hand. 
 Through hall and glade of all the land ; 
 And everywhere at her command, 
 
 Sprang into life forgotten flowers, 
 Long laid asleep beneath the hours ; 
 And from entangling weeds, waste bowers
 
 I70 LIGHT 0' LOVE. 
 
 Of rose and woodbind blossomed out 
 Into new beauty, hymned about 
 With bird-song ; and a joyous rout 
 
 Of echoes ran from dell to dell, 
 Praising her presence and the spell 
 That like a perfume from her fell. 
 
 And at her voice the monsters fled, 
 That had so long, in doubt and dread, 
 Held my life level with the dead ; 
 
 And through the tangled forest shade, 
 There was, meseemed, a new way made, 
 In which my hope trod, unafraid. 
 
 Towards the gracious world of men. 
 And drank, beneath the free sun's ken, 
 The breath of daily life again. 
 
 And then my song-birds, if before 
 Their song was sweet, ah ! how much more 
 It rang out lovely than of yore ! 
 
 For from my bosom where they lay 
 And measured all the weary day 
 With madrigal and roundelay,
 
 LIGHT a LOVE. 171 
 
 I took them singing in their nest 
 And laid them in my lady's breast, 
 To sing to her their loveliest. 
 
 Thence, as we went about the ways 
 Of that strange wonderland, my days 
 And I had given our Uves to raise, 
 
 Their voices filled the sun-shot air 
 With music such as spirits hear 
 Ring down the golden city's stair. 
 
 When to the new-fledged soul arise, 
 Bathed in the light that never dies, 
 The citadels of Paradise. 
 
 Ah ! dreary labotir of despair 
 To tell again the joys that were. 
 The dead delights t/iat have been fair 
 
 f 
 
 When hardly can dull thought retrace, 
 Even in dreams, the lost lov^s face. 
 The sweetness of the vafiished grace. 
 
 For lost it is to me for aye. 
 My dreajn of love born but to die, 
 My glirnpse of Heaven so soon past by.
 
 172 LIGHT a LOVE. 
 
 It seemed my bliss had worn away 
 Hardly a summer's space of day, 
 And hardly yet the full light lay 
 
 Upon my winter-wasted years, 
 When round my joy a mist of fears 
 Began to gather : in my ears 
 
 A sound of sobbing winds did sigh. 
 And in full sunshine clouds swept by, 
 Darkening the visage of the sky. 
 
 And but too surely did my soul, 
 Though Summer in the land was whole, 
 Forethink me of the coming dole : 
 
 For on my short-Hved sunny tide 
 The shadow of old griefs would glide. 
 With wings of memories grey and wide 
 
 Breaking the promise of the sun : 
 And wraiths of ancient hopes fordone 
 Rose in my pathway, one by one, 
 
 Each with some mocking prophecy 
 Of happiness condemned to die. 
 As ever in the days gone by.
 
 LIGHT a LOVE. I73 
 
 And voices of forgotten pain 
 Sang round me, with a weird refrain, 
 Of short-lived Summers that did wane 
 
 To dreary Autumns of despair 
 And winters fiercer for the fair 
 Lost memories of Junes that were. 
 
 And all in vain the coming fate 
 That in my pathway stood await 
 I strove to conjure from Love's gate ; 
 
 Its omen lay upon my bliss 
 And stole the sweetness from Love's kiss : 
 I stood and looked on an abyss 
 
 That gaped to end th^t life of ours. 
 And strove in vain with lavish flowers 
 To stay the progress of the hours. 
 
 Even in my lady's eyes of light 
 I saw the presage of the night ; 
 And in the middle love-delight, 
 
 Bytimes across her face would flit 
 A shadowy sadness, past Love's wit 
 To slay the hidden snake in it.
 
 174 LIGHT a LOVE. 
 
 At last (so prescient was my grief 
 Its grim fulfilment seemed relief) 
 The storm, that o'er my flower-time brief 
 
 So long had brooded, broke the spell 
 Of imminent thunder, — and I fell 
 Straight from Love's Heaven down to Hell. 
 
 For one sad morn, awakening, 
 An added sadness seemed to cling 
 And hover over everything ; 
 
 The sun gave but a ghost of light, 
 And for the funeral of the night. 
 The flowers seemed shrouded all in white : 
 
 And listening, full of some vague fear. 
 For those sweet songs that used to cheer 
 My saddest hours, there smote my ear 
 
 No note of birds from east to west ; 
 The wood was dumb : but in my breast 
 The ancient dirges of unrest 
 
 Began with doubled stress to tear 
 My heartstrings, burdened as it were 
 With some renewal of despair.
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. i75 
 
 Then gradually into my thought 
 The full sad sense of all was wrought, 
 And starting up, alarmed, I sought 
 
 My love's hands and her lips' delight, 
 Aye, and her bosom's silver-white, 
 To heal me of my soul's affright. 
 
 Alas ! my eyes could find no trace] 
 Of her late presence : and her place 
 Was empty of my lady's grace. 
 
 How many a day my sad steps wore 
 The wild wood pathways and the shore, 
 I cannot tell : the brown sand bore 
 
 No traces of her flying feet : 
 But now and then the tiny beat 
 Of wild deer's hoofs or the retreat 
 
 Of forest creatures through the trees. 
 That rustled in the passing breeze, 
 Mimicked the sound of one that flees :
 
 176 LIGHT 0' LOVE. 
 
 And in my heart hope sprang again, 
 (Ah, cruel hope !) only to wane 
 And leave new sharpness to my pain. 
 
 And so the weary days crept by, 
 Whilst in the greyness of the sky 
 The morning lights did rise and die, 
 
 And evening sunsets came and went 
 As tenderly as though they meant 
 To mock at my bewilderment. 
 
 But nevermore my lady's sight 
 Gladdened my eyes : the day and night 
 Went empty by of all delight. 
 
 And dumb the wild wood was and still ; 
 For all my birds, that wont to fill 
 The aisles with many a dainty trill 
 
 And gush of silver song, had fled, 
 Following where'er my lady led, 
 And left me lonely as the dead. 
 
 The colours faded from the flowers : 
 And in the hollow midwood bowers, 
 The falling footsteps of the hours
 
 LIGHT O' LOVE. I'j'j 
 
 Smote on the silence like a knell, 
 And on my soul the shadow fell 
 And lay there, irrevocable. 
 
 For Love, the sun of life, had set, 
 And nevermore should morning let 
 The sunshine for me through the net 
 
 That coming death had drawn about 
 My weary head. Despair and doubt 
 Reigned in me, since Love's light was out. 
 
 Will she return, my lady ? Nay : 
 Love's feet, that once have learned to stray, 
 Turn never to the olden way. 
 
 Ah heart of mine, where lingers she ? 
 By what live stream or saddened sea ? 
 What wild-flowered swath of sungilt lea 
 
 Do her feet press, and are her days 
 Sweet with new stress of love and praise, 
 Or sad with echoes of old lays ? 
 
 Me-knoweth not : but this I know, 
 My wan face haunts her in the glow 
 Of sunset, and my sad eyes grow 
 
 12
 
 I7S L1GH7 0' LOVE. 
 
 Athwart the darkness on her sight, 
 When in the middle hush of night 
 She sees the shadow grow moon-white. 
 
 And in the pauses of a kiss, 
 There smite her, like a serpent's hiss 
 From out piled flowers, the memories 
 
 Of all our passion of the past : 
 And then her face grows white and ghast, 
 And all her summer is o'ercast 
 
 With shadows of the dead delight : 
 A little while, in her despite, 
 The old love claims again its right ; 
 
 Her soul is one again with mine ; 
 And gladly would she then resign 
 Her heedless life of summer-shine, 
 
 To seek once more the silent nest, 
 Wherein my life is laid, and rest 
 Her weary head upon my breast. 
 
 But ah ! the way is all o'ergrown 
 With underwoods, and many a stone 
 Blocks up the pathway, shadow-strown ;
 
 LIGHT 0' LOVE. 179 
 
 And never may she win to me, 
 Nor I to her : Eternity- 
 Is spread betwixt us Uke a sea. 
 
 For Love, that pardoneth not, hath ta'en 
 Back to himself the golden chain 
 That bound our lives ; and ne'er again. 
 
 Nor in this life of hours and days. 
 Nor in that hidden world that stays 
 For us beyond the grave-grown ways. 
 
 Our hands shall join, our lips shall meet ; 
 Never again w^ith aught of sweet 
 Shall our twinned hearts together beat 
 
 But through the mists of life and death, 
 The sorrow that remembereth 
 Shall haunt her, and the very breath 
 
 Of heaven be bitter to her spright, 
 (Grown sadder for its clearer sight) 
 For memories laden with despite 
 
 Of that lost love so lightly seen, 
 So lightly left, that might have been 
 The fairest flower of heaven's sheen. 
 
 12-
 
 BALLAD OF PAST DELIGHT. 
 
 A T /"HERE are the dreams of the days gone by, 
 
 The hopes of honour, the glancing play 
 Of fire-new fancies that filled our sky, 
 
 The songs we sang in the middle May, 
 
 Carol and ballad and roundelay ? 
 ^\'here are the garlands our young hands twined ? 
 
 Life's but a memory, well-a-way ! 
 All else flits past on the wings of the wind. 
 
 Where are the ladies fair and high — 
 Marie and Alice and Maud and May 
 
 And merry Madge with the laughing eye — 
 And all the gallants of yesterday 
 That held us merry — ah where are they ? 
 
 Under the mould we must look to find 
 Some ; and the others are worn and grey. 
 
 All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
 
 BALLAD OF PAST DELIGHT. i8i 
 
 I know of nothing that lasts, not I, 
 
 Save a heart that is true to its love alway— 
 
 A love that is won with tear and sigh 
 And never changes or fades away, 
 In a breast that is oftener sad than gay ; 
 
 A tender look and a constant mind — 
 These are the only things that stay. 
 
 All else flits past on the wings of the wind. 
 
 Envoi. 
 Prince, I counsel you, never say 
 
 Alack for the years that are left behind ! 
 Look you keep love when your dreams decay ; 
 
 All else flits past on the wings of the wind.
 
 RONDEAU. 
 
 /^XE of these days, my lady whispereth, 
 
 A day made beautiful with Summer's breath. 
 Our feet shall cease from these divided ways, 
 Our lives shall leave the distance and the haze 
 And flower together in a mingling wreath. 
 No pain shall part us then, no grief amaze,. 
 No doubt dissolve the glory of our gaze ; 
 Earth shall be heaven for us twain, she saith. 
 One of these days. 
 
 Ah love, my love ! Athwart how many Mays 
 The old hope lures us with its long delays ! 
 How many winters waste our fainting faith !. 
 I wonder, will it come this side of death, 
 With any of the old sun in its rays, 
 One of these days ?
 
 SAD SUMMER. 
 
 A H Summer, lady of the flowered lands, 
 
 When shall thy lovely looks bring back to me 
 — To me who strain into the grey sad sea 
 Of dreams unsatisfied, and with stretched hands 
 Implore the stern sky and the changeless sands 
 For some faint sign of that which was to be 
 So perfect and so fair a life to see — 
 The time of songs and season of flower-bands ? 
 
 At least, for guerdon of full many a lay 
 
 In praise of thee and of thy youngling Spring, 
 What time my lips were yet attuned to sing, 
 
 Let not thy roses redden in my way 
 
 Too flauntingly, nor all thy golden day 
 Insult my silence with too glad a ring.
 
 BALLAD OF LOVE'S DESPITE. 
 
 Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un instant, 
 Chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie. 
 
 TN my young time, full many a lady bright 
 
 I wooed, and recked but little how I sped. 
 Was one unkind, it caused me small despite ; 
 
 With careless heart a light " Farewell " I said, 
 
 And wooed another maiden in her stead. 
 Thus fared T joyously and thought no wrong 
 To mock at lovers in a jesting song, 
 
 And heeded not if one to me did say, 
 " Beware ! Love's bliss endureth not for long ; 
 
 Lovers sadness lasts for ner and a day .'"
 
 BALLAD OF LOVE'S DESPITE. 185 
 
 II. 
 
 I made a mock of Love and his delight, 
 
 Called it a fever of fond fancies bred, 
 And women toys, too idle and too slight 
 
 To be remembered, when desire was dead. 
 
 Alack ! the sword hung o'er me by a thread ; 
 I too must kneel among the love-lorn throng 
 And prove how high Love's power is and how 
 strong. 
 
 For lo ! I loved a maiden bright and gay 
 And learnt, alas ! though Love be little long, 
 
 Lov^s sadness lasts for ever and a day ! 
 
 III. ^ 
 
 True, she loved me in turn ; and life was light 
 For many a day, whilst in her eyes I reul 
 
 The sweet confession of Love's rosy might : 
 But soon, alas ! her flitting fancy fled 
 And settled lightly on another's head. 
 
 Ah, who so hapless then as I ! Among 
 
 The woods I wandered, smarting 'neath the thong 
 Of his fell scourge, and wailing out alway 
 
 The old refrain, '* Love's bliss is little long ; 
 Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day !"
 
 i86 BALLAD OF LOVE'S DESPITE. 
 
 Envoi. 
 Prince, in delight that walk'st the world along, 
 Chiefest of those that unto Love belong ! 
 
 Take heed unto the burden of my lay 
 And know, Love's pleasance is but little long ; 
 
 Love's sadness lasts for ever and a day.
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 nPHE year has cast its wede away 
 
 Of rain, of tempest and of cold, 
 
 And put on broidery of gold 
 Of sunbeams bright and clear and gay. 
 There is no bird or beast to-day 
 
 But sings and shouts in field and fold, 
 "The year has cast its wede away 
 
 Of rain, of tempest and of cold.' 
 
 The silver fret-work of the May 
 
 Is over brook and spring enscrolled, 
 A blazon lovely to behold. 
 
 Each thing has put on new array : 
 
 The year has cast its wede away 
 Of rain, of tempest and of cold. 
 
 From Charles cT Orleans.
 
 THE LAST OF THE GODS. 
 
 ' I "HE world is worn with many weary 3'ears ; 
 The day is dim for long desire of death ; 
 
 Life languishes amid its burning breath 
 Of nights and days, of barren hopes and fears, 
 Of joys that sing in vain to listless ears. 
 
 For Love and Spring are dead for lack of faith ; 
 
 And in the bird-songs goes a voice that saith, 
 " Who shall absolve us of this life of tears ?" 
 Ah, who indeed ? Who shall avail to save 
 
 Our souls that wither on the wrecks of life ? 
 Is any strong among the Gods men crave 
 Enough to take again the gifts He gave, 
 
 To draw death like a dream upon our strife, 
 And soothe the sick world to its grateful grave?
 
 THE LAST OF THE GODS. 1S9 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah^ who shall hope, when God Himself implores, 
 With piteous hands, the unremorseful sleep, — 
 When Gods and men, from one abysmal deep 
 
 Of loveless life, lift hands toward the shores 
 
 Of the unnearing rest — through Time, that roars 
 With wave on wave of years to come — and weep 
 In undistinguished anguish, as they keep 
 
 Life's hopeless vigil at Death's stirless doors ! 
 
 Lo ! of all Gods that men have knelt unto, — 
 Of all the dread Immortals fierce and fair. 
 
 That men have painted on the vault of blue, — 
 There is but one remains, of all that were. 
 
 Death hath put on their crowns ,•^ and to him sue 
 Mortals and Gods in parity of prayer.
 
 RONDEAU. 
 
 T IFE lapses by for you and me, 
 
 Our sweet days pass us by and flee, 
 And evermore Death draws us nigh : 
 The blue fades fast out of our sky, 
 The ripple ceases from our sea. 
 What would we not give, you and I, 
 The early sweet of life to buy ! 
 Alas ! sweetheart, that cannot we ; 
 Life lapses by. 
 
 But though our young years buried lie, 
 Shall love with Spring and Summer die ? 
 What if the roses faded be ! 
 We in each other's eyes will see 
 New Springs, nor question how or why 
 Life lapses by.
 
 GHAZEL. 
 
 T ADY of beauty, that dost take all hearts with 
 
 thy disdain 
 And slay'st with stress of love the souls that sigh for 
 
 thee in vain, 
 If thou recall me not to mind beyond our parting 
 
 day, \ 
 
 God knows the thought of thee with me for ever shall 
 
 remain. 
 Thou smitest me with cruel words, that yet are sweet 
 
 to me; 
 Wilt thou one day vouchsafe to me thy sweetest sight 
 
 again ? 
 I had not thought the ways of Love were languish- 
 
 ment and woe 
 And stress of soul, before, alas ! to love thee I was 
 
 fain.
 
 192 GHAZEL. 
 
 Even my foes have ruth on me and pity my distress ; 
 But thou, O heart of steel, wilt ne'er have mercy on 
 
 my pain ! 
 By God, although I die, I'll ne'er be comforted for 
 
 thee ! 
 Though Love itself should fail, my love shall never 
 
 pass or wane ! 
 
 From the Arabic.
 
 SALVESTRA.
 
 Girolamo ama la Salvestra : va, costretto da 
 prieghi della madre, a Parigi : toma e truovala 
 maritata : entrale di nascosto in casa, e muorle 
 allato ; e, portato in una chiesa, muore la Salvestra 
 allato a lui. 
 
 Boccaccio — // Decamerone, Giorn. iv. 8. 
 
 13-
 
 SALVESTRA. 
 
 A H, Love, thou art but as a Summer's guest., 
 That long before tJie Winter Jieest away 
 And in some warmer haven harbour est, 
 
 Nipt by the hard swift life of our To-day 1 
 Our love is sca?it and flowerless as our May, 
 And will not lightly let its pinions soil 
 Their rainbow plimies in our unblissful toil. 
 
 Time, was, fair God, when thou heldst fuller sivay. 
 And all folk were thy thralls in gentiles se : 
 
 Time was when men were simpler than to-day., 
 And life was not one fierce and loveless stress 
 Of unrelenting labour in the press 
 
 Of joyless souls, when men had time to rest 
 
 And toy with grace and beauty, unreprest.
 
 i^S SALVESTRA. 
 
 Full sweet, ah ! hopeless sweet, to us it seems — 
 Fast bounden in a mesh of strife and care — 
 
 That time of graceful ease and builded dreams, 
 Seen in a glamour through the misted air ; 
 Through which sweet strains of song the breezes bear. 
 
 And scents of flowers that then were full and blythe, 
 
 But now are tnown away by Timers sivift scythe. 
 
 And yet it was no golden age, that time : 
 Not unalloyed with pain and dojibt and strife : 
 
 But through all ventures ran the gold of rhyme. 
 And Love was high and ivas the Lord of LJfe. 
 Frotn Venice-turrets unto Algarsife, 
 
 All held fair deeds afid lovely worshipful, 
 
 And all were scholars in Love's gracious school. 
 
 Then men did honour Love 7vith heart and soul, 
 Setting their lives upon his S7nile or frown; 
 
 For in their hearts his altarflatne was whole 
 
 And burnt unchanged until Lifers sun went do7vn. 
 Love was the flower of life and honour's crown, 
 
 Wherewith men perfujned all the weary years 
 
 And purged the air from mean and sordid fears.
 
 SALVESTRA. I99 
 
 Then men, as they for very Love could live. 
 So for the death of very Love rould die, 
 
 Holding it shame to let the rank flesh give 
 .Coinmandmejit to the swift soul's fantasy : 
 And for the love of him they held so high, 
 
 Did woo and win, with fair and potent faith, 
 
 The soft embraces of his brother Death. 
 
 A sad sweet tale is hoveri?ig in my thought, 
 A tale of peifect love in death fulfilled, 
 
 From out the waves of sweeping Time upbrought 
 By that enchanter of the past, who filled 
 The ears of men with music sweet and wild. 
 When in the world he breathed strange scents upon 
 
 That sheaf of flowers men call Decilmeron. 
 
 A tale in dreams, heard betzaixt wake and sleep, 
 Ufider the tremulous shadow of the platies : 
 
 Attuned to rhythmic cadence by the sweep 
 Of murmurous rillets through the scented lams 
 Of rose and jasmine — szveep of ivings and strains 
 
 Of happy linnets piping to the rose — 
 
 And chirp of crickets in the olive-close.
 
 200 SALVESTRA. 
 
 Master, of whose speech in that green time, 
 Heard under shredded laurels aTid fai7it flowers, 
 
 1 took the echo for my painful rhyme. 
 
 To warm it i?i this cold hard ti?fie of ours, 
 Whose plagues no wall of rose or lys outboiuers- 
 
 Let not thy laureat brow be rough with frotun. 
 
 If I unleave thy honeysuckle crown 
 
 With my piterpreting. Sweet is the will, 
 And all fair-meaning as a day iti June, 
 
 The faded cucords of thy song to fill 
 And echo back that magical sweet tune 
 Thou sangest in the garden's golden noon, 
 
 With youths and tnaidens lying, myrtle-crowned. 
 
 Upon the flower-glad carpet of the ground. 
 
 But ah I the air is faint with weariness 
 
 Of toil, and love has grown a doubtful dream. 
 
 That now no longer, type of hoVmess, 
 Regilds the shapes of faded things that seem 
 And are not in our world ! The sad ghosts streatn 
 
 Towards the darkness ; and my sense can seize 
 
 No touch of reverent peace or graceful ease.
 
 SALVES! RA. 201 
 
 No waft of te?ider fancy in the sky, 
 No Phmbus standing, dawn-red, on the hill — 
 
 And must i en feed itself on memofy, 
 And with those strains of old its yearning f 11, 
 Whose ecJio at my heart-strings lingers still — 
 
 Unable to revive the aficient flame, 
 
 Sadly some f ale ghost of its brightness frame.
 
 Fair flowery city, peerless in the world, 
 Germ-garden of the golden blooms of Art, 
 
 But seldom have thy myrtle-groves impearled 
 So fair a creature in their flower ful heart 
 As young Salvestra. Could my song impart 
 
 Her manifold perfections, well I deem 
 
 My verse should glow with glories of a dream. 
 
 So fair she was, there is no rose so fair 
 
 That in the noon drinks colour from the sun : 
 
 No flower could match the hyacinths of her hair, 
 Fresh from the webs of night and morning spun : 
 Her eyes were lakes, whereon, when day is done, 
 
 The slow night comes with halt and timorous pace, 
 
 And dim dreams fill the enchanted interspace.
 
 SALVESTRA. 203 
 
 There was the house of dreams ; and on her brow — 
 Clear as the marge of that cool well where Pan 
 
 Was wont to play with Pitys— broad and low 
 With trellised ringlets— ended and began 
 All "lamours that can charm the heart of man : 
 
 O 
 
 There was the crystal dwelling of the Loves, 
 And there bright Venus fed her golden doves. 
 
 What hues can paint her mouth, what words express 
 The ivory shaft of her most perfect throat ? 
 
 And what her bosom's rounded perfectness ? 
 
 That with the heaving breath did swell and float, 
 As if its snows had lately learnt by rote 
 
 The rapturous carol of some woodland bird, 
 
 And to the cadence ever mutely stirred. 
 
 The very sun did gently look on her 
 
 And only kissed, not burnt, her crystal brows : 
 
 Among her locks the flower-breathed winds did stir 
 And filled them with the perfumes of the rose 
 And scents of foreign sweets that no man knows. 
 
 But haply ravished from those plains of spice 
 
 That lengthen out the glades of Paradise.
 
 204 SAL VEST R A. 
 
 So fair she was, her sight had virtue in 't : 
 The vision of her face was used to stir 
 
 Strange deeps of love. Full many a heart of flint 
 Was softened, when men's eyes did look on her 
 Like violets in the morning of the year, 
 
 There was a perfume went from her that drew 
 
 Men's careworn souls to tender thoughts and true, 
 
 If all things loved her, even the fierce sun, 
 And breezes for her wooing came from far, 
 
 How should Girolamo's young bosom shun 
 
 The keen sweet shaflt of Love's unpardoning star, 
 Wherewith so many hearts enwounded are ? 
 
 Or how play traitor to the general fate. 
 
 He, whom the heavens had surely made for mate 
 
 Of that unparagoned brightness? If on earth 
 The gods had guerdoned and appointed one 
 
 To be conjoined with her in house of birth, 
 Girolamo was sure that Fortune's son. 
 His Hfe, with hers in equal hour begun, 
 
 Had from the same breast drawn its aliment, 
 
 And all the currents of their youth were blent
 
 SAL VESTRA. 205 
 
 Within a common channel. Childhood was 
 Dual for them with doubled love and pain ; 
 
 And with unseparate course the years did pass 
 For them along the primrose-tufted plain 
 Of early youth ; till, when the rise and wane 
 
 Of the recurrent Springs began to tend 
 
 Towards that spot where times of childhood end, 
 
 Where laughing girl puts on grave womanhood 
 And youth is sudden man, the innocent ties, 
 
 That had so long entwined the two, renewed 
 
 Their power. As thought grew in Salvestra's eyes, 
 The ancient childish amity did rise 
 
 In his young breast the olden banks ^above, 
 
 And swelled into a deep and passionate love. 
 
 If she was dark as Night, and vague and rare 
 As star-bright evening thick with netted lights, 
 
 He was as frank and bright and golden-fair 
 As a May morn, when on the sapphire heights 
 Of heaven the young day comes with all delights 
 
 And tender glories of the dewy dawn. 
 
 And wild flowers wake on every woodland lawn.
 
 2o6 SALVESTRA. 
 
 It seemed the sun shone always on his brow, 
 Among his locks' full-clustered tender gold, 
 
 Whose every shadow with rich light did glow ; 
 And his true eyes were cast in passion's mould, 
 So fair a deep of love, all aureoled 
 
 With hope, did lurk within their amethyst, 
 
 Whose lids Diana might have stooped and kiss'd. 
 
 There looked from out his face so clear a spring 
 Of love and youth, so pure and undefiled 
 
 By care or baseness, that no birds that sing 
 Among the trellis — when the boughs are piled 
 With blossom and the sweet lush vines run wild 
 
 With early clusters — cared to hide from him, 
 
 If to the carol of their morning hymn 
 
 He crept to listen through the flush of flowers ; 
 No fawn but laid the velvet of its mouth 
 
 Upon his beckoning hand : the fear that sours 
 All creatures at man's aspect ('spite the drouth 
 Of love that habits ali the sunny South) 
 
 Fled from him, as the plague flies from the breath 
 
 Of some sweet fragrance, enemy to Death.
 
 SALVESTRA. 207 
 
 There was in him a candid fearlessness 
 
 And frank delight of love, that drew men back, 
 
 Regarding liim, from out the cheerlessness 
 Of modem life, along the dim years' track 
 To the old age, when hate nor fear nor rack 
 
 Of rueful discord held the enchanted air, 
 
 But all were loving, kind and debonair ; 
 
 When love was not a virtue, but a sense, 
 A natural impulse of untainted souls. 
 
 That had no thought of praise or recompense 
 For what was but an instinct — and the goals, 
 Towards which our life's sore-troubled current rolls, 
 
 Had not yet darkened all the innocent air 
 
 With lurid lights of greed and lu^t and care. 
 
 To him to love was natural as life : 
 
 He drew in passion with his daily breath ; 
 
 Affection was his food, and hate and strife 
 To him the very atmosphere of death : 
 His soul was one of those to which the faith 
 
 In love and friendship is a part of being. 
 
 And — that withdrawn — there is for them no fleeinsr
 
 2o8 SAL VESTRA. 
 
 From anguish and the death-stroke of despair : 
 Once hurt, they have but strength enough to die, 
 
 Since in life's desert there is nothing fair 
 For them, when love has lost its potency 
 And the first dream has vanished from the sky. 
 
 And so he loved as (men do say) of old 
 
 The first folk loved, within the age of gold. 
 
 There was no like respondence of delight 
 In fair Salvestra ; for her weaker mood 
 
 Sufficed not for the all-subduing might 
 
 Of love that raged in his more ardent blood ; 
 Her earthlier nature from that angels' food 
 
 Of perfect passion ever failed and shrank. 
 
 She knew not Love, though at her eyes he drank, 
 
 Though in her mouth his flowers were fresh and red, 
 His magic in each tangle of her hair 
 
 Was hidden ; all was cold as are the dead. 
 And no one note of ecstasy was there, 
 To stir to splendour the unthrobbing air. 
 
 No glamours of the tender haze of love 
 
 Lay ever those clear orbs of hers above,
 
 SALVES! R A. 209 
 
 Such as are sweeter to a lover's gaze 
 
 Than brightest radiance of untroubled bliss — 
 
 No touch of tender sadness, such as lays 
 Soft lips to lips with such a rapturous kiss. 
 In her most glorious face, the soul did miss 
 
 The informing ardour of some subtle charm. 
 
 Whose absence chilled the Summer sweet and warm 
 
 That there bloomed ever : and the missing note 
 Left to the wish, in every harmony 
 
 Of loveliness that round her face did float, 
 A formless longing, as of some sweet sky, 
 In whose moon- flooded purple canopy 
 
 Of silver star-work set in amethyst. 
 
 The very star of evening should be miss'd. 
 
 They were alike unequal in estate. 
 His father was a merchant of renown. 
 
 That had held highest office in the state ; 
 For whom a name of honour, handed down 
 Through many an ancestor, had slowly grown 
 
 And ripened to great increase of repute : 
 
 In him the tree had born its fairest fruit 
 
 14
 
 2IO SALVESTRA. 
 
 Of worship. He had of his native town 
 Been three times prior : wealth and dignities 
 
 Had bound his temples with a various crown 
 Of splendid memories. His argosies 
 Had swept for treasure all the Indian seas, 
 
 Heaping his hands with gorgeous pearl and gold 
 
 And ingots cast in many an Orient mould. 
 
 So for Girolamo there was prepared 
 A goodly heritage, and his ripening age 
 
 Might to all heights of eminence have dared 
 To look for honour and all noble rage 
 For dignities have counted to assuage, 
 
 Being by birth set in that charmed ring, 
 
 Wherein the flowers of honour use to spring. 
 
 His foster-sister was that fairest one : 
 She was the daughter of a clothworker, 
 
 Unto whose wife his little weakling son, 
 Born well-nigh in an equal hour with her, 
 Girolamo's own sire did, many a year, 
 
 Commit for fosterance ; and so the twain 
 
 Together knew Hfe's earliest joy and pain.
 
 SALVESTRA. 2ii 
 
 Surely some power had breathed strange spells on 
 them, 
 To weave their fortunes in a mingled skein ; 
 
 Some flower of Fate had blossomed on its stem 
 A double calyx, in some sweet domain 
 Of herbs and charms where (as old fables feign) 
 
 Fair wives do sit and weave with knitted flowers 
 
 The changeful fortunes of this life of ours ; 
 
 With knitted wreaths, not woven all of rose 
 Or lavish jasmine in the gold of June, 
 
 Or deUcate sweetness of the flower that blows 
 In April, when the harsh winds breathe in tune 
 To Spring's fresh music and the ways are strewn 
 
 With violets. Rosemary is there ^nd rue 
 
 And sad-eyed scabious with the petals blue. 
 
 There cypress grows for garlands funeral ; 
 
 And there the dim and tearful lilies blow ; 
 Sad hemlock for dead lovers' coronal. 
 
 And nightshade, bitter at the heart for woe. 
 
 There not alone the lark and linnet throw 
 Spring's wealth of music on the enamoured air, 
 And throstles sing that Summer is most fair ; 
 
 14 — 2
 
 212 SALVESTRA. 
 
 But there full oft the widowed nightingale 
 Lengthens her holy sadness into song ; 
 
 And many a night-bird fills the air with wail : 
 
 Dead love sings there with cadence sad and long, 
 And there the dread sweet tunes are clear and strong, 
 
 That in the hearts of weary folk are dumb ; 
 
 Since sorrow is too fair to have outcome 
 
 In its most perfect strain from mortal throat, 
 Or dare with its most holy notes and pure 
 
 The gross encounter of this world of rote, 
 
 Where men know not the sweets its pains procure. 
 So in this garden only doth endure 
 
 Divinity of sadness, 'mid the throng 
 
 Of joyful sounds a holy intersong. 
 
 Surely, the nymphs that wove the earthly fate 
 Of these two lovers, — whilst their white hands played 
 
 With amaranths and violets and the state 
 Of roses for the crown of youth and maid, — 
 Had heard these singing that the rose must fade, 
 
 Nesh violets wither from their fragrant bloom 
 
 Nor amaranths of love evade death's doom ;
 
 SALVESTRA. 21; 
 
 And sighing, laid a rose or two aside 
 
 And chosen herbs of sadness and of woe, 
 
 White wind-flowers and pale pansies, dreamy-eyed. 
 And evergreens of cypress, that do blow 
 When all green else has withered from the snow, — 
 
 Mindful that love is fed with Summer's breath. 
 
 But sorrow dies not, though the air be death. 
 
 The star of lovers, that upon the birth 
 
 Of these two lovelings shed its saddest rays, 
 
 Had but thenceforward glimmered on the earth 
 A little span of nights and equal days, 
 When from his walking in the pleasant ways 
 
 Of life his father ceased, and did commit 
 
 Unto his widow's care, in all things fit
 
 214 SALVESTRA. 
 
 For his son's heritage to govern him. 
 And she, a noble lady, fair and high, 
 
 Queenlike in goodly port and graceful limb. 
 But hard and stern withal, did her apply 
 Unto the matter well and faithfully, 
 
 Ordering his state and household passing well, 
 
 In all the things where need to her befell. 
 
 So for Girolamo the first years went 
 Peacefully by in pleasance and delight, 
 
 And all his years of youth he was content 
 To dwell with her his mother ; nor despite 
 The heat of youthful blood, did aught invite 
 
 His peaceful thought to seek to be set free 
 
 From her control or larger liberty. 
 
 For such a perfect passion filled his heart, 
 So strong and therewithal so innocent. 
 
 That in his hope no thing could have a part, 
 Wherewith Salvestra's presence was unblent ; 
 And all his thought on her was so intent. 
 
 It seemed his youth should never pass away, 
 
 Whilst in her eyes love met him day by day.
 
 SALVESTRA. 215 
 
 He sought no fellowship with anyone, 
 Bearing no share in chase or revelry; 
 
 But in his love's companionship alone 
 He lived, disdaining all delights that she 
 Must leave unshared, and careful but to be 
 
 Beloved of her : for him, she being kind. 
 
 No other thing could touch his constant mind. 
 
 For him, the treasure of her love contained 
 And did annul with its most perfect light 
 
 All things for which he saw men sought and 
 strained. 
 There was to him no other ear-delight 
 Than her sweet speech, no other charm of sight 
 
 Than her fair presence, and {she being gone) 
 
 No bliss save dreams of her from diislc to dawn. 
 
 His life to her was wholly consecrate ; 
 
 She had no hope in which he did not share ; 
 
 She was for either sorry or elate ; 
 
 So twinned he was to her in joy and care, 
 It seemed as if some charm upon him were. 
 
 Whereby his soul its stature had forgone. 
 
 And for pure love her weakness had put on.
 
 2i6 SALVESTRA. 
 
 How should a lover of such perfect fire 
 
 As this fair youngling, in the blush and heat 
 
 Of the first passion, find aught to desire 
 
 In her that lets herself be loved ? So sweet 
 It was to love, he could no more entreat 
 
 Than she would give him look for look and kiss 
 
 For longing kiss, and from the deep abyss 
 
 Of his unfailing passion could supply 
 
 Unconsciously the warmth that lacked in her, 
 
 Holdmg her coldness in such constancy 
 And ceaseless ardentness of love, the stir 
 Of the celestial flame that folded her, 
 
 Kissing her marble with ethereal fire, 
 
 Some semblance raised of its own pure desire. 
 
 And at her feet, in that unsullied time, 
 
 The golden harvest of his young life's Spring 
 
 He laid, outpouring all the lavish prime 
 Of his first hope, the bright ingathering 
 Of that clear time of youth, when every thing 
 
 Blossoms to beauty with the radiant hours 
 
 And all the thoughts are lovely unknown flowers.
 
 SALVESTRA. 217 
 
 He made his love for her one long sweet song 
 Of various cadence, filling every break 
 
 Of gradual days with many a glittering throng 
 Of flower-new fancies, till, as some grey brake 
 From Spring's soft hands its robe of blooms doth 
 take. 
 
 Her lesser life caught blossom at his smile 
 
 And seemed all glorified with love awhile. 
 
 So for a few sweet years their lives were blent 
 In mingled ways of love and innocence, 
 
 And no fear came to mar the sweet content 
 Of that untroubled season ; but their sense 
 Slept in a hnked enchantment, folded dense 
 
 And sweet as Summer-woods, that^ stand screen-wise 
 
 Betwixt the world and some clear Paradise 
 
 Ah lovely time of love and purity I 
 
 April before the summer heats draw nigher / 
 
 What thing on earth is pleasant like to thee, 
 Whilst yet the veils lie folded roimd the fire 
 Of the insatiate conquering Desire, 
 
 W/ien all thi?igs trenible with the dews of Sprint 
 
 And love is mystery and wondering ?
 
 2iS SALVESTRA. 
 
 Ah! frail as sweet thy tender blossoms are ! 
 
 SJwrtlived as primroses that blow ifi Spring 
 A fid die whilst yet the Slimmer shines afar 
 
 Nor May has set the swallows on the wing. 
 
 Thy strain is as the birds' descant that sing 
 In Iiaunted woods a dreamy song and clear 
 And cease, if any stay his steps to hear. 
 
 For years, none knew the bondage of delight 
 That bound these lovers (nor themselves as yet 
 
 Perchance had learnt to name their ties aright ;) 
 But unobserved of any eye they met 
 And took their ease of kiss and amorette ; 
 
 Till, at the last, chance broke the happy spell 
 
 Of secrecy ; and on this wise it fell 
 
 The palace, where for many years bygone 
 His ancestors had dwelt, a little space 
 
 Without the city's ramparts stood withdrawn, 
 Fronting the silver river with the grace 
 Of its tall turrets, wreathed on every face 
 
 With flowers and shrubs, through which the white 
 house shone. 
 
 Like some dream-stead the sunset lies upon.
 
 SALVESTRA. 219 
 
 Hard by the house a little wood there was, 
 
 Towards which the garden sloped its slow descent 
 
 Ado^vn long sunny banks of smoothen grass, 
 With chalices of Summer thick besprent ; 
 And through the sward a silver brooklet went 
 
 And made sweet music to the amorous breeze, 
 
 Until it wound among the shadowing trees. 
 
 Full of bird-song and scent of forest-flowers 
 The coppice was, and very sweet and cool 
 
 In the hot noontide were its trellised bowers, 
 Set by the glass of some dream-haunted pool. 
 Whereon the sleepy sweetness of the lull 
 
 Of silence brooded ; and its every glen 
 
 Was set with purple of the cyclamen 
 
 Or starred with white of amarj'Uis blooms. 
 
 Pale flower-dreams of the virginal green sward. 
 
 That made faint sweetness in the emerald glooms : 
 And through the stillness ever rose and soared 
 The song of some up-mounting lark, that poured 
 
 The gold of his delight for rose-hung June 
 
 Into the channel of a perfect tune.
 
 220 SAL VESTRA. 
 
 Here did these lovers often use to walk, 
 Calling the flowers to witness of their love, 
 
 Mocking, in sport, with sweet and murmurous talk, 
 The tender cooing of the amorous dove. 
 That filled the arches of the boughs above 
 
 And echoed through the cloisters, — sat anon 
 
 Upon some lilied bank, and there did con, 
 
 In rapturous silence, every lovely look, 
 
 Each blush of eloquent cheek and glow of eyes, 
 
 Reading sweet stories in that lover's book 
 Of joining faces, with soft wind of sighs 
 To fan their joyance, — as a breeze that dies, 
 
 Bending two neighbour roses till they meet, — 
 
 And now all sunned with laughters low and sweet. 
 
 It chanced, one Summer, as these lovers went 
 For joyance in the pleasant woodland ways, — 
 
 Rejoicing in the tender thymy scent 
 
 And in the sweet attemperance of the blaze 
 Of noon that reigned within the forest maze, — 
 
 The Countess walked, for ease of the fierce heat. 
 
 In that fair garden, where the lawns were sweet
 
 SALVESTRA. 221 
 
 With lavish fall of rose-leaves ; and anon 
 
 The cool sweet promise of the wood did woo 
 
 Her feet to enter where the sunlight shone 
 
 Athwart thick leafage and the sky showed blue 
 'Twixt rifted boughs ; and walking thus, she knew 
 
 The sound of voices mingled in converse 
 
 Murmurous and sweet, as birds that did rehearse 
 
 Some new sweet descant for the ear of night : 
 And listening closelier, as the voices drew 
 
 The nearer, she was ware that Love's delight 
 Was theme of that soft speaking, and she knew 
 The silver speech of kisses, that ensue 
 
 The vows of love, as music follows on 
 
 With strain on strain, in some sweet antiphon ; 
 
 And curious to know what folk these were. 
 
 That walked in woods for love and solacement, 
 
 Under the shadow of the boughs drew near 
 Beside the shaded path, where, all intent 
 Each upon each, hand-linked these lovers went : 
 
 So low they spoke, she could not catch their words 
 
 Aright, for clatter of the clamouring birds
 
 222 SALVES! R A. 
 
 And gurgle of the stream betwixt the trees. 
 But in the middle way the sun had found 
 
 A place of branches rifted by the breeze, 
 
 And stealing through the opening to the ground, 
 Had thrown a pool of golden light around ; 
 
 And as the twain passed where the sunlight shone, 
 
 She recognised Salvestra and her son. 
 
 Then much despite gat hold upon her soul, 
 And sorely she was troubled in her mind ; 
 
 For shame it seemed to her and bitter dole 
 That thus a low-born maiden had entwined 
 Her son with arts ; and sore she sought to find 
 
 Some means whereby he should be won to break 
 
 The chains he wore for sweet Salvestra's sake. 
 
 Crouched in the shadow of the thickset leaves, 
 She waited, while the twain passed on their way 
 
 Out of the wood ; and where the forest-eaves 
 Bent o'er the highway, there she saw them lay 
 Lips unto lips, as 'twere the last that day : 
 
 And then they parted, she towards the town 
 
 Wending, with hasting feet and girded gown.
 
 SALVESTRA. 223 
 
 But he a little stood, with longing eyes 
 
 Following her form along the highway's white, 
 
 Until, — when all the power in Love that lies 
 Availed not to retain her in his sight, — 
 Sighing as one that lapses from delight, 
 
 He pushed the gate that opened from the street, 
 
 And wandered up the garden with slow feet. 
 
 And wandering thus, he came to where the fount 
 Smote the blue air with one thin silver spire, 
 
 And in like gracious fashion did dismount 
 Into the jewelled pool, that lay afire 
 With golden carp, — and rising again higher, 
 
 Did seem to image some fair perfect love, 
 
 That, lowlier stooping, soars the more above. 
 
 And there beside the tinkle of the stream 
 Himself he laid upon the rose- strewn grass. 
 
 And in the sweet ensuing of his dream 
 Of bliss, saw not his mother that did pass 
 Swiftly by him, with mien and look, alas ! 
 
 That of a truth forebode despite and ill 
 
 To that fair love that all his thoughts did fill.
 
 224 SAL VESIRA. 
 
 Ah, Love! Ah, fair god Love f it wearieth me 
 To think how many work to do thee ill, — 
 
 How many in this grey sad world there be 
 That strive alway thy gracious power to kill 
 And hinder those that work thy gentle will! 
 
 Forsooth, it is great wonder that away 
 
 From earth thou hast not fled this many a day. 
 
 For of a truth, fair God, my heart is sad 
 For these two lovers and the coming Might 
 
 That those tliat hate thy gentle spells and glad 
 Have conjured up to slay their hearfs delight; 
 And much it irks me that the goodly light 
 
 Of such a sweet Spring-day should change and fade. 
 
 For merHs despite, to death's unfriendly shade. 
 
 And yet take heart, God of the souFs delight ! 
 No hate shall slay thy tender empery : 
 
 TJie day is not more sure of the sun's light 
 Nor Spring of flowers, than that there aye shall be 
 Maidens and youths to offer prayers to thee, — 
 
 Ay, sure as death, — and singers, too, to sing 
 
 In every age of Lov^ s fair triumphing.
 
 SALVESTRA. 225 
 
 So in all lovers^ Jiatnes and in the name 
 
 Of all true men that set their hearts to sofig, 
 
 I lay a life-long curse on those that frajue 
 
 Sad wiles and false to poison Love with wrong 
 And wear out passion with the anguish long 
 
 Of parting, — ay, grey life I invoke for them 
 
 AjuI death unsandified by requiem 
 
 Of choiring linnets. Never flower cf Spring 
 Shall blossom in their lives, nor fruit of peace 
 
 Ripen their summer long to harvesting; 
 
 But with the years their sadness shall increase 
 And shadow them : and when dull life shall cease, 
 
 Their heads shall lie unmemoried in the gloom, 
 
 Nor lovers wander by their Powerless toitib. 
 
 15
 
 226 SALVESTRA. 
 
 But that fair haughty lady, being come 
 Into the house, began to cast about 
 
 Within herself to bring to pass the doom 
 Of parting for these lovers : without doubt 
 It seemed to her, that if she opened out 
 
 Her mind to him, he could not choose but bow 
 » Unto her will, as always until now. 
 
 But first, intent upon a milder way, 
 She sought Girolamo, and so began 
 
 To work towards her wish with words that lay 
 Like foam upon the waves and overran 
 Her purpose, saying that well-nigh a man 
 
 He now was grown, and now the need was great 
 
 That he should presently to man's estate 
 
 Advance himself in things of daily use 
 
 And knowledge of the ways and works of men, 
 
 To end that he might fit himself to choose 
 Some station in the world, coming to ken 
 All things wrought out with sword and speech and 
 pen, 
 
 And all the stir of folk, that day by day 
 
 Beat up the wave of life to foam and spray.
 
 SAL VESTRA. 227 
 
 And meet it seemed (to him she did pursue) 
 That for the better ripening of his youth 
 
 In all things liberal and knowledge due, 
 
 He should leave idling in that sunny South, — 
 That treacherous mother with the red bane-mouth, — 
 
 And for awhile in lands of colder air 
 
 Renew his thought and learn new senses there. 
 
 But he took little heed of her discourse, 
 
 Hearing her speech but as a devious dream. 
 
 That through the channels of a sleep doth course, 
 With trains of doubtful words, that do but seem 
 And leave no memory by the morning's beam ; 
 
 And all the while he answered not or made 
 
 Some mutter of reply, that nothing weighed. 
 
 Till, for her useless wiles, the pent-up spite 
 Began to break the chains of prudentness, 
 
 And with harsh words unto the hapless wight 
 She did pour forth her heart's full bitterness 
 Against Salvestra and her rage no less 
 
 Against himself, upbraiding him full sore 
 
 For those fond foolish fetters that he wore.
 
 228 SALVESTRA. 
 
 And ended by commandment laid on him 
 That he should do her bidding in this wise, 
 
 And for awhile,— until the thought grew dim 
 Of that his folly, — under foreign skies 
 Avoid the witchcraft of Salvestra's eyes ; 
 
 So haply, being come to man's estate. 
 
 He should have wit to choose a worthier mate. 
 
 And adding many a false and feigned tale, 
 She did oppress his sad and aching ears, 
 
 Until at last with lies she did prevail 
 Upon her son to yield his will to hers 
 And lose his lady's sight for two long years, 
 
 Wherein she hoped Salvestra should be wed, 
 
 Or else the love of her in him be dead. 
 
 Therewith Girolamo, enforced by guile, 
 
 Took leave of that fair Florence and the sight 
 
 Of his Salvestra, — and full many a mile 
 
 Journeying by land and sea, unto that bright 
 And goodly city came, that Paris hight, 
 
 Wherein all loveliest ladies use to dwell, 
 
 And many a fair lord of whom men tell.
 
 SALVESTRA. 229 
 
 For, of a truth, in that fair country France 
 Has ever been the home of love and song : 
 
 There knights have done fair deeds with sword and 
 lance ; 
 And if by hazard any suffer wrong, 
 r faith therein he shall not suffer long. 
 
 Nor any lady lack to be redrest, 
 
 Whilst any lord of France have spear in rest. 
 
 And verily, if they be brave and fair, — 
 
 The knights and damozels that dwell therein, — 
 
 The land is beautiful beyond compare 
 And worthy of its children : therewithin 
 The earth is thick with lilies, and the din 
 
 Of nightingales and every sweet- voiced bird 
 
 All night among its rose-gardens is heard. 
 
 And of that goodly land, the pearl of flowers, 
 The queen-rose of the garland Paris is, 
 
 Paris white-walled, that from its fragrant bowers 
 Rises tall-steepled, full of pleasaunces 
 And gardens sweet with jasmine and with lys, 
 
 And palaces that glitter in the air, 
 
 Less fair alone than ladies dwelling there.
 
 230 SALVESTRA. 
 
 Paris, whose life is like a dream-delight 
 
 Of splendid memories, where the very walls, 
 
 Glowing with old-world splendours, charm the sight 
 With tales of hero-life ; and trumpet-calls 
 Re-echo from the golden-fretted halls. 
 
 Telling how women loved and men were strong, 
 
 And poets set their lives in golden song. 
 
 Two dragging years, two full-told weary years 
 In that fair town Girolamo did dwell 
 
 UnwiUingly, — for all his mind with fears 
 
 Was racked, and on his thought the cruel spell 
 Of some vague misery lay, and made a hell 
 
 Of every thing and every pleasant spot, 
 
 Where the fair face of her he loved was not. 
 
 Nor was there any damozel so fair 
 Of all the lovely ladies that he saw 
 
 Walk beautiful about the gardens there, 
 Or ride a-hawking in green field and shaw, 
 That could anew subdue him to Love's law : 
 
 He counted all their lovely looks for nought, 
 
 For his love's face was ever in his thought.
 
 SALVESTRA. 231 
 
 And so, when those two weary years were past. 
 Wherein he had been exiled from delight, 
 
 And he was free to turn his feet at last 
 
 To Florence, well I wot his heart was light 
 To think he should regain Salvestra's sight ; 
 
 And not a thought of sorrow held his mind, 
 
 For all the pleasant things he left behind. 
 
 But with a heart inflamed with long desire 
 And love that on itself so long had fed, 
 
 That it had taken for its food of fire 
 
 All other thoughts, across the sea he sped 
 And came to Florence, wearying to tread 
 
 The earth that bore Salvestra, and to press 
 
 Once more within his arms her loveliness. 
 
 Alas ! he thought not what a hapless thing 
 Is absence, and how easily far love 
 
 Is apt to fall off from remembering. 
 
 Knowing there was no creature fair enough 
 Nor any chance that could prevail above 
 
 The fortress of his heart, how should he fear 
 
 Less constancy in her he held so dear ?
 
 232 SALVESTRA. 
 
 So, when he knew, as very soon he knew, 
 {Ah me, ill hap hath no relenting wing !) 
 
 That she, by whom alone the sky was blue 
 And the day sweet to him, — dishonouring 
 Her plighted faith to him, — was wed with ring,- 
 
 The fulness of his misery smote him not 
 
 At first. As one that in the heart is shot 
 
 So suddenly that at the first he seems 
 
 Untouched by wound, yet presently he falls 
 
 Stone-dead, — or like a man that walks in dreams 
 And sees each thing that unto him befalls 
 As others' fortune, — through the palace-halls 
 
 He went, all dazed, among old memories, 
 
 As one that looks and knows not what he sees. 
 
 And at his heart some vague disease did gnaw. 
 Sapping the springs of life, so that he cared 
 
 For nought, nor took delight in aught he saw 
 Or heard ; but like a soul in doonj he fared 
 Aimlessly here and there, and no man dared 
 
 To stay his feet or strive to comfort him ; 
 
 For all his gentle visage pale and grim
 
 SAL VESTRA. : 
 
 Was grown ; and if one spoke to him, he gazed 
 A moment in his face with witless eyes, 
 
 But answered not, and left him all amazed. 
 
 Even when his mother pressed him, — weary-wise 
 He broke from her, filling the air with sighs : 
 
 And for the indulgence of his lonely mood, 
 
 He did betake himself into the wood. 
 
 And there, at last, the sweet familiar dells 
 
 And woodways, where he wont to walk of old 
 
 With his Salvestra, — and the rewrought spells 
 Of bird's descant and flowers and summer-gold, 
 Wherewith his happy memories were enscrolled 
 
 (That now, alas ! were poison), broke his trance 
 
 And made him ware of all his heavy -chance. 
 
 And when at length the full and fatal sense 
 Of all his misery possessed his brain, 
 
 The anguish of wanhope was so intense, 
 That his weak body failed him for the pain : 
 Well-nigh it wrought to break the enfeebled chain 
 
 Of life ; and in a fever, many a day, 
 
 Nigh unto death unconsciously he lay.
 
 234 SALVESTRA. 
 
 But yet the strength of his supreme desire 
 Once more to look upon his lady's face, 
 
 Mightier than death, prevailed against the fire 
 Of that fell sickness : with a halting pace, 
 Sad life came back to its accustomed place, 
 
 And from his bed he rose, a weary man, 
 
 Wasted with fever, pale and weak and wan. 
 
 And for the staying of his longing pain, 
 
 Bethought him first where he might chance to meet 
 
 Salvestra's eyes and hear her voice again : 
 For he could not believe, the memories sweet 
 Of the old time and all their ancient heat 
 
 Of love could fail to stir her heart and bring 
 
 Her soul back to him with remembering 
 
 Nor could he think, still less, that she had proved 
 False to her faith of her unfettered will ; 
 
 But rather deemed that she to it was moved 
 By force or by some sad disloyal skill 
 Of slander, that so many loves doth kill, — 
 
 And doubted not, in spite of all the let 
 
 Of years and duties, but she loved him yet.
 
 SAL VESTRA. 235 
 
 For all the wealth of love bestowed on her 
 And garnered up within his heart so long 
 
 Seemed surety to him that there yet must stir 
 Some love in her, haply unknown, yet strong ; 
 And as within the bird's throat sleeps the song, 
 
 Dumb for captivity, that yet the view 
 
 Of all his native woods would wake anew, 
 
 So, at his sight, he could not choose but deem, 
 The old frank faith would wake in her afresh, 
 
 And like the tangles of some doubtful dream, 
 She would shake off from her the weary mesh 
 Of falseness, — and her eyes on his afresh 
 
 Rain love and truth, her lips once more rejoice 
 
 Him with the constant sweetness of her voice, 
 
 Renewing the dissevered bonds of love : 
 
 And then the days of doubt should pass away 
 
 And be but as some mist that hangs above 
 The certain summer of an August day, 
 A little while, and tempers the sun-ray, — 
 
 And all the ancient bliss return to him, 
 
 A brighter noon because the dawn was dim.
 
 236 SAL VESTRA. 
 
 Wherefore he set himself to haunt the ways 
 Where she was wont to pass, — the market-place. 
 
 The square before the church on holidays, 
 
 The paths tree-shadowed and the flower-set space 
 Beside the river, — watching for her face 
 
 Morning and noon and night, as one in pain 
 
 Looks for the face of Death ; but long in vain. 
 
 At length at the church door he met with her, 
 Leant on her husband's arm and listening, 
 
 ^^'ell-pleased, to what he whispered. Lovelier 
 She seemed than her of his rememberinsr 
 
 O 
 
 Unto Girolamo ; and a double sting 
 Ran through his heart, to look on her so fair 
 And know those fatal charms another's were. 
 
 By him, held dumb by hope and fear, she past, 
 And by some hap, chancing to Hft her eyes, 
 
 Straight on his face her starry glance she cast 
 And looked at him a space ; but in nowise ' 
 Her lover's form she seemed to recognise, 
 
 (Perchance for he was still with fever wan) 
 
 But saw him as a stranger, and passed on.
 
 SALVESTRA. 237 
 
 Full long, I ween, he deemed his death at hand, 
 Being (it seemed) of his last hope deprived ; 
 
 But once again the expiring spark was fanned 
 Into a flame, (so strong a hope is hived 
 In lovers' breasts) and there once more revived 
 
 The wish of life in him, that he might prove 
 
 To end the doubtful fortune of his love. 
 
 For it might be (his hope 'gan whisper him) 
 
 That she had looked on him and known him not, 
 
 Seeing he was so changed in face and limb 
 By that fell fever, or some spell had got 
 Empire on her, whereby she had forgot 
 
 The memory of their wooing and the face 
 
 Of him her lover, for a little space. - 
 
 And if (as well he deemed thaf it might be) 
 Some fatal charm were laid upon her sight, 
 
 He trusted to dispel that sorcery 
 
 By prayer? and offerings and the happy might 
 Of counterspells ; and thus the sad despite 
 
 Of fortune foiled, she should possess again 
 
 Her memory, and take pity on his pain.
 
 238 SALVESTRA. 
 
 Wherefore by day and night long prayers he prayed 
 To many a saint, and to that Lady bright, 
 
 That rules the skies, rich offerings he made 
 To gain her grace, sparing not day or night 
 To crave her intercession to relight 
 
 The old love in Salvestra, nor did cease 
 
 To wear her chapel's marble with his knees. 
 
 Nor did he trust alone in stress of prayer 
 To break the sorcery of that opiate spell ; 
 
 But every occult influence did he dare, 
 Invoking the divided powers of Hell 
 To heal her blindness whom he loved so well, 
 
 Culling night-herbs, and on a scroll blood-writ 
 
 Burning strange cipherings beyond man's wit. 
 
 And then, at last, when every prayer was vain 
 And no spell seemed to stand his hope in stead, 
 
 Seeing she passed him often and again 
 And gave no sign of cognizance, but sped 
 Upon her way with an averted head, 
 
 And not a word or look of hers exprest 
 
 Renewal of his image in her breast,
 
 SALVESTRA. 239 
 
 He would not even then lay hope aside, 
 But comforted himself, despite his pain. 
 
 With the firm thought that there must needs abide 
 Some memory of him within her brain, 
 Which though his sight had failed to wake again, 
 
 (Being, as he was, so changed and strange to her) 
 
 The cadence of his speech should surely stir. 
 
 And so about within himself he cast 
 
 How he should win to have her privately 
 
 To speak with him, proposing in this last 
 Attem.pt to set his life upon the die ; 
 But often as Salvestra passed him by 
 
 In streets or on the church's steps of stone, 
 
 He could not win to speak with her alone. 
 
 Wherefore, made bold by his supreme despair, 
 He did resolve to seek her, spite of all, 
 
 Even in her husband's house, and being there, 
 To make one last endeavour to recall 
 Her love to him, whatever might befall ; 
 
 And if, alack ! his prayers should find no grace, 
 
 He might at least die looking on her face.
 
 240 SALVESTRA. 
 
 He knew her husband was a tent-maker 
 And dwelt, with many others of his trade, 
 
 In a long street, that folk for many a year 
 
 Called "Street of Tentmakers." At back there 
 
 strayed 
 The river; and between, long gardens made 
 
 A pleasaunce for the burghers, very fair 
 
 With tree-shade and the river running there. 
 
 Thither one afternoon he did betake 
 
 Himself, what time the sultry Summer day 
 
 Grew faint and in the flower-beds and the brake 
 The fierceness of the sunlight died away. 
 Beneath a starry myrtle-bush he lay 
 
 And watched the glitter of the noon subside, 
 
 Across the running ripples of the tide. 
 
 And there, unseen, he waited, purposing, — 
 When night was fallen on the scented air 
 
 And once the nightingales were waked to sing, — 
 To make his secret way (if means there were 
 And night were favouring and debonair) 
 
 Into Salvestra's chamber, and contrive 
 
 At least to speak with her once more alive.
 
 SALVESTRA. 241 
 
 Full wearily the unwilling day wore on : 
 
 It seemed to him the light would never die : 
 
 Across the west like blood the sunset shone ; 
 And to his sense, as sadly he did lie, 
 The wafts of air seemed laden heavily 
 
 With incense for the dying, and the surg 
 
 Of ripples sounded like a funeral dirge. 
 
 At length the lagging daylight made an end 
 Of gradual death ; and to the grateful night 
 
 He heard the sweet sound of the bells ascend 
 From many a convent-steeple in his sight ; 
 The dusky town put forth pale buds of light ; 
 
 He heard the throb of lute-strings, and afar 
 
 The silver chirp of some soft-swept guitar. 
 
 Then from his bed among the flowers he rose. 
 And with the careless step of one who dares 
 
 A lawless act and heedeth not who knows, 
 Being so sick at heart that nought he cares 
 For aught that can befall him, up the stairs 
 
 Of stone he went and pushed against the door. 
 
 That swung ajar, yielding his hand before. 
 
 16
 
 242 
 
 SALVESTRA. 
 
 And entering, through the humble rooms he went, 
 Noting the traces of Salvestra's hand, 
 
 That everywhere some grace of neatness lent 
 To the poor dwelling. Here, a little stand, — 
 Wherein tall lilies, twined about a wand, 
 
 Hallowed the air with perfume, — there, the gold 
 
 And silver of the jasmine-blooms, enscrolled 
 
 About the little casement, — told their tale 
 Of her sweet ministry ; and with each trace 
 
 Of her, fresh anguish did his heart assail. 
 
 To think another's home possessed her grace, 
 Another's hearth was lighted by her face . 
 
 And haply had he chanced her then to meet. 
 
 He might have fallen lifeless at her feet. 
 
 But all alone about the house he trod. 
 And no one stayed, or asked him what he did ; 
 
 For so it chanced, Salvestra was abroad, 
 With Paolo her husband. Unforbid, 
 He wandered sadly here and there, amid 
 
 The tokens of her presence, without aim. 
 
 Until into her bed-chamber he came.
 
 SALVESTRA. 243 
 
 There freshlier still the signs of her abode 
 Did crowd on him ; the ribbon that she wore 
 
 For festivals, the shining glass that showed 
 Her eyes her beauty, — all the pretty store 
 Of women's toys : and eke the table bore 
 
 A silver rose he gave her on its stem, 
 
 When love was in the summer-time for them. 
 
 The pretty bauble's sight brimmed up his eyes, 
 At the sad thought that such a toy should keep 
 
 Its pristine brightness, when his Paradise 
 And all the roses of his hope so deep 
 In death did sleep the unremembering sleep ; 
 
 And oft with many kisses did he press 
 
 That senseless relic of past happiness. 
 
 At last he heard a footstep on the stair, 
 And ran to hide himself behind a heap 
 
 Of tent-cloths standing in a corner there. 
 Thinking concealed there himself to keep, 
 Until, perchance, when Paolo should sleep. 
 
 He might come forth and gently her awake : 
 
 And haply she on him would pity take 
 
 16 — 2
 
 244 SAL VESTRA. 
 
 Nor rouse her sleeping husband, but at worst 
 Give ear to his sad pleading for the sake 
 
 Of all the gentle memories of erst : 
 
 Mayhap, the cruel ice in her should break, 
 And some soft pity at the least awake 
 
 In her, and she might speak some kindly word. 
 
 Which he might die more gladly having heard. 
 
 The chamber-door swung open, and she came. 
 One hand about her husband's neck entwined ; 
 
 Whilst in the other hand, the taper's flame 
 Leant to the lazy flutter of the wind : 
 And as its flickering gleam upon her shined, 
 
 It seemed the amorous shade did strive for place 
 
 With the dim light, upon her lovely face. 
 
 The weary wight, tired with the sultry day 
 
 And the long labour, on the couch flung down 
 
 His stalwart limbs, and soon asleep he lay : 
 But she, unfastening her tresses' crown, 
 Let down their sable flood, that all did drown 
 
 Her form, until she gathered them again 
 
 And set her to comb out each silken skein.
 
 SALVESTRA. 245 
 
 Lingering awiiile before her glass she stood^ 
 Joying to look upon her lovely face, 
 
 And with a musing sweet content reviewed 
 The perfect harmony of every grace : 
 Then, with unhasting hands, each envious lace 
 
 She did unloose, that bound her body fair, 
 
 And stood all naked in her floating hair. 
 
 Ah ! not for me her loveliness to sing 
 
 And tlte rich s^'eetness of each pearly lifnb I 
 
 My song would droop its slow and faltering wing. 
 Did I enforce Us weakness to that hymn 
 Of silver splendours or my pen to limn 
 
 The sweet snows of lier breast and the delight 
 
 Of Jier clear bodys symphony of white. ^ 
 
 I would I could command his lyre of gold, 
 T/iat sang t/iat Marie loved of Chastelard, 
 
 Or his full harp, that of fair Nyssia told, 
 Guarding lier jealous beauty like a star, 
 Or else his silver lute, wJiose ladies are 
 
 Florise and Cypris and that Goddess bright 
 
 That leads the silver lapses of the night.
 
 246 SAL VESTRA. 
 
 Alas ! my heart is sore for his despite 
 
 That saw his love, that never should be his, 
 
 Then first unveil her beauties to his sight ! 
 It was as if before some soul, that is 
 In flames of hell, a dream of heaven's bliss 
 
 Were conjured up to mock his anguished sense 
 
 And make his thought of horror more intense. 
 
 He would have called to her, — but could nor speak 
 Nor move ; it seemed some strange and fettering 
 swoon 
 
 Compelled his sense, so sick he was and weak 
 With waste desire. Till she put off her shoon, 
 And covering the lamp let in the moon, 
 
 That filled the chamber with its argent tide ; 
 
 Then laid her by her sleeping husband's side. 
 
 Now was the hour at hand when he should prove 
 The last device of his resolved despair : 
 
 And yet awhile he could not win to move. 
 But gazed full long upon her sleeping there, 
 Pillowed within a fragrant cloud of hair. 
 
 With parted lips and heaving breasts, that shone 
 
 Like lilies on a lake by moonlight wan.
 
 SALVESTRA. 247 
 
 At last he did shake off the numbing spell 
 That held his sense in bonds of stirlessness ; 
 
 And from his place he crept with feet that fell 
 As noiselessly as fairies' feet that press 
 The dewdropt grass. The room was shadowless ; 
 
 Her husband slept the heavy sleep of toil ; 
 
 And the void lamp had wasted all its oil. 
 
 Upon his knees beside the bed he sank, 
 As one that kneels before a virgin shrine, 
 
 And with long looks of yearning sadness drank 
 Her lovely sight. All bathed in white moonshine, 
 Stirless she lay ; and on her lidded eyne 
 
 Such peace abode, one might have deemed it death. 
 
 Save for the fluttering witness of her breath. ^ 
 
 At length, with tremulous touch and wavering, 
 His hand he laid upon her ivory breast, 
 
 That for a moment stayed its fluttering 
 And throbbed uneasily, as if opprest : 
 But yet therefore ceased not Salvestra's rest ; 
 
 So feather-light his tender touch did lie, 
 
 She did but flutter out a gentle sigh.
 
 248 SALVESTRA. 
 
 Then, bending o'er the cover of the bed, 
 He set his lips upon her sleep-sealed eyes 
 
 And eke upon her mouth's twin flowers of red, 
 As softly as a fallen flower, that lies 
 And floats upon a river, lily-wise. 
 
 Still did she sleep ; and he, grown bolder still. 
 
 Of clinging kisses took his thirsty fill. 
 
 Ah, when was lover true yet satisfied 
 
 With lover's food of kisses warm and sweet ? 
 
 He would have kissed and kissed, until there died 
 The life in him ; but, as his lips did meet 
 And clung to hers more close, the sudden heat 
 
 Quickened the throbbing pulses of her heart 
 
 And forced the ivory gates of sleep apart. 
 
 Her heavy lids drew up and loosed the light 
 Captive within their envious prison-sleep ; 
 
 And as his kneeling figure met her sight. 
 
 The drowsy sweetness, that her eyes did steep, 
 Into a pretty fearfulness did leap ; 
 
 And for her sheer affright she would have cried. 
 
 But in her throat the words sank down and died.
 
 SALVESTRA. 249 
 
 For in his face, bent down towards her own, 
 The lamp of such a perfect love was lit, 
 
 And in his sad clear eyes the peace alone 
 Of such a loveful gentleness was writ, 
 She could not seek for any fear in it. 
 
 But lay and looked on him, with still surprise 
 
 Rounding the sleepy sweetness of her eyes. 
 
 Then, "Sleepest thou, my love of loves ?" he said : 
 And at his voice, the thoughts, that in her breast 
 
 Had for long absence and the years lain dead, 
 Upon her in a crowd of memories prest. 
 Like birds returning to their last year's nest, 
 
 The words and deeds of the sweet time of yore 
 
 Rose up and lived before her thought once more. 
 
 And with the memory, such a fretful tide 
 Of struggling fancies did oppress her brain, 
 
 That for relief aloud she would have cried 
 And help ; but as to speak she strove in vain, 
 He spoke once more and prayed her to refrain, 
 
 For 'twas Girolamo, whom she had loved. 
 
 In the old days, alas ! so far removed.
 
 250 SALVESTRA. 
 
 Then with soft words to her he did recall 
 The linked delight of those unsullied days, 
 
 When each to each was lovers' all in all 
 
 And wrought with other in Love's pleasant praise. 
 Heart joined to heart ; and in all tender ways 
 
 Love could contrive to work upon her grace, 
 
 He did entreat her fairly to retrace 
 
 The vanished paths of faith, to turn aside 
 From the deceitful ways in which her feet 
 
 Had lately wandered, — since false lips had lied 
 Surely to her of him, — and once more greet, 
 With those long looks of love that were so sweet. 
 
 His thirsty eyes, that had of her fair sight 
 
 Bereavbd been so many a day and night. 
 
 And with full many a piteous device 
 
 He strove to turn her heart again to him 
 
 And conjure back the lovelight in her eyes. 
 Recounting how when absence was so grim 
 And sad to him, her face had ne'er grown dim 
 
 Within his memory, but clear and fair, 
 
 The thought of her was with him everywhere.
 
 SALVESTRA. 251 
 
 And how all fairest ladies of the land, 
 Where damozels are loveliest, had failed 
 
 To move the heart he left within her hand. 
 And how no pleasant sight or sport prevailed 
 To win his thought to gladness, that bewailed, 
 
 'Mid proudest feast and music's silveriest swell, 
 
 His banishment from her he loved so well. 
 
 Nor did he fail to paint his great despair 
 
 And all the springs of life dried up and waste, 
 
 And how for him thenceforth no thing was fair 
 Enough, no joy of living could he taste. 
 That might retain his weary soul, in haste 
 
 To break the chains of that abhorrent earth. 
 
 Her love alone made fair and worship-worth. 
 
 For of a surety (and he showed his face, 
 
 Wan-white with sickness, and his sunken eyes,) 
 
 The life should linger in its weary place 
 
 Small time after the new day's sun should rise, 
 Unless her hand reknit the severed ties, 
 
 That to his spirit only peace could give. 
 
 And her lips' honey lent him strength to live.
 
 252 SALVESTRA. 
 
 So he poured prayers into her listening ears ; 
 And all the while her hand in his he held, 
 
 Bathing its ivory with the bitter tears, 
 
 That from his breast so thick and fiercely welled. 
 That now and then to pause he was compelled ; 
 
 And as he ceased, upon her hand he poured 
 
 Kisses more eloquent than any word. 
 
 And for awhile it seemed to him, the strength 
 Of his despair prevailed upon her soul ; 
 
 For her lids quivered, and adown the length 
 Of her soft cheek a silver tear did roll, 
 And a half sigh out of her bosom stole ; 
 
 And as upon her hand his lips he prest, 
 
 He heard the heart throb loudly in her breast. 
 
 Alas ! his hope was all in vain. Full soon 
 She drew her hand out from between his own, 
 
 And trembling, as one waking from a swoon, 
 Conjured him, for God's sake, to get him gone 
 And leave her quiet — else she were undone : 
 
 For of a truth the day was near to break, 
 
 And momently her husband might awake.
 
 SALVES TR A. 253 
 
 " For in those ancient foolish days," she said, 
 " We were but girl and boy, and in child-guise 
 
 Did use to kiss and toy with each, and played 
 At love and courtship, for no harm might rise 
 Of such child's sport : but now 'tis otherwise ; 
 
 For years have passed away since that befell, 
 
 And I am married, as thou knowest well. 
 
 *' And ill it should become me to the love 
 
 Of any other man to give consent 
 Than this my husband ; wherefore, if there move 
 
 Within thee any fear of God or saint, 
 
 I do entreat thee now to be content 
 With that which thou has dared and done to night. 
 And get thee gone before the day grow white. 
 
 " For but consider what a cruel wrong 
 
 Would fall on me through thine unmeasured heat, 
 And how the harm to me would be life-long, 
 
 If day should come and find thee at my feet. 
 
 Now is my life happy and calm and sweet ; 
 For Paolo my husband loves me well, 
 And in content and peace with him I dwell.
 
 254 SALVES! RA. 
 
 " But if by evil chance he should awake 
 And see thee kneeling thus by my bedside, 
 
 He would leave loving me for thy rash sake, 
 And all my happy days with strife be tried ; 
 So that no more in peace I could abide 
 
 With him, — even if no other harm ensue : 
 
 Wherefore, I pray thee, this I ask thee, do. 
 
 " Or if the thought of ill to hap to me 
 Avail not to avert thy wanton will, 
 
 Bethink thee that no hope can ever be 
 That any act of mine shall aye fulfil 
 Thy mad desire, or that there lingers still 
 
 A spark of love for thee within my heart. 
 
 Thanks thou shalt have, if but thou wilt depart." 
 
 Ah me, what misery can equal his, 
 
 That loves and hears his dearest love confess, 
 With that sweet voice that conjures back old bliss, 
 
 The sad impeach of cold forgetfulness ! 
 
 I wot there is no pang of hell nor stress 
 Of endless death, that can prevail above 
 The wistfulness of unrequited love !
 
 SALVES TEA. 255 
 
 So knelt Girolamo, — and listening 
 
 ■ To those cold words from that beloved mouth, 
 
 That did close up for him the gates of Sj^ring 
 And all the golden memories of youth, 
 Knew all his hope in vain and felt the growth 
 
 Of that cold bringer of the eternal Rest 
 
 Stir in the silent chambers of his breast. 
 
 But even while he felt the chills of Death 
 
 Creep through his heart, he could not choose but 
 take, 
 (So strong is Love, and such charm lingereth 
 
 About the loved one's presence !) whilst she spake, 
 Some sad delight. Even though his heart should 
 break 
 At her harsh words, the sweetness of her voice 
 Could not but make his faithful soul rejoice. 
 
 But when she ceased the music of her speech. 
 The spell dissolved from him, and he awoke 
 
 Unto his full despair nor did beseech 
 Her any more nor strove again to evoke 
 The phantom of dead love. The heavy stroke 
 
 Was merciful, and did benumb his brain. 
 
 So that he thought no more to strive in vain
 
 256 SALVESTRA. 
 
 Nor did he find it in him to upbraid 
 Her cruelty ; but with a weary air 
 
 And a sad voice, that might not be gainsaid. 
 He did entreat of her one little prayer 
 Of his to grant and lighten his despair ; — 
 
 That she would let him in the couch, beside 
 
 Her body warm, a little while abide ; — 
 
 For all the heat had left him, with the chill 
 Of the night-air, — and swore to her to lie 
 
 Silent by her nor touch her, but quite still 
 And mute to bide the while ; — and presently 
 (He did avouch) before the day drew nigh, 
 
 As soon as he regained a little heat. 
 
 He would arise and go with noiseless feet. 
 
 Then she, — some little moved by his despair 
 And haply thinking thus the quicklier 
 
 To be relieved of him, — unto his prayer 
 Consented and did let him he by her, 
 Enjoining him to lie and never stir, 
 
 And when as she should bid him go, that he 
 
 Should rise and get him gone immediately.
 
 SAL VESTRA. 257 
 
 But he, his weary body being laid 
 Within the bed, began to ponder o'er 
 
 Within himself the things that she had said ; 
 And in his thought revolving all the sore 
 Sad end of every pleasant thing of yore, 
 
 And all the grief that in his heart did lie, 
 
 He presently resolved himself to die. 
 
 So, with one last fond look at her sweet face, 
 That lay beside him with averted eyes. 
 
 And one last prayer to Mary full of grace 
 And one last Ave intermixed with sighs, 
 He folded up his hands to sleep, childwise, 
 
 And by his dearly-loved Salvestra's side, 
 
 He rendered up his gentle soul and died. 
 
 17
 
 258 SALVESTRA. 
 
 So lay Girolamo the while the hours 
 
 Slid onwards through the cloisters of the dusk : 
 
 And now the day began to put forth flowers, 
 Pale buds of morning opening from the husk 
 Of the small hours ; and all the lights, that busk 
 
 The cheerless heavens in the earliest dawn, 
 
 Grew grey and chill across each Eastern lawn. 
 
 And as the earliest dawn-streak in the East 
 
 Began to glimmer through the casement's glass, 
 
 Salvestra started from her fitful rest ; 
 And gradually, what had come to pass 
 That night recalling to her mind, " Alas ! 
 
 The dusk is burning to the break of day," 
 
 She said, " and yet Girolamo doth stay !" 
 
 Then did she chide him for his broken word 
 And did conjure him rise without delay 
 
 And get him gone. Yet not a whit he stirred, 
 But dumb and motionless as death he lay 
 And gave no heed to aught that she could say ; 
 
 Till she, supposing him with sleep opprest, 
 
 Stretched out her hand and touched him on the 
 breast.
 
 SALVESTRA. 259 
 
 But lo ! her passing hand aroused him not ; 
 And to her touch, as cold as any ice 
 
 His bosom smote. A deadly terror got 
 A sudden hold upon her. Twice or thrice 
 She called him by his name. Then did she rise, 
 
 And bending o'er him, felt no stir of breath 
 
 Nor throb of pulse, and knew that it was death. 
 
 Then such a deathly fear laid hands on her, 
 And such an icy coldness of dismay, 
 
 That for awhile she could nor speak nor stir ; 
 But by the dead all tremblingly she lay ; 
 Whilst through the clouds the grey and early day 
 
 Crept from the casement to the dead man's place 
 
 And threw a ghastly light upon his face. 
 
 Then gradually the thoughts began to take 
 Some form in her ; and she was sore afraid 
 
 Lest Paolo her husband should awake 
 And find a lifeless man beside her laid ; 
 For much she feared lest he should her upbraid, 
 
 Seeing the grisly sight would surely move 
 
 The man to deem her faithless to his love. 
 
 17—2
 
 26o SALVESTRA. 
 
 And in her thought awhile considering 
 
 How she should best avert the blame she feared, 
 
 At last she did resolve to tell the thing 
 Unto her husband as a story heard 
 In idle talk or else a chance occurred 
 
 To other unknown folk, and so to know 
 
 Whether the thing should anger him or no. , 
 
 Then waking him, as if by accident 
 She did relate to him how, in a dream, 
 
 So strange and sad a thing to her was sent, 
 That still before her mind's eye it did seem 
 To be presented, and (as she did deem) 
 
 Till she had told him all, it would not cease 
 
 To weary her, or leave her any peace. 
 
 Then, in ambiguous words (concealing nought 
 Save name and place) the fatal circumstance 
 
 Of all the ills to that sad loveling wrought 
 
 By love, she told him, — how a youth did chance 
 To love a maid, and being sent to France, 
 
 After two years returned and found her wed, — 
 
 And how, in his despair, beside her bed
 
 SALVESTRA. 261 
 
 By night he knelt ; and finding every prayer 
 
 For love's renewal vain, did beg to be 
 Allowed to warm himself from the cold air 
 
 A little by her side To which prayer she, 
 
 Moved by his grief to pity, did agree ; 
 And how, when he had lain awhile and said 
 No word, she had awoke and found him dead. 
 
 And as she made an end of saying this, 
 
 She prayed that he would tell her, of his mind, 
 
 Whether the wife therein had done amiss, 
 And what the husband, who awoke to find 
 A stark dead man beside his wife reclined, 
 
 Should do. Whereto he answered, that the man 
 
 Must hold her blameless, since, as woman can, 
 
 She had resisted all her lover's suit ; 
 But that, before the folk began to go 
 
 About the ways, whilst yet the streets were mute, 
 He should, to avert the evils that might grow 
 From slanderous tongues — if any came to know 
 
 The thing — take up the dead, and through the town 
 
 Bearing him, in his doorway lay him down.
 
 262 SAL VESTRA. 
 
 Whereat Salvestra, being lightened much 
 At heart to hear him speak his mind so fair 
 
 And righteous, took his hand and made him touch 
 Girolamo his bosom lying there 
 Stark dead and cold ; whereby he was aware 
 
 She had made known to him, in other's name, 
 
 Her own mischance. Yet not a word of blame 
 
 To her he said, but rather comforted 
 
 Her timorous soul and bade her have no care. 
 
 Then rising straight he lifted up the dead ; 
 
 And on his shoulders through the streets he bare 
 Girolamo's sad body to the stair 
 
 Before his mother's palace in the town ; 
 
 And there all reverently he laid it down. 

 
 SALVES! RA. 263 
 
 Now when the day was wakened with the sun 
 And men began about the streets to go, 
 
 One of the Countess' servants saw her son 
 Lie as asleep within the portico, 
 And touching him, to know if it were so, 
 
 Found that the life from its sad seat had fled, 
 
 And told his mistress that her son was dead. 
 
 Then she, for pride repressing her despair, 
 Shed not a tear ; but with a pale set face, 
 
 Commanded instantly that they should bear 
 The body to the chief church of the place 
 And set it by the Virgin's altar space, 
 
 That there all due observances might be 
 
 Filled, as behoved his rank and ancestry.
 
 264 SALVESTRA. 
 
 So with the majesty of funeral rites, 
 They bore Girolamo into the fane; 
 
 And there, amid a blaze of votive lights, 
 They set his senseless body down again ; 
 And with full many a prayer and many a strain 
 
 Of ceremonial song, they did commend 
 
 His soul to God : nor did they make an end 
 
 Of mourning him ; but as the manner is, 
 When any noble dies, they did bewail 
 
 His piteous death and loss of earthly bliss 
 In earliest youth : and soon the sorry tale 
 Of all his heavy fortune did not fail 
 
 To stir among the people gathered there 
 
 And move their hearts to pity his despair. 
 
 Now, when the news was come to Paolo, 
 Girolamo his body had been found, 
 
 Most earnestly he did desire to know 
 
 What talk might be among the folk around. 
 And to what cause — seeing there was no wound 
 
 Upon the man nor of disease a sign — 
 
 His strange and sudden death they did assign.
 
 SALVESTRA. 265 
 
 And to this end, Salvestra he enjoined 
 To mingle with the women at the door, 
 
 Within the church, and hear what tale was coined 
 Among the folk, and thus herself assure 
 That he had been unnoticed — when he bore 
 
 The body home — of any citizen : 
 
 And he would do the like among the men. 
 
 The thing he bade was pleasing unto her, 
 For (such a doubtful thing is woman's mind) 
 
 The pity that his love had failed to stir 
 
 Within her bosom, while the Fates were kind. 
 Possessed her now ; and she, that could not find 
 
 A gentle word to gladden him alive, 
 
 Felt for the dead the ancient love revive. 
 
 So with a trembling step she bent her way 
 Towards the church ; and when afar she saw 
 
 The dead man's face across the dense array. 
 Love took revenge of his contemned law,* 
 And such invincible desire did draw 
 
 Her feet towards the place where he was laid", 
 
 She rested not until her way she made 
 
 '^ " Amor ch' a null' amato amar perdona," — Dante.
 
 266 SALVESTRA. 
 
 Athwart the crowd and stood beside the bier ; 
 Then with a haggard eye considering 
 
 The sad sweet face furrowed with many a tear 
 And worn and wasted sore with sorrowing, 
 The thought of his despair prevailed to bring 
 
 To pass what all his life had failed to impart, 
 
 And Love gat hold upon her stubborn heart. 
 
 Awhile she stood, with haggard straining eyes 
 
 And hands that seemed to stretch towards the dead, 
 
 As if to conjure back from Paradise 
 
 The gentle soul from the sad body fled ; 
 Silent she stood, and not a tear she shed : 
 
 But her face bent towards him more and more, 
 
 And her drooped knees sank slowly to the floor. 
 
 At last her swelling bosom found a vent 
 For all its weight of anguish and despair ; 
 
 And with a cry that all the silence rent 
 
 And stirred the calling echoes far and near, 
 She fell upon his bosom, lying there. 
 
 And kissed the cold lips and the death-sealed eyes 
 
 And called upon him madly to arise.
 
 SAL VESTRA. 267 
 
 For Death could surely have no power on him, 
 Seeing she loved him with so fierce a heat ; 
 
 Her kiss should surely from the very rim 
 Of the black night recall his wandering feet. 
 But none the less the white face cold and sweet 
 
 Lay passionless, the pale lips answered not, 
 
 And all her blandishments availed no jot. 
 
 Then gradually, seeing that in vain 
 
 Her tardy kindness came, nor all love's stress 
 
 Availed her to reknit life's severed skein, 
 She did abate for very weariness 
 Her idle strife and lay all motionless : 
 
 But still with one long kiss her hot Hps clave 
 
 To his cold mouth that none in answer gave. 
 
 And thus awhile she lay, her haggard face 
 Pressed unto his that died for love of her. 
 
 Whilst on the floor her locks did interlace 
 With the full golden clusters of his hair. 
 Long time she lay on him and did not stir ; 
 
 And on the air there hung a ghastly spell 
 
 Of silence, measured by the tolling bell.
 
 268 SAL VESTKA. 
 
 At length, the pitying folk that stood around 
 And wept for dolour of that piteous sight, 
 
 Thinking Salvestra fallen of a swound, 
 
 Would have uplifted from the marble white 
 
 Her senseless form ; but when they brought to light 
 
 Her lovely face, they found the sweet soul fled 
 
 And knew these lovers for waste love lay dead. 
 
 So Death took pity on ill-fortuned love 
 
 And at the last did grant these lovers twain 
 
 That boon all other earthly bliss above, 
 At rest beside each other to be lain 
 And never stir from their embrace again. 
 
 Ah Love ! thou art full sweet ; but never yet 
 
 Did any man of thee such guerdon get ! 
 
 And there they buried them beneath the trees, 
 Beside the running river, breast to breast, 
 
 These two sad lovers. Ladies, if it please 
 Your gentle hearts to hear of folk opprest 
 Of love, I pray you use it softliest. 
 
 This little song of mine, and say with me, 
 
 God save all gentle souls that lovers be.
 
 SALVESTRA 269 
 
 Ah me f shall Love for ever suffer wrong ? 
 
 Shall none avail to stay the steps of Fate ? 
 Since Suimner and its roses and the song 
 Of choiring birds are powerless to abate 
 
 The conquering curse, the uncompassionate ; 
 But all themselves must seek tJiat frozen shore 
 Where Spring and all its flowers liave gone before. 
 
 Alas ! meseems there is none other thing 
 
 Assured to us that work and 7vatch and weep, 
 
 Save only memory and sorrowing 
 
 And the soft lapse into the eternal sleep ! 
 
 The harvest that we sow, what hands shall reap, 
 
 What eyes shall see the glories that we dream, 
 
 What ears shall throb unto the songs we deem,
 
 270 SALVESTRA. 
 
 We know not ; nor the end of love is sure, 
 {Alas ! how much less sure than anything /) 
 
 Whether the little love-light shall endure 
 In the clear eyes of her we loved in Spring, 
 Or if the faint flowers of remembering 
 
 Shall blow, we know not : only this we know,- 
 
 Afar Death comes with silent steps and slow. 
 
 Men lay their lives before the feet of Love, 
 
 Strewing his way with many-coloured flowers, 
 
 Ajid poets use to set his praise above 
 All other rulers of the days and hours: 
 Frojti age to age untold, recurrent showers 
 
 Of psalm and song attest his empery 
 
 And crown him God above all Gods that be. 
 
 And with an equal breath, on that dark Lord 
 That rules the going out from life and light, 
 
 The hate and fear of men have been outpoured, 
 In words that borrowed blackness fro??i the night ; 
 Nor have the singers spared with songs to smite 
 
 His siloit head, styling him bitterest foe 
 
 Of that fair God that myrtle-crowned doth go.
 
 SALVESTRA. 271 
 
 And yet, what Love could not prevail to do, 
 Compa7iied round with every goodly thought 
 
 And every happy chance that ?nen ensue, 
 
 When all his char JUS of flowers and birdso7igs wrought 
 And all his sorceries availed nought 
 
 To give these lovers peace and tunnned delight, — 
 
 That Death wrought out of his u?iaided might. 
 
 And thou, O best-beloved of the sad, 
 
 Death, the angel of tJie etid of tears ! 
 
 Let those heap blame on thee, whose lives are glad. 
 For whom thy dwelling is tJie dusk of fears. 
 
 1 praise thee, that have loved thee ma?iy years : 
 
 Though men revile thee, thou art dear to me : 
 Sad is my so fig; L bring it all to tliee. 
 
 For me, I love thee not for lives beyond 
 
 77ie cofnpassed darkness of the accomplished Fate ; 
 L look not, I, with dazzled eyes andfofid. 
 
 To fifid new worlds behind thine iron gate ; 
 
 I love thee for thyself compassionate ; 
 I seek thee not for Iieavens and new life, 
 Only for thine embrace that shuts out strife.
 
 272 SALVESTRA. 
 
 1 look not, I, for the awakening, 
 After long sleep, in brighter worlds to come ; 
 
 I look but for the e?id of weary ijig, 
 For pain to cease and sorrow to be dumb ; 
 To lay me down, with stricken sense and numb, 
 
 Hiding my weary face within thy breast. 
 
 Rest in thy bosom, and around thee rest. 
 
 But you, my Masters, in whose mighty track 
 I have ensued with slow and faltering feet, 
 
 I will crave pardon of you, if I lack. 
 In this my song, to follow on the beat 
 Of your firm footsteps — if ffiy errant heat 
 
 Have, in the sad enchantment of my days. 
 
 Put off the strong assurance of your lays I 
 
 And first, glad Master, standing 7vith one foot 
 On earth, and one foot iti the Faery land — 
 
 Wliose song, with virgin Una taking root, 
 Branches, a forest-tree majestic, spanned 
 From earth through heaven unto the elfin strand— 
 
 Tliou that didst count the seasons and the hours 
 
 With the fair forest calendar of flowers,
 
 SALVESTRA. 273 
 
 That knew'st no sadness, building jip thy song 
 With love and life afid deeds of high emprise, 
 
 That rod'st with cheerful heart the world along, 
 Counting to crown fair life with Paradise — 
 I pray thee. Master fair and glad and 7mse, 
 
 To pardon me, if none of these I seek ; 
 
 For I a?n sad, alas ! and very weak. 
 
 And thou, O star-browed singer— folded round 
 With the vague awe of tJie Invisible, 
 
 As with a cloak — whose radiant front is crowned 
 With triple coronals, fair and terrible. 
 Attesting the assay of heaven and hell — 
 
 Thou, whose asplct indeed is very sad. 
 
 Yet therewithin the hope of heaven had 
 
 Burns like a glory and a shining fire — 
 O pilgrim of the high celestial town, 
 
 Forgive my weakling thought, if it aspire 
 
 Not to the palm-branch and the starry crown — 
 Only the soft rest and the lying down 
 
 To dreamless sleep and cease of sorrowing ; 
 
 For I am weak and ask a little thing. 
 
 18
 
 274 SALVESTRA. 
 
 A little things a narrow sorry hope ! 
 Indeed a little thing to look upon, 
 
 If one be glad and in the Future^ s scope 
 Long vistas of fair places to be won 
 And valorous deeds for doing follow on, — 
 
 A weary hope, £ faith, if one be strong 
 
 And run the race in gladness and with song. 
 
 But if the life be grief in any one 
 
 And his despair shrink from the face of light. 
 
 Fearing to see the spleiidour of the sun — 
 If day for sadness wither in his sight 
 And his tears fill the watches of the night, 
 
 If love be 7nadness and the hope of men 
 
 Seem to his soul a mockery, — ah then 
 
 He cares not to renew the weariness 
 Of unspent life within the years unknown ; 
 
 He shall not seek the never-ending stress 
 Of the sad days for him hmnortal grown — 
 A palace where his soul shall walk alone ; 
 
 His heart aspires but to the end of pain, 
 
 The sleep where tftorning never comes again.
 
 SALVES! RA. 275 
 
 Afid thus I hail thee, Lord of all my lays ! 
 
 Master and Healer, coming with soft wing ! 
 I lift my feeble voice unto thy praise. 
 
 For thou to me art hope in every thing. 
 
 Others have glory and remembering. 
 Fair hope of future life and crown of faith. 
 Love and delight ; but I, L have but death. 
 
 Wherefore I praise thee, seeing thou alone. 
 Of all things underneath the heavens born. 
 
 Art all assured. For is it not unknown 
 Whether the gold sun on another morn 
 Shall glitter, or the Spri?ig conie to adorn 
 
 Once more the woods and fields with winter pale 1 
 
 This but we know, 27wu Death shalt never fail ! 
 
 And unto thee I bring this weakling song, '^ 
 
 (For L am thine, and all my little skill) 
 
 Wherein, alone among the busy throng, 
 I have enforced me sadly to fulfil 
 My meed of thanks to thee, — and loudlier still 
 
 My growing voice shall praise thee. Death, than now, 
 
 Lord of the Future, certain only thou ! 
 
 ♦ ••■♦■ 
 
 iS-
 
 VILLANELLE. 
 
 ( Wit/i a copy of Swinburne s Poems and Ballads, 
 Second Series?) 
 
 'X'HE thrush's singing days are fled 
 
 His heart is dumb for love and pain : 
 The nightingale shall sing instead. 
 
 Too long the wood-bird's heart hath bled 
 With love and dole at every vein : 
 The thrush's singing days are fled. 
 
 The music in his breast is dead, 
 His soul will never flower again : 
 The nightingale shall sing instead. 
 
 Love's rose has lost its early red, 
 The golden year is on the wane ; 
 The thrush's singing days are fled.
 
 VILLANELLE. 277 
 
 The years have beaten down his head, 
 He's mute beneath the winter's rain : 
 The nightingale shall sing instead. 
 
 Hard use hath snapped the golden thread 
 Of all his wild-wood songs in twain ; 
 The thrush's singing days are fled. 
 
 His voice is dumb for drearihead : 
 What matters it? In wood and lane 
 The nightingale shall sing instead. 
 
 Dear, weary not for what is sped. 
 What if, for stress of heart and brain, 
 The thrush's singing days are fled ; 
 The nightingale shall sing instead.
 
 CINOUAINS. 
 
 T STROVE to hide the load that Love on me did 
 
 lay : 
 In vain ; and sleep from me for aye is fled away. 
 Since that wanhope doth press my heart both night 
 
 and day, 
 I cry aloud " O Fate, hold back thy hand, I pray ! 
 For all my soul is sick for anguish and dismay." 
 
 If that the Lord of Love were just indeed to me. 
 Sleep had not fled my eyes by his unkind decree. 
 Have pity, sweet, on one that is for love of thee 
 Worn out and wasted sore, that once was rich and 
 free, 
 
 Now humbled and cast down by Love from his 
 array.
 
 CINQUAINS. 279 
 
 Thy foes cease not to speak thee ill ; I heed not, 1 ; 
 But stop ray ears to them and give them back the lie : 
 I'll keep my troth with her I love, until I die. 
 " Thou lovest one estranged," they say ; and I reply 
 " Enough ; fate blinds the eyes of those that are 
 its prey." 
 
 II. 
 
 Who says to thee " The first of love is free," 
 Tell him, " Not so ; but on the contrary ; 
 'Tis all constraint, wherein no blame can be. 
 History, indeed, attests this verity ; 
 
 It does not style the good coin falsified. 
 
 Say, if thou wilt, " The taste of pain is sweet, 
 Or to be spurned by Fortune's flying feet ; " 
 Talk of whatever makes the heart to beat 
 For grief or gladness, fortune or defeat 5 
 'Twixt hope and fear I tarry stupefied. 
 
 But as for him whose happy days are light, 
 Fair maids whose lips with smiles are ever bright, 
 Sweet with the fragrant breath of their delight, 
 Who has his will, unhindered of despite, 
 
 'Tis not with him that craven fear should bide. 
 
 From tlie Arabic.
 
 LOVE'S AUTUMN. 
 
 {Field's Nocturne in D Minor^ 
 
 Y/ES, love, the Spring shall come again ; 
 
 But not as once it came : 
 Once more in meadow and in lane 
 
 The daffodils shall flame, 
 The cowslips blow, but all in vain ; 
 
 Alike, yet not the same. 
 
 The roses that we plucked of old 
 Were dewed with heart's delight : 
 
 Our gladness steeped the primrose-gold 
 In half its lovely light : 
 
 The hopes are long since dead and cold, 
 That flushed the wind-flowers' white. 
 
 Ah, who shall give us back our Spring ? 
 
 What spell can fill the air 
 With all the birds of painted wing
 
 LOVE'S A UTUMN. aS i 
 
 That sang for us whilere ? 
 What charm reclothe with blossoming 
 Our lives grown blank and bare ? 
 
 What sun can draw the ruddy bloom 
 
 Back to hope's faded rose ? 
 What stir of summer re-illume 
 
 Our hearts' wreckt garden-close ? 
 What flowers can fill the empty room 
 
 Where now the nightshade grows ? 
 
 'Tis but the Autumn's chilly sun 
 
 That mocks the glow of May ; 
 'Tis but the pallid bindweeds run 
 
 Across our garden way, 
 Pale orchids, scentless every one, 
 
 Ghosts of the summer day. 
 
 Yet, if it must be so, 'tis well : 
 
 What part have we in June ? 
 Our hearts have all forgot the spell 
 
 That held the summer noon ; 
 We echo back the cuckoo's knell, 
 
 And not the hnnet's tune.
 
 2S2 LO VE'S A UTU.Vy. 
 
 What should we do with roses now, 
 "\\Tiose cheeks no more are red ? 
 
 What violets should deck our brow, 
 Whose hopes long since are fled ? 
 
 Recalling many a wasted vow 
 And many a faith struck dead 
 
 Bring heath and pimpernel and rue, 
 The Autumn's sober flowers : 
 
 At least their scent will not renew 
 The thought of happy hours 
 
 Nor drag sad memory back unto 
 That lost sweet time of ours. 
 
 Faith is no sun of summer-tide, 
 
 Only the pale calm light 
 That, when the Autumn clouds divide, 
 
 Hangs in the watchet height, — 
 A lamp, wherewith we may abide 
 
 The coming of the night. 
 
 And yet, beneath its languid ray. 
 
 The moorlands bare and dry 
 Bethink them of the summer day
 
 Z VES A UTUMN. 283 
 
 And flower, far and nigh, 
 With fragile memories of the May, 
 Blue as the x\ugust sky. 
 
 These are our flowers : they have no scent 
 
 To mock our waste desire, 
 No hint of bygone ravishment 
 
 To stir the faded fire : 
 The very soul of sad content 
 
 Dwells in each azure spire. 
 
 I have no violets : you laid 
 
 Your blight upon them all : 
 It was your hand, alas ! that made 
 
 My roses fade and fall, 
 Your breath my lilies that forbade 
 
 To come at summer's call. 
 
 Yet take these scentless flowers and pale, 
 
 The last of all my year : 
 Be tender to them ; they are frail : 
 
 But if thou hold them dear, 
 I'll not their brighter kin bewail, 
 
 That now lie cold and sere.
 
 ASPECT AND PROSPECT. 
 
 Jam-i-mai, khoun-i-dil, her yek be-kese dadend. — Hafiz. 
 Ever}- man hath his gift, one a cup of wine, another heart's 
 blood. 
 
 I. 
 
 'T^HE time is sad with many a sign and token ; 
 Desire and doubting in all hearts have met ; 
 
 The ancient orders of the world are broken ; 
 The night is spent, the morning comes not yet : 
 Men go with face against the Future set, 
 
 Each asking each, " When shall the wreak be wroken ? 
 
 When shall the God come and the word be spoken 
 To end Life's passion and its bloody sweat ?" 
 
 For sowing time hath failed us even at reaping ; 
 
 Time hath torn out the eyes and heart of faith ; 
 Of all our gladness there remaineth weeping ; 
 
 Of all our living we have woven us death :
 
 ASPECT AND PROSPECT. 285 
 
 For many a hope is dead for lack of breath, 
 And many a faith hath fallen and is sleeping, 
 Weary to death with the long hopeless keeping 
 
 The watch for day that never morroweth. 
 
 For all our lives are worn with hopeless yearning ; 
 
 There is no pleasantness in all our days : 
 The world is waste, and there is no returning 
 
 For our tired feet into old flowered ways. 
 
 Long use hath shorn our summer of its rays ; 
 Of all our raptures there is left but burning ; 
 We are grown sadly wise, and for discerning 
 
 The sweet old dreams are hueless to our gaze. 
 
 We trust not Love, for he is God no longer : 
 Another hath put on his pleasant guise : 
 
 The greater God hath bowed him to the stronger ; 
 Death looks at life from many a lover's eyes : 
 And underneath the linden-tree he lies, 
 
 The gracious torch-bearer of ancient story, 
 
 His sweet face faded, and his pinions' glory 
 Dim as the gloss of grass-grown memories.
 
 286 ASPECT AND PROSPECT. 
 
 No gods have we to trust to, new or olden ; 
 
 The blue of heaven knows their thrones no more 
 The races of the gods in death are holden : 
 
 Their pale ghosts haunt the icy river's shore : 
 
 Availeth not our beating at their door : 
 There is no presence in their halls beholden ; 
 The silence fills their jewelled thrones and golden ; 
 
 The shadow lies along their palace-floor. 
 
 And lo ! if any set his heart to singing, 
 
 Thinking to witch the world with love and light, 
 
 Strains of old memories set the stern chords ringing 
 The morning answers with the songs of night : 
 For who can sing of pleasance and delight, 
 
 When all the sadness of the world is clinging 
 
 About his heart-strings, and each breeze is bringing 
 Its burden of despairing and despite. 
 
 Help is there none : night covers us down-lying 
 To sleep that comes at last with devious dreams ; 
 
 The morning brings us sadness but and sighing : 
 We gather sorrow from the noontide beams :
 
 ASPECT AND PROSPECT. 287 
 
 And if a man set eyes on aught that seems 
 An oasis of peace, he finds on nighing 
 Its promise false, and sad almost to dying 
 
 Turns from the mirage and its treacherous streams. 
 
 II. 
 
 And yet one hope by well-nigh all is cherished,— 
 Albeit many hold it unconfest, — 
 The dream of days that, when this life has perished 
 And all its strife and turmoil are at rest, 
 Shall rise for men out of some mystic West, — 
 A paradise of peace, where death comes never 
 And life flows calr.ily as some dreamy river 
 That wanders through the islands of the Blest : 
 
 A dream of love-lorn hearts made whole of sorrow, 
 Of all life's doubts and puzzles solved for aye. 
 Of severed lives reknit in one to-morrow 
 Of endless bliss beneath the cloudless sky; 
 A dream of lands where hope shall never die, 
 But in the fair clear fields, browbound with moly, 
 Our dead desires shall wander, healed and holy, 
 And over all a mystic peace shall lie ;
 
 288 ASPECT AND PROSPECT. 
 
 A peace that shall be woven of old sadness 
 And bitter memories gro\\'n honey-sweet, 
 Where our lost hopes shall live again in gladness, 
 Chaining the summer to their happy feet ; 
 Where never fulness with desire shall meet, 
 Nor the sweet earth divide from the dear heaven, 
 Nor mortal grossness shall avail to leaven 
 The ecstasy of that supernal seat. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ah ! lovely dreams that come and go ! 
 
 Shall ever hope to harvest grow ? 
 Of all that sow shall any reap ? 
 
 I know not, I : but this I know, 
 
 Whether tlie years bring weal or woe. 
 Whether the Future laugh or weep, 
 I shall not heed it, — I shall sleep.
 
 ASPECT AND PROSPECT. 289 
 
 I have lived out this life of ours ; 
 
 I can no more. — Through shine and showers, 
 March lapses into full July : 
 
 The May sun coaxes out the floweis, 
 
 And through the splendid summer hours 
 Their tender little lives go by, 
 And when the winter comes, they die. 
 
 But in the Spring they live again. 
 Not so with us, whose lives have lain 
 
 In ways where love and pain are rife, — 
 Whose seventy years of sadness strain 
 Toft-ards the gates of rest in vain ; 
 
 Our souls are worn with doubt and strife ; 
 
 We have no seed of second life. 
 
 And yet for those whose lives have been 
 
 Through storm and sun alike serene, 
 Drinking the sunshine and the dew 
 
 In every break of summer sheen, — 
 
 I doubt not but the unforeseen 
 
 May treasure for these flower-like few 
 A life where heart and soul renew ; 
 
 19
 
 290 ASPECT AND FR0SPEC7. 
 
 A life where Love no more shall bring 
 The pains of hell upon its wing, 
 
 Where perfect peace at least shall dwell, — 
 That happy peace that is the King 
 Of all the goods we poets sing, — 
 
 That all with aching hearts foretell, 
 
 Yet know them unattainable. 
 
 But we, whom Love hath wrecked and torn. 
 Whose lives with waste desire are worn, — 
 Whose souls life-long have been as lyres 
 Vibrating to each breath that's borne 
 Across our waste of days forlorn, — 
 Whose paths are lit with funeral fires, 
 The monuments of dead desires, — 
 
 We, for whom many lives have past, 
 Through storm and summer, shine and blast. 
 
 Within our one man's span of years, — 
 We may not hope for peace at last 
 Save where the shade of Sleep is cast, 
 
 And from our eyes Death's soft hand clears 
 The tliought alike of smiles and tears.
 
 ASPECT AND PROSPECT. 291 
 
 Yet (for we loved you, brothers all, — 
 That love us not, — despite the wall 
 
 Of crystal that between us lies) 
 We, to whose eyes, whate'er befall. 
 No angel could the hope recall. 
 
 We dream for you of brighter skies, 
 
 Of life new-born in Paradise. 
 
 We hope for you that golden day 
 When God (alas !) shall wipe away 
 
 The tears from all the eyes that weep ; 
 And from our lonely lives we pray 
 That, of that happy time, some ray 
 
 Of your filled hope, your souls that reap, 
 May reach us, dream-like, in our sleep. 
 
 19 — 2
 
 MELISANDE. 
 
 A H, lady of the lands of gold ! 
 
 Who shall lay hands on thee and hold 
 Thy beauty for a space as long 
 As pausing of a linnet's song ? 
 Ah, lady of the lays of old, 
 
 When love is life and right is wrong ! 
 
 Ah, lady of the dear old dream ! 
 
 We watch Love's roses on the stream 
 That spins its silver in the land 
 Where garlands glitter from thy hand : 
 
 Ah, singer of the sweets that seem ! 
 
 When shall the dream take shape and stand ?
 
 MELISANDE. 
 
 Ah, dear in dreams, lost long ago ! 
 
 A sound of lutings soft and low, 
 A scent of roses newly prest, 
 Cease never from the dreamful A\'est : 
 
 When shall a man draw near to know 
 The sweetness of thy perfect breast ? 
 
 II. 
 
 A dream of days too far to fill : 
 The thin clear babble of the rill 
 
 That trickles through the fainting flowers ; 
 
 A monotone of mourning hours ; 
 The dim dawn coming sad and still ; 
 
 The evening's symphony of showers. 
 
 A lone land under a sere sky ; 
 
 And, stretching towards the veil on high. 
 
 My soul, a flower that seeks the sun ; 
 
 The dull days dropping, one by one ; 
 The darkness drawing ever nigh ; 
 
 And still nor dream nor life is won.
 
 294 MELISANDE. 
 
 III. 
 
 Ah sunflower-heart ! ah Melisande ! 
 
 When shall the dream take shape and stand ? 
 
 When shall thy lips melt into mine ? 
 
 When shall I drink thy looks like wine ? 
 Shall earth for once turn fairy-land 
 
 And all the past take shape and shine ? 
 
 Alas ! such hopes were vain indeed ! 
 
 The waste world knoweth not the seed 
 That bears the blossom of delight : 
 Shall one go forth to sow the night 
 
 And look to reap sun-coloured weed 
 And lilies of the morning light ? 
 
 Who would not be content to know 
 That at the last, — when sin and woe 
 Had done their worst, and life were lain 
 Before the gales that shut out pain, — 
 The bitter breeze of death should blow 
 The mirage from the sullen plain,
 
 MELISANDE. 295 
 
 And for a little sun-filled space 
 His sight should feed on his love's face, 
 And in her eyes his soul drink deep, — 
 And then upon him death should creep 
 And snatch him, sudden, to the place 
 Where all things gather to a sleep ! 
 
 Ah lovers, God but grant you this, — 
 To breathe your life out in a kiss, 
 
 To sleep upon your lady's breast 
 
 The hour life lapses into rest ! 
 For me, I ask no other bliss 
 
 Than Rudel's, deeming his the best. 
 
 THE END.
 
 Now Ready, 8vo., Cloth, 4s. 
 
 A NEW TRAGEDY 
 
 BY 
 
 R. H. HORNE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'ORION,' 'THE DEATH OF MARLOWE,' ETC., ETC. 
 
 ENTITLED 
 
 LAURA DIBALZO; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE PATRIOT MARTYRS. 
 
 ^cbif atcii \o \\\z iUustrions JHcmcir^ of 
 WASHINGTON, 
 
 AND TO THE EQUALLY PURE PATRIOTIC NAMES OF 
 
 KOSCIUSKO, KOSSUTH, 
 
 MAZZINI, GARIBALDI. 
 
 NEWMAN AND CO., 
 4 3, HART STREET, BLOOMS BURY, W. C.
 
 MR. PAYNES WORKS. 
 
 -OOj:©4o°- 
 
 1. THE MASQUE OF SHADOWS and other 
 
 Poems. 
 
 2. INTAGLIOS: Sonnets. 
 
 3. SONGS OF LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 4. THE POEMS OF FRANCIS VILLON. Now 
 
 first done into English Verse. 
 
 5. LAUTREC : A Poem.
 
 NEW POEMS.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 
 OS 
 
 MR. PAYNE AS A POET. 
 
 " There is often an originality in Mr. Paynes poetry, asubtletj' 
 in his thought, a niceness in his language, and a melody in his 
 versification, which at the present time we look for in vain in 
 any but one or two of our leading poets." — Sattirday Review. 
 
 "We must accord to the author of ' Lautrec ' a high and rare 
 order of poetic genius." — Examiner. 
 
 "Mr. Payne belongs to that small body of cultivated men 
 who will probably be the glory of Victorian literature, who have 
 succeeded in wedding thought to new music. With Mr. Payne, 
 as with Swinburne and Rossetti, the English language has 
 become perfectly flexible. Further, he gives new beauty to the 
 oldest subjects, and there cannot be a better test of a poet's 
 power. There is, in short, nothing commonplace in Mr. Payne. 
 He may not be popular with 'the blind multitude,' but he is 
 sure to be so with all lovers of poetry, both to-day and to- 
 morrow." — The Westminster Review. 
 
 "Of the great poetic power possessed by Mr. Payne there 
 can be no question. The subtle beauty of his verse, its glowing 
 passion and its rich diction, must be universally admitted." — 
 Literary World, 
 
 " We should say that Mr. Payne is far more likely than Mr. 
 .Swinburne to be hailed, some few years hence, as the favourite 
 poet of the now rising g&vi&x3i\\on."—IlhcstratedLondoti News. 
 
 " Mr. Payne's command of melodious language and imagina- 
 tive power is undoubted ; and his place among modern poets is 
 a high one."— /o/m Bull.
 
 MR, PAYNES WORKS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Fcap. ^vo., cloth, "js. 
 
 THE MASQUE OF SHADOWS AND OTHER 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 " ' La Transfiguration des Ombres ' (si I'on pent ainsi traduire 
 ' The Masque of Shadows ') est un poeme dont la conception 
 etrange rappelle les visions d'Edgar Poe, et dont I'harmonie ima- 
 ginative est digne de Shelley Telle est cette vision 
 
 bizarre et grandiose Ce qu'il y a de bonne ou de mauvaise 
 
 philosophie en de pareilles imaginations, le lecteur I'appreciera. 
 Mais nous pouvons lui dire et lui affirmer que I'auteur a fait la 
 ceuvre veritable de ]50csie. D'un noir cercueil il a evoque un 
 splendide bouquet de fleurs, legeres comme les ailesde I'Esperance, 
 fraiches et parfumtes comme les levres du printemps. C'est 
 vague, impalpable, diapre, immense et celeste ; tel I'arc en ciel 
 rayonne apres I'orage qui a devaste. Encore une fois, il y a la 
 de la poesie. On ne saurait demander plus a un poete. Insense ! 
 si vous voulez ; mais certainement tres-beau !'' — La I^enaissaiue, 
 
 " We gladly welcome Mr. Payne amongst that select number 
 of poets that already comprises such names as Rossetti, .Swin- 
 burne, and Morris." — The IVestntinstcr Kcview. 
 
 ' ' Mr. Payne's ' Masque of Shadows ' is a work of great refine- 
 ment and beauty Mr. Payne possesses great imaginative 
 
 power and a wonderful command of language and rhythm 
 
 Striking as is the ' Rime of Redemption,' which has not unfitly 
 been compared to the 'Ancient Mariner,' the next poem, 'The 
 Building of the Dream,' is to our mind a yet more favourable 
 specimen of Mr. Payne's powers. The opening sketch of tlie 
 peaceful town in which the squire of Poitou dwelt is almost equal 
 to Mr. Morris at his best, and this is the highest praise that can 
 well be Ijcstowed. Nor is the description of the seven days'
 
 journey towards the ^Yest less effective "When the seven 
 
 days are passed, and Ebhardt wins his way at length to the land 
 of dreams, we are presented with a series of pictures which 
 almost cloy us with splendour and dazzle us with colour. Passage 
 after passage miglit be quoted which for richness of language and 
 brilliancy of imagination find few equals among tlie poetry of the 
 day. The fault is that they are, taken together, a little too rich 
 and splendid, but each taken by itself is exquisite in finish and 
 
 full of grace and melody Many a passage of beauty, with 
 
 a tender and delicate fragrance breathing out of it We 
 
 recognise in Mr. Payne a poet of no mean order, one from whom 
 we may expect great things in future, and who has already given 
 us a work of great beauty and elegance."— yi:'//;/ Bull. 
 
 "This is a book of genuine imagination ; the qualities which 
 characterize it are precisely those which distinguish poetry from 
 less elevated forms of composition. Its most marked feature is 
 an exuberance of fancy and invention, controlled by a chastened 
 
 literary taste ' The Rime of Redemption ' is a wild 
 
 legend in the form of a ballad, narrated with admirable point, 
 and full of spirit and fire. 'The Building of the Dream' and 
 
 ' Sir Ploris ' are successions of exquisite pictures The 
 
 volume abounds with proofs of culture and scholarsliip, no less 
 than of poetical power." — The lllustraicd London Neivs. 
 
 " ' The Masque of Shadows ' has already won for Mr. Payne 
 no mean place among the poets of the day." — T/ic Spectator. 
 
 " A volume of uncommon merit. The story of Scpiire Ebhardt, 
 in ' The Building of the Dream,' and of Sir Flons's winning his 
 place among the guardians of the San Graal in the mystic city of 
 Sarras, are very striking — and often very Ijeautiful — repro- 
 ductions of some of the best thought and best work of 
 mediaeval Christianity. Mr. Payne's lines abound with words of 
 curious and semi- French archaism ; but these are never dragged 
 in ; they suit the general effect, and clearly come from the over- 
 flow of a memory steeped in the romance literature whence they 
 are drawn." — 'I he Saturday Kcvieiu. 
 
 "This curious and remarkable book is likely to win hearty 
 appreciation from many who like to wander in the enchanted 
 forests of poetry. In qualities of luxuriant grace and splendour 
 of description Mr. Payne is eclipsed by few modern writers. In 
 all metrical resj^ects his verse is perfect. He has imagination, 
 perception, and c<Misiderable lyrical power. There are in this book 
 both promise and power." — The Sunday Times. 
 
 "Mr. Payne's ' Rime of Redemption ' is vitalized by so true 
 an imagination, it is so firm of texture and so rapid of movement, 
 that it at once became a new possession to our ballad literature." 
 — Athciitrian.
 
 II. 
 
 Fcap. %vo., cloth, t^s. 6d, 
 
 INTAGLIOS: Sonnets. 
 
 " Mr. Payne is almost the best English sonnet writer that we 
 have had since Mrs. Browning published her * Sonnets from the 
 Portuguese.' .... He writes like a poet, mastering the diffi- 
 culties and satisfying the requirements of the sonnet with great 
 skill. Here and there the antiqueness of his expression looks 
 like affectation, but all flaws are atoned for by the exquisite 
 thrills and touches of song he often utters." — The Examiner. 
 
 "Mr. Payne's chief characteristics are an exquisite tenderness 
 and delicacy both of thought and of melody, a certain mystical tone 
 and solemnity and a severely cultivated beauty of expression. . , 
 . . We have not space to do justice to Mr. Payne's great merits, 
 but to those who can read between the lines, the following deli- 
 ciouslyric will speak for itself." (Sonnet " Rococo" quoted.) ,*'We 
 cannot part with Mr. Payne without calling attention to the way 
 in which he has reset many of our long-forgotten but beautiful 
 
 expressions and archaisms Mr. Payne's beautiful sonnet 
 
 on Leconte de Lisle's Prose Translation of Homer may worthily 
 be put side by side with Keats's sonnet on Chapman's Translation. 
 .... Mr. Payne writes in the true spirit of that old poet — 
 namesake of Homer's translator— who more than two centuries 
 and a half ago thus spoke : ' A writer that dares venture, and is 
 desirous to enrich his mother-tongue, decketh it boldly with that 
 which he borroweth of others, (and) setteth forgotten words on 
 foote againe ' (Lisle, Translation of Du /Cartas [1625], p. 71, 
 foot-note.)" — The Westminster Review. 
 
 " There are few poems in the language in which the nnseen 
 has a miOre abiding presence, in which words are employed with 
 more of suggestion, or in which the sympathy of manimate 
 nature with human suffering is more fully developed. In all 
 sweet influences of nature Air. Payne traces ' the still sad music 
 of humanity,' and he displays remarkable power in conveying 
 the influence which the soul in its moments of suffering or 
 yearning is able to derive from the associations or caresses of 
 
 nature A certain misty fragrance of poetry, which is 
 
 characteristic of all Mr. Payne's work, is prevalent in these 
 sonnets. Added to this are a wealth, almost ostentatious, of 
 
 language and great splendour of word-painting Mr. Payne 
 
 is an accomplished poet and a master of the form of composition 
 he now essays. His work will be a delight to all who love 
 beauty." — Sunday Times. 
 
 " We are grateful to Mr. Payne for rousing us from the some- 
 what drowsy state into which we had fallen as we perused page 
 after page of poets gifted with that fatal fluency of language which 
 is so convenient a cloak to the want of thought. If he is at
 
 times obscure, there is much in his sonnets that is as clear as it is 
 beautiful. They show no signs of liasty work ; on the contrary, 
 
 they are polished as only a scholar loves to polish Some 
 
 of Mr. Payne's lines are wonderfully musical." — Saturday 
 RevictU. 
 
 "In ' Intaglios ' are noticeable the same features which elicited 
 admiration and applause in 'The Masque of Shadows.' Eleva- 
 tion of thought and literary culture are combined with so delicate 
 and airy a fancy that one is almost mclincd to object to the 
 hardness implied in the title, forgetting for the moment that the 
 term is to be applied rather to the execution than to the material." 
 — Illustrated London Nc'vs. 
 
 "There is much that is noteworthy in these sonnets — subtle 
 fancy, scholarly execution, and a quaintness of thought which, 
 although occasionally more curious than beautiful, is not without 
 a charm. Mr. Payne has more grace than strength, more of 
 tenderness and refined feeling than of sustained power. He does 
 not speak to the multitude, but the careful workmanship displayed 
 in this little volume will excite the admiration of all students of 
 poetry."— /'rt// Mall Gazette. 
 
 "The sonnet seems to suit the genius of Mr. Payne's poetry. 
 Its narrow limits and the rigidity of its form do something to 
 check the wild luxuriance of his fancy. But the intrinsic faults 
 and beauties of such verse as he writes are of course not mate- 
 rially affected by any variation of fomi. A highly poetical style, 
 made positively gorgeous by a word-painting which uses liberally 
 the most brilliant colours, attracts the reader with great promise 
 of beauty. Here is a sonnet that Mrs. Browning might have 
 written. It is called 'Jacob and the Angel,' and is said to have 
 been suggested by 'adesign byJ.T. Nettleship.'" — 77ie Spectator. 
 
 "Mr. Simeon Solomon's sketch 'Sleepers, and One that 
 Watches,' has been translated into verse of kindred strength and 
 delicacy in three fine sonnets of high rank among the exquisite 
 and clear-cut 'Intaglios' of Mr. John Payne." — Algernon C. 
 SwiNiiiRNE, in " J'ke Dark Blue." 
 
 "Mr. Payne is already very favourably known to a certain 
 cultivated section of tlie public as the author of ' The Masque of 
 Shadows,' and some other shorter poems. Of the present little 
 volume it would be difficult to speak in too high praise. Indeed 
 we know of no sonnets which of late years have seen the light of 
 day that can surpass ' Intaglios ' either in beauty of conception 
 or perfection of execution." — Civilian. 
 
 " To the few to whom a volume of sonnets is welcome, we can 
 confidently recommend this little book. Mr. Payne has really 
 something to say that could not be said in prose. His work 
 conveys a genuine sense of mystery, and its changing lights and 
 shadows are reflected from a trulv artistic mind." — The Guardian.
 
 III. 
 
 Crcnoii 8z'o., cloth, 5^-. 
 SONGS OF LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 " Itis a perfect delight to meet with such a ballad as that of 'May 
 Margaret' in the present volimie. The art of ballad-writing has 
 long been lost in England, and Mr. Payne may claim to be its 
 restorer. Nor has Mr. Payne sacrificed any of those qualities, 
 grace of style and delicacy of thought, which first of all won him 
 so many admirers. He still writes with the same delight of the 
 fields and the flowers and the spring, and still goes to the store- 
 house of our elder English poets for their old expressive words, 
 which we have forgotten, and sets them with fresh beauty to 
 modern thought." — The VVcsttnhister Review. 
 
 "That Mr. Payne is a poet has been proved by his earlier 
 volumes, and is proved over again by this new collection of verse. 
 His position is very creditable, and one from which he is able to 
 sing very sweetly to all who have ears for musical and plaintive 
 
 verse 'A Birthday Song' is a good specimen of the very 
 
 melodious strain in W'hich Air. Payne writes Fancy, 
 
 beyond all doubt, is strong in him, and he uses it in fantastic 
 verse that is very charming. 'In Armida's Garden,' 'A Song 
 of Roses,' and ' Into the Enchanted Land,' are very welcome 
 specimens of the skill and grace with which he exhibits his vague 
 
 philosophy The best things in the volume are perhaps 
 
 the ballads, and of these perhaps the best is ' The Ballad of May 
 
 Margaret,' which we should like to quote entire Surely 
 
 if Mr. Payne had written nothing but this ' Ballad of May Mar- 
 garet,' he would have made good his claim to be ranked among 
 the poets." — Ihe Examiner. 
 
 " There is much in Mr. Payne's present work that deserves 
 
 high praise There is often an originality in his poetry, a 
 
 subtlety in his thoughts, a niceness in his language, and a melody 
 in his versification, which at the present time we look for in vain 
 
 in any but one or two of our leading poets We can forgive 
 
 Mr. Payne his occasional haziness, when he gives us such fine 
 poems as 'The Ballad of Shameful Death,' 'Vocation .Song,' 
 ' Madrigal Triste,' and ' A Farewell.' " — The Saturday Keview. 
 
 "'Songs of Life and Death' form an important addition to 
 our modern poetry. The ballads give evidence of great power, 
 and ' The Westward .Sailing ' and ' May Margaret ' will bear 
 comparison with the ballads of any living poet." — The School 
 Board Chronicle. 
 
 "In 'Songs of Life and Death' we feel the music-making 
 force of an impassioned imagination, with its ' thoughts that 
 yoluntary move harmonious numbers.' This volume of genuine 
 Ivrics is a worthy successor to ' The Masque of Shadows ' and
 
 'Intaglios.' There is much powei- manifested here; and we 
 should say Mr. Payne is far more likely than Mr. Swinburne to 
 be hailed, some ten or twenty years hence, as the favourite poet 
 of the now rising generation. 'The Westward Sailing,' 'The 
 House of Sorrow,' and 'Sir Erwin's Questing,' are romantic 
 narratives with a strong mystic fascination." — The Illttstraied 
 London News. 
 
 "Mr. Payne's ' Songs of Life and Death' are of a different 
 order" [from Longfellow^ s Three Books of Song^ reviewed imme- 
 diately before']. "Clear, mellifluous, full of harmony and studied 
 grace of expression, they deal with scarcely ordinary forms of 
 experience ; but though now and again touched with something of 
 niedia.-val or mystical quaintness tending to affectation, have yet 
 an absorbing sweetness and attraction. In such poems as ' A 
 Song of Roses,' ' Into the Enchanted Land,' ' In Armida's Gar- 
 den,' and 'A Songbefore the Gates of Death,' we have specimens 
 of the mystical side of Mr. Payne's poetry, which has something 
 slightly kindred to the better phases of Mr. Swinburne's genius. 
 Mr. Payne exhibits not a little of Mr. Swinburne's wondrous 
 craft of words, though exhibiting less recklessness, if we may 
 spealv so, and exercismg more severity over the utterance of his 
 moods than the other. Scarce anything can be finer than the 
 two or three ballads which Mr. Payne has given us here, especially 
 ' The Westward Sailing,' with which the volumeopens— of itself 
 almost enough to make a reputation." — The Nonconformist. 
 
 " Mr. Payne is one of the most melodious of our modern min- 
 strels. The work before us, like its predecessors, contains 
 
 passages of rare grace and beauty Felicity of diction, 
 
 refined taste and imaginative power, are a rare combination at all 
 times, and eminently so in the present condition of poetry. All 
 of these Mr. Payne possesses in no common degree. Thus a volume 
 
 of poems from him is no ordinary treat The author is 
 
 perhaps most happy in treating such legends as 'The Westward 
 Sailing,' 'The Iving's Sleep,' and 'Sir Erwin's Questing ;' though 
 'False Spring,' 'Into the Enchanted Land,' 'A Bacchic of 
 Spring,' and ' Cadences,' are very beautiful, and 'The Ballad of 
 Shameful Death ' is full o( po\vt\:"^fohn Bull. 
 
 "When Mr. Payne published some time since his first volume 
 of poems, 'The Masque of Shadows,' etc., he was at once 
 recognised as a poet of no mean capacity. Notwithstanding that 
 he ajjpeared before the public whilst the excitement caused by 
 Mr. Rossetti's. book was at its height, the artistic merits of his 
 work were such as not merely to attract general attention, but to 
 procure him a high rank among writers of imaginative poetry. 
 The subsequent publication of 'Intaglios' more than confirmed 
 his position, for while it exhibited to the fullest extent the same 
 refinement of idea and musical grace of execution, it was com- 
 paratively free from a certain appearance of affectation which 
 here and there characterised his first effort There is a
 
 great variety of themes in the present volume. * A Song before 
 the Gates of Death ' exhibits a power of language hardly to have 
 
 been suspected 'False Spring' embodies a charmingly 
 
 poetical idea In the 'Hymn to the Night ' a similar idea 
 
 is treated in a different manner, but with equal beauty of imagery 
 and fluency of versification. 'A Ballad of Shameful Death' and 
 and 'In the Night Watches' are also remarkably good. 'ABirth- 
 day Song' is a love poem absolutely perfect in its tenderness and 
 grace. There is also ' A Song of Roses ' almost perfect in its 
 
 way Mr. Payne may be said to hold a position about 
 
 midway between Mr. Rossetti and Mr. Swinburne. He has 
 many qualities common to both masters, but he does not quite 
 reach either the passionate intensity of the latter or the subtlety 
 of the former. Thus his book is less involved and difficult than 
 Mr. Rossetti's, whilst it is entirely free from theunconventionali- 
 ties which exclude ' Poems and Ballads ' from the drawing-room 
 table. In fact, ' Songs of Dife and Death ' might be put into 
 any schoolgirl's hands, not only without danger, but with the 
 greatest advantage." — The Civilian. 
 
 "Mr. John Payne a publie, I'un apres I'autre, trois livres 
 delicieux : les ' Intaglios ' ou Camees, ' Le Masque de I'Ombre,' 
 et les ' Chants de Vie et de Mort.' Nous prononcons avec 
 joie ces titres en fran^ais, tels cpi'ils seront nn jour celebres chez 
 nous, une fois les poemes traduits. ... II y a la, parmi ces 
 strophes, meme pour un regard etranger, desbeautes particulieres 
 qui ne peuvent passer inaper9ues. Cette poesie est un vibration 
 musicale, prolongee de toute notre personne poetique. Avec 
 une telle sensibilite, la part de la melancolie est grande certaine- 
 ment, et parfois celle des extases fugitives et insaisissables. Une 
 brume anglaise ? Non, mais la vapeur diffuse du plus adorable 
 jet d'eau lyric^ue, qui va se perdre dans I'air lumineux du ciel. 
 On salt pendant ce temps-la qu'on songe irresistiblement a la vie, 
 aux adieux, a la mort, aux fleurs, a tout ce qui fait le fond de 
 notre ame. Tout ceci est absolument genuine, comme on dit en 
 Angleterre, oil c'est le produit du pays : cependant nous nous 
 y reconnaissons, nous aussi, a merveille. Cette impression 
 familiale, disseminee dans les trois livres cites, se condense, a 
 travers les pages du dernier, jusqu'a eclater, vers la fin, en un 
 chant magnifique compose pour la France pendant I'hiver de 
 1870-1. Quelle courage il y avait alors a elever, seul, la voix 
 pour nous, seul dans I'Angleterre et peut-etre dans TEurope ! 
 Je transcris pieusement plusieurs fragments de cette ode patrio- 
 tique" — Theodore de Banville dans le Aational. 
 
 " Ne vous est-il jamais arrive de vous eveiller tout d'un coup 
 au milieu d'un calme et delicieux clair de lune, apres avoir ete 
 traine a travers de tenebreuscs angoisses par un mephistophelique 
 cauchemar? Le sommeil pesait sur vous comme les murailles 
 lourdes d'un noir cachot : vous aviez la sueur froide au front : 
 un bourreau masque vous donnait la torture. Vous vous etes 
 debattu, vous avez voulu fuir, et soudain, comme a un coup de
 
 8 
 
 baguette magique, voila le bourreau dispani, voila les murailles 
 tombees. L'angoisse se dissipe, les tenebres s'eclairent moUe- 
 ment. Vous revenez pen a peu a la serenite, et pour chasser 
 jusqu'au souvenir du demon qui vous tourmentait, vous ouvrez 
 votre fenetre a I'air frais de la nuit. La-bas, alors, perdu dans 
 les bias obscurs, le rossignol vous chante une melodieuse idylle, 
 et la niusique de cette ame d'oiseau se fond autour de vous et en 
 vous avec le parfum des fleurs pudiques et le bleuatre rayonne- 
 ment de rnfiini celeste. Nous avons eprouve une impression 
 semblable en echappant momentanement aux melancolies de la 
 politique et a Tamertume des affaires serieuses, pour nous plonger 
 dans le clair de lune poetique de John Payne, I'un des derniers 
 venus parmi les poetes contemporains d'Angleterre. Adieu le 
 hideux caucheniar de la realite humaine ! La Muse vetue de 
 blanc et couronnee d'etoiles nous ouvre a deux battants la porte 
 d'or du palais enchante de I'ldeal, et sur cette porte se lit cette 
 inscription : ' Vous qui entrez ici, quittez toute desesperance !' Si 
 les ' Intaglios ' respirent une admiration sincere et un grande 
 experience de I'art italien, les ' Chants de la Vie et de la Mort 
 portent en eux un non moins profond amour et une science non 
 moins profonde de la poesie francaise, surtout des lyriques du 
 seizieme et du dix-neuvieme siecle. Le temperament du poete 
 n'est gueres fran^ais, pourtant. S'il est epris de toute les deli- 
 catesses, de toutes les langueurs, de toutes les preciosites de la 
 forme, c'est pour en vetir des sentiments melancoliques, des idees 
 mystiques. C'est I'imagination septentionale eprise de I'art 
 latin. II semble, en certains poemes, qu'on entende gemir I'ame 
 de la Neige ou de la Brume, jalouse des citronniers en fleurs : 
 puis I'harmonie de certaines strophes evoque I'image de la Mort, 
 assise, au clair de la lune sur la pierre d'un tombeau, et qui reve, 
 en effeuillant des roses rouges et Ijlanches, aux chaudes amours 
 
 de Venus la blonde, de I'immortelle enchanteresse Venus 
 
 ' Les Chants de la Vie et de la Mort ' commencent par une 
 belle ballade norvegienne, ' A la voile pour I'occident !'.... 
 A c6te des ces fantastiques legendes s'epanouissent de pales 
 elegies, des chansons d'une inspiration personnelle, des stances 
 d'un melancolie caressante ou d'un harmonieux desespoir. 
 
 Tendres et delicates fleurs de lime, comme dit le poete 
 
 Puis il entonne un ' Chant devant les Portes de la Mort,' sorte 
 de defi a la souffrance et a I'inconnu, qui se resume en cette fiere 
 ]5arole : Scd satis est jam posse inori .... II chante aussi ' La 
 Chanson des Roses,' avec une tres-precieuse melancolie, et 
 trouve des phrases si vaguement et si profondement melodieuses, 
 ([u'il nous semble voir et entendre la forme et la niusique d'un 
 
 ]iarfum L'lmpuissance du desir. d'autant plus cruelle et 
 
 l)lus chere au cieur que la cceurtjui dc.^ire est plus superieur a 
 I'humanite, est admirablement exprimee dans la belle piece dediee 
 a Stepliane -Mallarme, ' I'Ame fantome.' .... Nous avons pris 
 un plaisir particulier aux visions de John Payne. 11 nous a 
 ouvert son ame de ])oete, et nous y avons penetre comme en un 
 pays nouvcau, on chantcnt des melodies inconnues, oil s'epan-
 
 ouissent des floraisons surnaturelles Vos yeux, sont-ils 
 
 blesses par la clarte crue du soleil et les asperites des choses ? 
 Allez vers ce poete : il vous taillera en plein ciel des lunettes 
 supremement bleues, sous lesquelles tout se calmera, tout s'attend- 
 
 rira pour vous II a, pour employer son langage, presse 
 
 son coeur comme une grappe mure, et il en est coule de la poesie, 
 de la vraie poesie." — La Renaissance. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Small quarto, printed on hand-made paper and bound i?i vellum, 
 gilt, frontispiece and facsimiles. 
 
 THE POEMS OF MASTER FRANCIS VILLON 
 
 OF PARIS. 
 
 Now^ first done into English verse in the original forms. 
 (Printed for private circulation only. — Exhausted.) 
 
 " Quel honneur vous faites a la France et quel present admir- 
 able vous offrez a I'Angleterre ! Grace a vous, elle a un poete 
 et un bien grand poete de plus : et tout en lui gardant essentielle- 
 ment son ame gauloise, vous avez bien fait de Villon un des 
 vOtres et pour toujours. Phlt a Dieu que nous eussions chez 
 nous des artistes capables de realiser de telles merveilles et de 
 franciser magistralement vos grands compatriotes ! . . . . J'ad- 
 mire, au-dela de tout, a quel point vous avez su garder le mouve- 
 ment, le rhythme, la sonorite, I'aspect visible, tout I'etre de 
 notre Villon. Non, ceci n'est pas une traduction, c'est un 
 Villon anglais qui est ne ; a present il est a vous comme a nous." 
 — Theodore de Banville. 
 
 Fcap, %xw. 3s. 6d. 
 L A U T R E C : A Poem. 
 
 "Mr. Payne belongs to that small body of cultivated men 
 who will probably be the gloiy of Victorian literature, who have 
 succeeded in wedding thought to new music. His fine poem of 
 'Lautrec' thoroughly removes the objections that his critics 
 have, not perliaps without reason, made to his former works, i.e. 
 that he failed to get a firm grip of his subject, and mostly dwelt 
 in a region of twilight Everywhere is the poem charac- 
 terised by complete mastery of the rhythm and the rhyme : the 
 English language has become with Mr. Payne, as with .Swin- 
 burne and Rossetti, perfectly flexible. I'\u-ther, he gives new 
 beauty to the oldest subjects, and there cannot be a better test 
 of a poet's power There is, in short, nothing common-
 
 lO 
 
 place in Mr. Payne. He may not be 'popular with the * blind 
 multitude,' but he is sure to be so with all lovers of poetry both 
 to-day and to-morrow." — The Westminster Revietu. 
 
 " The treatment of the legend is both powerful and poetical." 
 — Athetiatcm, 
 
 " There are passages in this poem which nothing in modem 
 poetry, French or English, can surpass. Nothing can be more 
 repulsive than portions of the treatment, yet all remains within 
 the limits of art. We pay Mr. Payne a compliment, the full 
 value of which he will admit, in likening his work to that of the 
 
 painter, Henri Regnault That highest of poetic gifts, 
 
 imagination, is present. It will be considered by many an 
 'imagination unblessed,' but its presence will not be disputed. 
 It is easy to furnish passages of great power and of beauty also. 
 Still, the book is one to be read in its integrity. It is very short, 
 and the task to the lover of poetiy will be both light and pleasur- 
 able." — Stinday Times. 
 
 "Mr. Payne's command of melodious language and imagina- 
 tive power are undoubted, and his place among modern poets is 
 a high one." — -John Bull. 
 
 ' ' We must accord to the author of ' Lautrec ' a high and rare 
 order of poetic genius." — ■Exa?nine7: 
 
 "Of the great poetic power possessed by Mr. Payne there 
 can be no question. The subtle beauty of his verse, its glowing 
 passion and its rich diction are universally admitted." — Literary 
 H'orld. 
 
 " How is it that a theme which would be simply weird 
 and horrible, if not even directly repulsive, in prose, may be not 
 only tolerable, but 'beautiful exceedingly,' in poetry, under the 
 master's hand ? Many reasons might be given, but there is this 
 cogent one, namely, that whatever may be ghastly and repul- 
 sive in the subject is softened in the moonlight of the poet's 
 fancy, and so related, by suggestions of rhythm and of sweet 
 and subtle sounds, to the higher order of feeling, that all impres- 
 sion of the distorted and eerie in itself is swallowed up in the 
 very unity of impression that poetry must seek after. This is 
 well illustrated in Mr. Payne's new poem of ' Lauti'ec,' in which 
 the author shows all his old art in connecting fresh pictures of 
 natural aspects of things with the exhibition of morbid phantasy. 
 He has the art of the poet, and the horrible is artistically kept 
 in subordination to the human feeling, the protest of the heart 
 against the doom being the burden of the poem. We need not 
 add that the style is simple and effective, sometimes gracefully 
 quaint." — Nonconformist. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTVI'ERS, GUILDFORD. 
 
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 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 
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