POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
POETICAL WORKS 
 
 oi 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 i\ 
 
 lontion 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK 
 1895 
 
 'All rights reserved 
 

 
CONTENTS 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Sonnets— 
 
 -^QuiET Work . 
 
 \J^o A Friend . 
 
 ,'4 *^hakespeare . 
 
 Written in Emerson's Essays 
 <■ Written in Butler's Sermons 
 J^ To the Duke of Wellington 
 In Harmony with Nature . 
 To George Cruikshank 
 To A Republican Friend, 1848 
 Continued 
 Religious Isolation . 
 Mycerinus .... 
 The Thurch of Brou — 
 I, The Castle 
 II. The Church 
 III. The Tomb 
 A. Modern Sappho 
 Requiescat 
 Youth and Calm . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 2 
 2 
 
 3 
 4 
 4 
 
 5 
 6 
 6 
 
 7 
 8 
 
 13 
 17 
 18 
 20 
 21 
 22 
 
 51345^ 
 
VI 11 . CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Memory-Picture 
 
 23 
 
 r A Dream . . . . . 
 
 25 
 
 The New Sirens . '' . 
 
 26 
 
 The Voice . . . . . 
 
 . 36 
 
 Youth's Agitations 
 
 37 
 
 The World's Triumphs . 
 
 . 3S 
 
 Stagirius . . 
 
 . 38 
 
 Human Life 
 
 40 
 
 To a Gipsy Child by the Sea-shore 
 
 41 
 
 A Question , 
 
 44 
 
 In Utrumque Paratus . 
 
 .45 
 
 The World and the Quietist . 
 
 . .46 
 
 Horatian Echo . 
 
 • . 47 
 
 The Secc-id Best . 
 
 49 
 
 Consolation 
 
 50 
 
 I^Resignation 
 
 52 
 
 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 'jlc^sohrab and rustum 
 V/The. Sick King in Bokhara 
 Balder Dead — 
 
 1. Sending 
 
 2. Journey to the Dead . 
 
 3. Funeral 
 •^ Tristram and Iseult — 
 
 1. Tristram 
 
 2. Iseult of Ireland 
 
 3. Iseult of Brittany 
 
 C 
 
 <^3 
 
 92 
 
 101 
 
 III 
 
 121 
 138 
 158 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 IX 
 
 S/\iNT Brand AN 
 T>hE Neckan 
 v^TiiE Forsaken Merman 
 
 PAGB 
 165 
 
 167 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 ^^ Austerity of Poetry 
 A Picture at Newstead 
 Rachel : i, 11, iii 
 Worldly place 
 ^East London 
 West London 
 East and West . 
 The Better Part 
 The Divinity 
 Immortality 
 
 The Good Shepherd with the Kid 
 Monica's Last Prayer 
 
 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Switzerland — 
 
 1. Meeting 
 
 2. Parting 
 
 3. A Farewell 
 ^ 4. Isolation. To Marguerite 
 
 JK 5. To Marguerite. — Continued 
 
 6. Absence 
 
 7. The Terrace at Berne . 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Strayed Reveller . 
 Fragment of an "Antigone" 
 Fragment of Chorus of a " Dejaneira " 
 Early Death and Fame 
 — ^/Philomela . 
 Urania 
 Euphrosyne 
 Calais Sands 
 Faded Leaves — 
 
 1. The River . 
 
 2. Too Late . 
 
 3. Separation 
 
 4. On the Rhine 
 
 5. Longing 
 i^' Despondency 
 
 " v/Self-Deception 
 4=. ^^Dover Beach 
 
 Growing Old 
 
 The Progress of Poesy 
 
 New Rome . 
 ..^^Pis-Aller . 
 
 The Last Word . 
 
 The Lord's Messengers 
 
 A Nameless Epitaph 
 
 Bacchanalia ; or, The New Age 
 
 Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoon 
 
 Persistency of Poetry . 
 
 A Caution to Poets 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 XI 
 
 / 
 v^'^The Youth of Nature 
 
 The Youth of Man 
 
 Palladium . 
 
 Progress 
 
 Revolutions 
 Ht. Self-dependence 
 
 Morality . 
 
 A Summer Night 
 .jiy^HE Buried Life 
 
 ■ Lines Written in Kensington 
 
 A Wish 
 
 The Future 
 
 Gardens 
 
 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 -*/ 
 
 The Scholar-Gipsy 
 
 *-f'-'THYRSIS 
 
 Memorial Verses . 
 
 Stanzas in Memory of Edward Quillinan 
 Stanzas from Carnac 
 A Southern Night 
 Ha WORTH Churchyard , 
 Epilogue . 
 Rugby Chapel 
 Heine's Grave 
 V Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse 
 
 Stanzas in Memory of the Author of " Obermann " 
 Obermann once more ..... 
 
xu 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Merope, a Tragedy 
 Empedocles on Etna 
 
 347 
 436 
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 Westminster Abbey 
 Geist's Grave 
 Poor Matthias 
 Kaiser Dead 
 Notes 
 
 479 
 485 
 488 
 
 495 
 501 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
>^^ 
 
 SONNETS 
 
 QUIET WORK 
 
 ONEJlesson/ Nature, let me learn of thee, >. 
 
 One lesson which in every wind is blown, ^^^^y^*^ (\&sy^ 
 One lesson of two duties kept at one 
 Though the loud world proclaim their enmity — /. 
 
 Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity ! ' ^^^j^^^ .^<p&-c«-'V^ *" 
 
 Of labour, that in lasting fruit outgrows 
 Far noisier schemes, accomplish'd in repose, 
 Too great for haste, too high for rivalry ! 
 
 Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, ''^'^'^ c/^t"*-^ 
 
 Man's fitful uproar mingling with Jiisjoil^. 
 
 Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, j^Ua^ jlMkJ^- At-^^i 
 
 Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting ; 
 Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil. 
 Labourers that shall not fail, when man is gone. 
 e B 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 \ 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 Who prop, ihot' ask'st, in these bad days, my mind? — 
 He much, the old man, who, clearest-soul'd of men. 
 Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen,^ 
 And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, though blind. 
 
 Much he, whose friendship I not long since won, 
 That halting slave, who in Nicopolis 
 Taught Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal son 
 Clear'd Rome of what most shamed him. But be his 
 
 My special thanks, whose even-balanced soul, 
 From first youth tested up to extreme old age, 
 Business could not make dull, nor passion wild ; 
 
 Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole ; 
 The mellow glory of the Attic stage, 
 Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Others abide our question. Thou art free. 
 We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still, 
 Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, 
 A\'ho to the stars uncrowns his majesty, 
 
 Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 
 Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place. 
 Spares but the cloudy border of his base ~ 
 To tlie foil'd searching of mortality ; 
 
SONNETS 
 
 And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, 
 Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, 
 Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. — Better so ! 
 
 All pains the immortal spirit must endure, 
 
 All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow. 
 
 Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. 
 
 WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS 
 
 *'0 MONSTROUS, dead, unprofitable world. 
 That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy way ! 
 A voice oracular hath peal'd to-day, 
 To-day a hero's banner is unfurl'd ; 
 
 Hast thou no lip for welcome?" — So I said. 
 Man after man, the world smiled and pass'd by ; 
 A smile of wistful incredulity 
 As though one spake of life unto the dead — 
 
 Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full 
 Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free ; 
 Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful ; 
 
 The seeds of godlike power are in us still ; 
 Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will ! — 
 Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery ? 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 WRITTEN IN BUTLER'S SERMONS 
 
 Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, 
 Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control — 
 So men, unravelling God's harmonious whole, 
 Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours. 
 
 Vain labour ! Deep and broad, where none may see. 
 Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne 
 Where man's one nature, queen-like, sits alone, 
 Centred in a majestic unity ; 
 
 And rays her powers, like sister-islands seen 
 
 Linking their coral arms under the sea, 
 
 Or cluster'd peaks with plunging gulfs between 
 
 Spann'd by aerial arches all of gold, 
 Whereo'er the chariot wheels of hfe are roll'd 
 In cloudy circles to eternity. 
 
 TO THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 
 
 ON HEARING HIM MISPRAISED 
 
 Because thou hast believed, the wheels of life 
 Stand never idle, but go always round ; 
 Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, 
 Moved only ; but by genius, in the strife 
 
 Of all its chafing torrents after thaw. 
 
 Urged ; and to feed whose movement, spinning sand, 
 
 The feeble sons of pleasure set their hand ; 
 
 And, in this vision of the general law, 
 
SONNETS 
 
 Hast labour'd, but with purpose ; hast become 
 Laborious, persevering, serious, firm — 
 For this, thy track, across the fretful foam 
 
 Of vehement actions without scope or term, 
 Call'd history, keeps a splendour ; due to wit. 
 Which saw one clue to life, and follow'd it. 
 
 IN HARMONY WITH NATURE 
 
 TO A PREACHER 
 
 "In harmony with Nature?" Restless fool. 
 
 Who with such heat dost preach what were to thee. 
 
 When true, the last impossibility — 
 
 To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool ! 
 
 Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more, 
 And in that more lie all his hopes of good. 
 Nature is cruel, man is sick of blood ; 
 Nature is stubborn, man would fain adore ; 
 
 Nature is fickle, man hath need of rest ; 
 
 Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave ; 
 
 Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest. 
 
 Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends ; 
 Nature and man can never be fast friends. 
 Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave ! 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK 
 
 ON SEEING, IN THE COUNTRY, HIS PICTURE OF 
 " THE BOTTLE " 
 
 Artist, whose hand, with horror wing'd, hath torn 
 From the rank life of towns this leaf ! and flung 
 The prodigy of full-blown crime among 
 Valleys and men to middle fortune born, 
 
 Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn — 
 
 Say, what shall calm us when such guests intrude 
 
 Like comets on the heavenly solitude? 
 
 Shall breathless glades, cheer'd by shy Dian's horn, 
 
 Cold-bubbling springs, or caves ? — Not so ! The soul 
 Breasts her own griefs ; and, urged too fiercely, says : 
 " Why tremble ? True, the nobleness of man 
 
 May be by man effaced ; man can control 
 
 To pain, to death, the bent of his own days. 
 
 Know thou the worst I So much, not more, he can'' 
 
 TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND, 1848 
 
 God knows it, I am with you. If to prize 
 Those virtues, prized and practised by too few. 
 But prized, but loved, but eminent in you, 
 Man's fundamental life ; if to despise 
 
 The barren optimistic sophistries 
 Of comfortable moles, whom what they do 
 Teaches the limit of the just and true 
 (And for such doing they require not eyes) ; 
 
SONNETS 
 
 If sadness at the long heart-wasting show 
 Wherein earth's great ones are disquieted ; 
 If thoughts, not idle, while before me flow 
 
 The armies of the homeless and unfed — 
 If these are yours, if this is what you are. 
 Then am I yours, and what you feel, I share. 
 
 CONTINUED 
 
 Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem 
 Rather to patience prompted, than that proud 
 Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud- 
 France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme ; 
 
 Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream, 
 Is on all sides o'ershadow'd by the high 
 Uno'erleap'd Mountains of Necessity, 
 Sparing us narrower margin than we deem. 
 
 Nor will that day dawn at a human nod, 
 When, bursting through the network superposed 
 By selfish occupation — plot and plan. 
 
 Lust, avarice, envy — liberated man. 
 
 All difference with his fellow-mortal closed, 
 
 Shall be left standing face to face with God, 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 RELIGIOUS ISOLATION 
 
 TO THE SAME FRIEND 
 
 Children (as such forgive them) have I known, 
 
 Ever in their own eager pastime bent 
 
 To make the incurious bystander, intent 
 
 On his own swarming thoughts, an interest own — 
 
 Too fearful or too fond to play alone. 
 Do thou, whom light in thine own inmost soul 
 (Not less thy boast) illuminates, control 
 Wishes unworthy of a man full-grown. 
 
 What though the holy secret, which moulds thee, 
 Mould-not the solid earth? though never winds 
 Have whisper'd it to the complaining sea. 
 
 Nature's great law, and law of all men's minds ? — 
 To its own impulse every creature stirs ; 
 Live by thy light, and earth will live by hers ! 
 
 MYCERINUS 2 
 
 " Not by the justice that my father spurn'd, 
 
 Not for the thousands whom my father slew, 
 
 Altars unfed and temples overturn'd, 
 
 Cold hearts and thankless tongues, where thanks are due ; 
 
 Fell this dread voice from lips that cannot lie, 
 
 Stern sentence of the Powers of Destiny. 
 
MYCERINUS 
 
 " I will unfold my sentence and my crime. 
 My crime — that, rapt in reverential awe, 
 I sate obedient, in the fiery prime 
 Of youth, self-govern'd, at the feet of Law ; 
 Ennobling this dull pomp, the life of kings. 
 By contemplation of diviner things. 
 
 " My father loved injustice, and lived long ; 
 Crown'd with gray hairs he died, and full of sway, 
 I loved the good he scorn'd, and hated wrong — 
 The Gods declare my recompence to-day. 
 I look'd for life more lasting, rule more high ; 
 And when six years are measured, lo, I die ! 
 
 "Yet surely, O my people, did I deem 
 Man's justice from the all-just Gods was given ; 
 A light that from some upper fount did beam. 
 Some better archetype, whose seat was heaven ; 
 A light that, shining from the blest abodes, 
 Did shadow somewhat of the life of Gods. 
 
 " Mere phantoms of man's self-tormenting heart. 
 Which on the sweets that woo it dares not feed ! 
 Vain dreams, which quench our pleasures, then depart 
 When the duped soul, self-master'd, claims its meed 
 When, on the strenuous just man. Heaven bestows, 
 Crown of his struggling life, an unjust close ! 
 
 " Seems it so light a thing, then, austere Powers, 
 To spurn man's common lure, life's pleasant things ? 
 Seems there no joy in dances crown'd with flowers, 
 Love, free to range, and regal banquetings ? 
 Bend ye on these, indeed, an unmoved eye. 
 Not Gods but ghosts, in frozen apathy ? 
 
 :i 
 
10 EARLY POEMS 
 
 " Or is it that some Force, too wise, too strong, 
 Even for vourselves to conquer or beguile. 
 Sweeps earth, and heaven, and men, and gods along, 
 Like the broad volume of the insurgent Nile ? 
 And the great powers we serve, themselves may be 
 Slaves of a tyrannous necessity ? 
 
 "Or in mid-heaven, perhaps, your golden cars, 
 Where earthly voice climbs never, wing their flight. 
 And in wild hunt, through mazy tracts of stars. 
 Sweep in the sounding stillness of the night ? 
 Or in deaf ease, on thrones of dazzling sheen, 
 Drinking deep draughts of joy, ye dwell serene ? 
 
 " Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be. 
 Of one short joy, one lust, one pleasant dream ? 
 Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see, 
 Blind divinations of a will supreme ; 
 Lost labour ! when the circumambient gloom 
 But hides, if Gods, Gods careless of our doom ? 
 
 " The rest I give to joy. Even while I speak, 
 My sand runs short ; and — as yon star-shot ray, 
 Hemm'd by two banks of cloud, peers pale and weak, 
 Now, as the barrier closes, dies away — 
 Even so do past and future intertwine. 
 Blotting this six years' space, which yet is mine. 
 
 " Six years — six little years — six drops of time ! 
 Yet suns shall rise, and many moons shall wane, 
 And old men die, and young men pass their prime, 
 And languid pleasure fade and flower again, 
 And the dull Gods behold, ere these are flown, 
 Revels more deep, joy keener than their own. 
 
MYCERINUS II 
 
 " Into the silence of the groves and woods 
 I will go forth ; though something would I say — 
 Something — yet what, I know not ; for the Gods 
 The doom they pass revoke not, nor delay ; 
 And prayers, and gifts, and tears, are fruitless all. 
 And the night waxes, and the shadows fall. 
 
 " Ye men of Egypt, ye have heard your king ! 
 
 I go, and I return not. But the will 
 
 Of the great Gods is plain ; and ye must bring 
 
 111 deeds, ill passions, zealous to fulfil 
 
 Their pleasure, to their feet ; and reap their praise. 
 
 The praise of Gods, rich boon ! and length of days." 
 
 — So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn ; 
 
 And one loud cry of grief and of amaze 
 
 Broke from his sorrowing people ; so he spake, 
 
 And turning, left them there ; and with brief pause. 
 
 Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his way 
 
 To the cool region of the groves he loved 
 
 There by the river-banks he wander'd on, 
 
 From palm-grove on to palm-grove, happy trees. 
 
 Their smooth tops shining sunward, and beneath 
 
 Burying their unsunn'd stems in grass and flowers ; 
 
 Where in one dream the feverish time of youth 
 
 Might fade in slumber, and the feet of joy 
 
 Might wander all day long and never tire. 
 
 Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn, 
 
 Rose-crown'd ; and ever, when the sun went down, 
 
 A hundred lamps beam'd in the tranquil gloom, 
 
 From tree to tree all through the twinkling grove, 
 
 Revealing all the tumult of the feast — 
 
 Flush'd guests, and golden goblets foam'd with wine ; 
 
12 EARLY POEMS 
 
 While the deep-burnish'd foliage overhead 
 Splinter'd the silver arrows of the moon. 
 
 It may be that sometimes his wondering soul 
 From the loud joyful laughter of his lips 
 Might shrink half startled, like a guilty man 
 Who wrestles with his dream ; as some pale shape 
 Gliding half hidden through the dusky stems, 
 Would thrust a hand before the lifted bowl, 
 Whispering : A little space, and thou art mine I 
 It may be on that joyless feast his eye 
 Dwelt with mere outward seeming ; he, within, 
 Took measure of his soul, and knew its strength, 
 And by that silent knowledge, day by day. 
 Was calm'd, ennobled, comforted, sustain'd. 
 It may be ; but not less his brow was smooth, 
 And his clear laugh fled ringing through the gloom, 
 And his mirth quail'd not at the mild reproof 
 Sigh'd out by winter's sad tranquillity; 
 Nor, pall'd with its own fulness, ebb'd and died 
 In the rich languor of long summer-days ; 
 Nor wither'd when the palm-tree plumes, that roofd 
 With their mild dark his grassy banquet-hall. 
 Bent to the cold winds of the showerless spring ; 
 No, nor grew dark when autumn brought the clouds. 
 
 So six long years he revell'd, night and day. 
 And when the mirth wax'd loudest, with dull sound 
 Sometimes from the grove's centre echoes came, 
 To tell his wondering people of their king ; 
 In the still night, across the steaming flats, 
 Mix'd with the murmur of the moving Nile. 
 
THE CHURCH OF BROU 13 
 
 THE CHURCH OF BROU 
 
 Cfjc Castle 
 
 Down the Savoy valleys sounding, 
 Echoing round this castle old, 
 
 'Mid the distant mountain-chalets 
 
 Hark ! what bell for church is toll'd ? 
 
 In the bright October morning 
 Savoy's Duke had left his bride. 
 
 From the castle, past the drawbridge, 
 Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. 
 
 Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering ; 
 
 Gay, her smiling lord to greet, 
 From her mullion'd chamber-casement 
 
 Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. 
 
 From Vienna, by the Danube, 
 
 Here she came, a bride, in spring. 
 
 Now the autumn crisps the forest ; 
 Hunters gather, bugles ring. 
 
 Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, 
 Horses fret, and boar-spears glance. 
 
 Off! — They sweep the marshy forests, 
 Westward, on the side of France. 
 
 Hark ! the game's on foot ; they scatter !- 
 Down the forest-ridings lone. 
 
 Furious, single horsemen gallop 
 
 Hark ! a shout — a crash — a groan ! 
 
14 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Pale and breathless, came the hunters ; 
 
 On the turf dead lies the boar — 
 God ! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him, 
 
 Senseless, weltering in his gore. 
 
 ■^ -K- ■^ -H- 
 
 In the dull October evening, 
 
 Down the leaf-strewn forest-road. 
 
 To the castle, past the drawbridge, 
 Came the hunters with their load. 
 
 In the hall, with sconces blazing. 
 Ladies waiting round her seat, 
 
 Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais 
 Sate the Duchess Marguerite. 
 
 Hark ! below the gates unbarring ! 
 
 Tramp of men and quick commands ! 
 " — Tis my lord come back from hunting — " 
 
 And the Duchess claps her hands. 
 
 Slow and tired, came the hunters — 
 Stopp'd in darkness in the court. 
 
 " — Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters ! 
 
 To the hall ! What sport ? What sport ? '' 
 
 Slow they enter'd with their master ; 
 
 In the hall they laid him down. 
 On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, 
 
 On his brow an angry frown. 
 
 Dead her princely youthful husband 
 
 Lay before his youthful wife, 
 Bloody, 'neath the flaring sconces — 
 
 And the sight froze all her life. 
 
THE CHURCH OF BROU 15 
 
 In Vienna, by the Danube, 
 
 Kings hold revel, gallants meet. 
 Gay of old amid the gayest 
 
 Was the Duchess Marguerite. 
 
 In Vienna, by the Danube, 
 
 Feast and dance her youth beguiled. 
 
 Till that hour she never sorrow'd ; 
 But from then she never smiled. 
 
 'Mid the Savoy mountain valleys 
 
 Far from town or haunt of man, 
 Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd, 
 
 Which the Duchess Maud began ; 
 
 Old, that Duchess stern began it, 
 
 In gray age, with palsied hands ; 
 But she died while it was building, 
 
 And the Church unfinish'd stands — = 
 
 Stands as erst the builders left it, 
 
 When she sank into her grave ; 
 Mountain greensward paves the chancel. 
 
 Harebells flower in the nave 
 
 " — In rny castle all is sorrow," 
 
 Said the Duchess Marguerite then ; 
 " Guide me, some one, to the mountain ! 
 
 We will build the Church again." — 
 
 Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward, 
 
 Austrian knights from Syria came. 
 " — Austrian wanderers bring, O warders ! 
 
 Homage to your Austrian dame." — 
 
1 6 EARLY POEMS 
 
 From the gate the warders answer'd : 
 " — Gone, O knights, is she you knew ! 
 
 Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess ; 
 Seek her at the Church of Brou ! " — 
 
 Austrian knights and much-worn palmers 
 Climb the winding mountain-way — 
 
 Reach the valley, where the Fabric 
 Rises higher day by day. 
 
 Stones are sawing, hammers ringing ; 
 
 On the work the bright sun shines. 
 In the Savoy mountain-meadows, 
 
 By the stream, below the pines. 
 
 On her palfrey white the Duchess 
 
 Sate and watch'd her working train — 
 
 Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 
 German masons, smiths from Spain. 
 
 Clad in black, on her white palfrey, 
 Her old architect beside — 
 
 There they found her in the mountains, 
 Morn and noon and eventide. 
 
 There she sate, and watch'd the builders, 
 Till the Church was roof'd and done. 
 
 Last of all, the builders rear'd her 
 In the nave a tomb of stone. 
 
 On the tomb two forms they sculptured. 
 Lifelike in the marble pale — 
 
 One, the Duke in helm and armour ; 
 One, the Duchess in her veiJ. 
 
THE CHURCH OF BROU 17 
 
 Round the tomb the carved stone fretwork 
 
 Was at Easter-tide put on. 
 Then the Duchess closed her labours ; 
 
 And she died at the St. John. 
 
 II 
 
 Upon the glistening leaden roof 
 
 Of the new Pile, the sunlight shines ; 
 
 The stream goes leaping by. 
 The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof; 
 'Mid bright green fields, below the pines, 
 
 Stands the Church on high. 
 What Church is this, from men aloof? — 
 'Tis the Church of Brou. 
 
 At sunrise, from their dewy lair 
 Crossing the stream, the kine are seen 
 
 Round the wall to stray — 
 The churchyard wall that clips the square 
 Of open hill-sward fresh and green 
 
 Where last year they lay. 
 But all things now are order'd fair 
 Round the Church of Brou. 
 
 On Sundays, at the matin-chime. 
 The Alpine peasants, two and three, 
 
 Climb up here to pray ; 
 Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, 
 Ride out to church from Chambery, 
 
 Dight with mantles gay. 
 
i8 EARLY POEMS 
 
 But else it is a lonely time 
 Round the Church of Brou. 
 
 On Sundays, too, a priest doth come 
 From the wall'd town beyond the pass, 
 
 Down the mountain-way ; 
 And then you hear the organ's hum, 
 You hear the white-robed priest say mass. 
 
 And the people pray. 
 But else the woods and fields are dumb 
 Round the Church of Brou. 
 
 And after church, when mass is done. 
 The people to the nave repair 
 
 Round the tomb to stray ; 
 And marvel at the Forms of stone, 
 And praise the chisell'd broideries rare — 
 
 Then they drop away. 
 The princely Pair are left alone 
 In the Church of Brou. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ^^t Comb 
 
 So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair ! 
 In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air. 
 Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come. 
 Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb, 
 From the rich painted windows of the nave, 
 On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave ; 
 Where thou, young Prince ! shalt never more arise 
 From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies, 
 
THE CHURCH OF BROU 19 
 
 On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds, 
 And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds 
 To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve ; 
 And thou, O Princess ! shalt no more receive, 
 Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state, 
 The jaded hunters with their bloody freight, 
 Coming benighted to the castle-gate. 
 
 So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair ! 
 Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair 
 On the carved western front a flood of light 
 Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright 
 Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave, 
 In the vast western window of the nave ; 
 And on the pavement round the Tomb there ghnts 
 A chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints, 
 And amethyst, and ruby — then unclose 
 Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose. 
 And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads. 
 And rise upon your cold white marble beds ; 
 And, looking down on the warm rosy tints. 
 Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints, 
 Say : What is this ? we are in bliss — -forgiven — 
 
 Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven I 
 
 Or let it be on autumn nights, when rain 
 
 Doth rustlingly above your heads complain 
 
 On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls 
 
 Shedding her pensive light at intervals 
 
 The moon through the clere-story windows shines. 
 
 And the wind washes through the mountain-pines. 
 
 Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high, 
 
 The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, 
 
 Hush^ ye will say, // is eternity I 
 
 This is the glimmering verge of Heaven^ and these 
 
20 EARLY POEMS 
 
 The colunuis of the heavenly palaces I 
 And, in the sweeping of the wind, your ear 
 The passage of the Angels' wings will hear, 
 And on the lichen-crusted leads above 
 The rustle of the eternal rain of love. 
 
 A MODERN SAPPHO 
 
 They are gone — all is still ! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver ? 
 
 Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade. 
 Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river — 
 
 Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade ! 
 
 Ere he come — ere the boat by the shining-branch'd border 
 Of dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream. 
 
 Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order. 
 Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd flags gleam. 
 
 Last night we stood earnestly talking together ; 
 
 She enter'd — that moment his eyes turn'd from me ! 
 Fasten'd on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather — 
 
 As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be. 
 
 Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger, 
 Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn. 
 
 They must love — while they must ! but the hearts that love 
 longer 
 Are rare — ah ! most loves but flow once, and return. 
 
 I shall suffer — but they will outlive their affection , 
 I shall weep — but their love will be cooling ; and he, 
 
 As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection, 
 
 Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee ! 
 
REQUIESCAT 21 
 
 For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking 
 
 The strong band which passion around him hath furl'd, 
 
 Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking. 
 
 Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world. 
 
 Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing. 
 Perceive but a voice as I come to his side — 
 
 But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing. 
 Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died. 
 
 So, to wait ! But what notes down the wind, hark ! are 
 
 driving ? 
 
 'Tis he ! 'tis their flag, -shooting round by the trees ! 
 — Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving ! 
 
 Ah ! hope cannot long lighten torments like these. 
 
 Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure ? 
 
 World, have thy children yet bow'd at his knee ? 
 Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O pleasure ? 
 
 — Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me ! 
 
 REQUIESCAT 
 
 Strew on her roses, roses, 
 And never a spray of yew ! 
 
 In quiet she reposes ; 
 
 Ah, would that I did too ! 
 
 Her mirth the world required ; 
 
 She bathed it in smiles of glee. 
 But her heart was tired, tired. 
 
 And now they let her be. 
 
22 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Her life was turning, turning, 
 In mazes of heat and sound. 
 
 But for peace her soul was yearning. 
 And now peace laps her round. 
 
 Her cabin'd, ample spirit. 
 
 It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. 
 
 To-night it doth inherit 
 The vasty hall of death. 
 
 YOUTH AND CALM 
 
 'Tis death ! and peace, indeed, is here, 
 And ease from shame, and rest from fear 
 There's nothing can dismarble now 
 The smoothness of that limpid brow. 
 But is a calm like this, in truth. 
 The crowning end of life and youth, 
 And when this boon rewards the dead. 
 Are all debts paid, has all been said ? 
 And is the heart of youth so light, 
 Its step so firm, its eyes so bright, 
 Because on its hot brow there blows 
 A wind of promise and repose 
 From the far grave, to which it goes : 
 Because it hath the hope to come. 
 One day, to harbour in the tomb ? 
 Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one 
 For daylight, for the cheerful sun, 
 For feeling nerves and living breath — ■ 
 Youth dreams a bliss on this side death. 
 
A MEMORY-PICTURE . 23 
 
 It dreams a rest, if not more deep, 
 More grateful than this marble sleep ; 
 It hears a voice within it tell : 
 Calm's not life's crown^ though calm is ivell. 
 'Tis all perhaps which man acquires, 
 But 'tis not what our youth desires. 
 
 A MEMORY-PICTURE 
 
 Laugh, my friends, and without blame 
 Lightly quit what lightly came ; '. 
 Rich to-morrow as to-day. 
 Spend as madly as you may ! . 
 I, with little land to stir. 
 Am the exacter labourer. 
 Ere the parting hour go by. 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
 Once^I said : "A face is gone 
 If too hotly mused upon ; 
 And our best impressions are 
 Those that do themselves repair." 
 Many a face I so let flee, - »^"^ 
 
 Ah ! is faded utterly. 
 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
 Marguerite says : "As last year went, 
 So the coming year '11 be spent ; . 
 Some day next year, I shall be, 
 Entering heedless, kiss'd by thee." 
 Ah, I hope ! — yet, once away, 
 What may chain us, who can say ? 
 
24 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
 Paint that Hlac kerchief, bound 
 Her soft face, her hair around ; 
 Tied under the archest chin 
 Mockery ever ambush'd in. 
 Let the fluttering fringes streak 
 All her pale, sweet-rounded cheek. 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 
 
 Paint that figure's pliant grace 
 As she tow'rd me lean'd her face, 
 • Half refused and half resign'd. 
 Murmuring : " Art thou still unkind ? " 
 Many a broken promise then 
 Was new made — to break again. 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 
 
 Paint those eyes, so blue, so kind. 
 Eager tell-tales of her mind ; 
 Paint, with their impetuous stress 
 Of inquiring tenderness. 
 Those frank eyes, where deep I see 
 An angelic gravity. 
 
 Ere the parting hour go by. 
 Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! 
 
 What, my friends, these feeble lines 
 Show, you say, my love declines ? 
 To paint ill as 1 have done. 
 Proves forgetfulness begun ? 
 
A DREAM 25 
 
 Time's gay minions, pleased you see, 
 Time, your master, governs me ; 
 
 Pleased, you mock the fruitless cry^f 
 
 " Quick, thy tablets, Memory ! " 
 
 Ah, too true 1 Time's current strong ^^ \ 
 
 Leaves us fixt to nothing long. 
 
 Yet, if little stays with man. 
 
 Ah, retain we all we can ! "^ "'"• '• 
 
 If the clear impression dies. 
 
 Ah, the dim remembrance prize ! 
 
 Ere the parting hour go by, 
 
 Quick, thy tablets. Memory ! 
 
 A DREAM 
 
 Was it a dream ? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd, 
 Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream, 
 Border'd, each bank, with pines ; the morning sun. 
 On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops. 
 On the red pinings of their forest-floor. 
 Drew a warm scent abroad ; behind the pines 
 The mountain^skirts, with all their sylvan change 
 Of bright-leaf d chestnuts and moss'd walnut-trees 
 And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began. 
 Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes. 
 And from some swarded shelf, high up, there came 
 Notes of wild pastoral music — over all '. 
 Ranged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow. 
 Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge, 
 Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood. 
 Bright in the sun ; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves 
 Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof 
 
26 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Lay the warm golden gourds ; golden, within, 
 Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn. 
 We shot beneath the cottage with the stream. 
 On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two forms 
 Came forth — Olivia's, Marguerite ! and thine. 
 Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast ; 
 Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue, 
 Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd. 
 They saw us, they conferr'd ; their bosoms heaved, 
 And more than mortal impulse fiU'd their eyes. 
 Their lips moved ; their white arms, waved eagerly, 
 Flash'd once, like falling streams'; we rose, we gazed. 
 One moment, on the rapid's top, our boat 
 Hung poised — and then the darting river of Life ^ 
 (Such now, methought, it was), the river of Life, 
 Loud thundering, bore us by ; ' swift, swift it foam'd. 
 Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone. 
 Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pines 
 Faded — the moss — the rocks ; us burning plains, 
 Bristled with cities, us the sea received. 
 
 THE NEW SIRENS 
 
 In the cedarn shadow sleeping. 
 Where cool grass and fragrant glooms 
 Forth at noon had lured me, creeping 
 From your darken'd palace rooms — 
 I, who in your train at morning 
 Stroll'd and sang with joyful mind. 
 Heard, in slumber, sounds of warning ; 
 Heard the hoarse boughs labour in the wind. 
 
THE NEW SIRENS 27 
 
 Who are they, O pensive Graces, 
 — For I dream'd they wore your forms — 
 Who on shores and sea-wash'd places 
 Scoop the shelves and fret the storms ? 
 Who, when ships are that way tending, 
 Troop across the flushing sands, 
 To all reefs and narrows wending, 
 With blown tresses, and with beckoning hands ? 
 
 Yet I see, the howling levels 
 Of the deep are not your lair ; 
 And your tragic-vaunted revels 
 Are less lonely than they were. 
 Like those Kings with treasure steering 
 From the jewell'd lands of dawn. 
 Troops, with gold and gifts, appearing, 
 Stream all day through your enchanted lawn. 
 
 And we too, from upland valleys, 
 Where some Muse with half-curved frown 
 Leans her ear to your mad sallies 
 Which the charm'd winds never drown ; 
 By faint music guided, ranging 
 The scared glens, we wander'd on, 
 Left our awful laurels hanging, 
 And came heap'd with myrtles to your throne. 
 
 From the dragon-warder'd fountains 
 Where the springs of knowledge are, 
 From the watchers on the mountains, 
 And the bright and morning star ; 
 We are exiles, we are falling. 
 We have lost them at your call — 
 
28 EARLY POEMS 
 
 O ye false ones, at your calling 
 Seeking ceiled chambers and a palace-hall 1 
 
 Are the accents of your luring 
 More melodious than of yore ? 
 Are those frail forms more enduring 
 Than the charms Ulysses bore ? 
 That we sought you with rejoicings, 
 Till at evening we descry 
 At a pause of Siren voicings 
 These vext branches and this howhng sky ? 
 
 Oh, your pardon ! The uncouthness 
 Of that primal age is gone, 
 And the skin of dazzling smoothness 
 Screens not now a heart of stone. 
 Love has flush'd those cruel faces ; 
 And those slacken'd arms forgo 
 The delight of death-embraces, 
 And yon whitening bone-mounds do not grow. 
 
 "Ah," you say; "the large appearance 
 Of man's labour is but vain, 
 And we plead as staunch adherence 
 Due to pleasure as to pain." 
 Pointing to earth's careworn creatures, 
 " Come," you murmur with a sigh : 
 " Ah ! we own diviner features. 
 Loftier bearing, and a prouder eye. 
 
 "Come," you say, "the hours were dreary; 
 Dull did life in torpor fade ; 
 
THE NEW SIRENS 29 
 
 Time is lame, and we grew weary 
 In the slumbrous cedarn shade. 
 Round our hearts with long caresses, 
 With low sighings, Silence stole, > 
 
 And her load of steaming tresses 
 Fell, like Ossa, on the climbing soul. 
 
 " Come," you say, " the soul is fainting 
 Till she search and learn her own, 
 And the wisdom of man's painting 
 Leaves her riddle half unknown. 
 Come," you say, "the brain is seeking, 
 While the sovran heart is dead ; 
 Yet this glean'd, when Gods were speaking. 
 Rarer secrets than the toiling head. 
 
 ''Come," you say, "opinion trembles. 
 Judgment shifts, convictions go ; 
 Life dries up, the heart dissembles — 
 Only, what we feel, we know. 
 Hath your wisdom felt emotions ? 
 Will it weep our burning tears ? 
 Hath it drunk of our love-potions 
 Crowning moments with the wealth of years ? " 
 
 — I am dumb. Alas, too soon all 
 Man's grave reasons disappear ! 
 Yet, I think, at God's tribunal 
 Some large answer you shall hear. 
 But, for me, my thoughts are straying 
 Where at sunrise, through your vines. 
 On these lawns- 1 saw you playing. 
 Hanging garlands on your odorous pines ; 
 
 y 
 
30 EARLY POEMS 
 
 When your showering locks enwound you, 
 And your heavenly eyes shone through ; 
 When the pine-boughs yielded round you, 
 And your brows were starr'd with dew ; 
 And immortal forms, to meet you, 
 Down the statued alleys came. 
 And through golden horns, to greet you, 
 Blew such music as a God may frame. 
 
 Yes, I muse ! And if the dawning 
 Into daylight never grew, 
 If the glistering wings of morning 
 On the dry noon shook their dew. 
 If the fits of joy were longer. 
 Or the day were sooner done, 
 Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger. 
 No weak nursling of an earthly sun . . , 
 Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens. 
 Dusk the hall with yew ! 
 
 For a bound was set to meetings, 
 And the sombre day dragg'd on ; 
 And the burst of joyful greetings, 
 And the joyful dawn, were gone. 
 For the eye grows fill'd with gazing. 
 And on raptures follow calms ; 
 And those warm locks men were praising, 
 Droop'd, unbraided, on your listless arms. 
 
 Storms unsmooth'd your folded valleys, 
 And made all your cedars frown ; 
 Leaves were whirling in the alleys 
 Which your lovers wander'd down. 
 
THE NEW SIRENS 31 
 
 — Sitting cheerless in your bowers, 
 The hands propping the sunk head, 
 Still they gall you, the long hours, 
 And the hungry thought, that must be fed ! 
 
 Is the pleasure that is tasted 
 Patient of a long review ? 
 Will the fire joy hath wasted, 
 Mused on, warm the heart anew ? 
 — Or, are those old thoughts returning, 
 Guests the dull sense never knew. 
 Stars, set deep, yet inly burning. 
 Germs, your untrimm'd passion overgrew ? 
 
 Once, like us, you took your station 
 Watchers for a purer fire ; 
 But you droop'd in expectation, 
 And you wearied in desire. 
 When the first rose flush was steeping 
 All the frore peak's awful crown. 
 Shepherds say, they found you sleeping 
 In some windless valley, farther down. 
 
 Then you wept, and slowly raising 
 Your dozed eyelids, sought again, 
 Half in doubt, they say, and gazing 
 Sadly back, the seats of men ; — 
 Snatch'd a turbid inspiration 
 From some transient earthly sun. 
 And proclaim'd your vain ovation 
 For those mimic raptures you had won. . , 
 
32 EARLY POEMS 
 
 With a sad, majestic motion, 
 With a stately, slow surprise, 
 From their earthward-bound devotion 
 Lifting up your languid eyes — 
 Would you freeze my too loud boldness, 
 Dumbly smiling as you go, 
 One faint frown of distant coldness 
 Flitting fast across each marble brow ? 
 
 Do I brighten at your sorrow, 
 O sweet Pleaders ? — doth my lot 
 Find assurance in to-morrow 
 Of one joy, which you have not ? 
 O, speak once, and shame my sadness ! 
 Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain, 
 Mock'd and baffled by your gladness, 
 Mar the music of your feasts in vain ! 
 
 Scent, and song, and light, and flowers 1 
 Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow — 
 Come, bind up those ringlet showers ! 
 Roses for that dreaming brow ! 
 Come, once more that ancient lightness, 
 Glancing feet, and eager eyes ! 
 Let your broad lamps flash the brightness 
 Which the sorrow-stricken day denies ! 
 
 Through black depths of serried shadows. 
 Up cold aisles of buried glade ; 
 In the midst of river-meadows 
 Where the looming kine are laid ; 
 From your dazzled windows streaming. 
 From your humming festal room, 
 
THE NEW SIRENS 33 
 
 Deep and far, a broken gleaming 
 Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom. 
 
 Where I stand, the grass is glowing ; 
 Doubtless you are passing fair ! 
 But I hear the north wind blowing, 
 And I feel the cold night-air. 
 Can I look on your sweet faces, 
 And your proud heads backward thrown. 
 From this dusk of leaf-strewn places 
 With the dumb woods and the night alone ? 
 
 Yet, indeed, this flux of guesses — 
 Mad delight, and frozen calms — 
 Mirth to-day and vine-bound tresses, 
 And to-morrow — folded palms ; 
 Is this all ? this balanced measure ? 
 Could life run no happier way ? 
 Joyous, at the height of pleasure, 
 Passive at the nadir of dismay ? 
 
 But, indeed, this proud possession, 
 This far-reaching, magic chain. 
 Linking in a mad succession 
 Fits of joy and fits of pain — 
 Have you seen it at the closing ? 
 Have you track'd its clouded ways ? 
 Can your eyes, while fools are dozing, 
 Drop, with mine, adown life's latter days ? 
 
 When a dreary dawn is wading 
 Through this waste of sunless greens, 
 When the flushing hues are fading 
 On the peerless cheek of queens , 
 
 D 
 
34 EARLY POEMS 
 
 When the mean shall no more sorrow, 
 And the proudest no more smile ; 
 As old age, youth's fatal morrow, 
 Spreads its cold light wider all that while ? 
 
 Then, when change itself is over, 
 When the slow tide sets one way. 
 Shall you find the radiant lover, 
 Even by moments, of to-day ? 
 The eye wanders, faith is failing — 
 O, loose hands, and let it be ! 
 Proudly, like a king bewailing, 
 O, let fall one tear, and set us free ! 
 
 All true speech and large avowal 
 Which the jealous soul concedes ; 
 All man's heart which brooks bestowal, 
 All frank faith which passion breeds — 
 These we had, and we gave truly ; 
 Doubt not, what we had, we gave ! 
 False we were not, nor unruly ; 
 Lodgers in the forest and the cave. 
 
 Long we wander'd with you, feeding 
 Our rapt souls on your replies. 
 In a wistful silence reading 
 All the meaning of your eyes. 
 By moss-border'd statues sitting. 
 By well-heads, in summer days. 
 But we turn, our eyes are flitting — 
 See, the white east, and the morning rays ! 
 
 And you too, O worshipp'd Graces, 
 Sylvan Gods of this fair shade ! 
 
THE NEW SIRENS 35 
 
 Is there doubt on divine faces ? 
 Are the blessed Gods dismay'd ? 
 Can men worship the wan features, 
 The sunk eyes, the wailing tone, 
 Of unsphered, discrowned creatures, 
 Souls as little godlike as their own? ^ ' 
 
 Come, loose hands ! The winged fleetness 
 Of immortal feet is gone ; 
 And your scents have shed their sweetness, 
 And your flowers are overblown. 
 And your jewell'd gauds surrender 
 Half their glories to the day ; 
 Freely did they flash their splendour, 
 Freely gave it — but it dies away. 
 
 In the pines the thrush is waking — 
 Lo, yon orient hill in flames ! 
 Scores of true love knots are breaking 
 At divorce which it proclaims. 
 When the lamps are paled at morning. 
 Heart quits heart and hand quits hand. 
 Cold in that unlovely dawning. 
 Loveless, rayless, joyless you shall stand ! 
 
 Pluck no more red roses, maidens. 
 Leave the Hlies in their dew — 
 Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens. 
 Dusk, oh, dusk the hall with yew ! 
 — Shall I seek, that I may scorn her, 
 Her I loved at eventide ? 
 Shall I ask, what faded mourner 
 Stands, at daybreak, weeping by my side ? 
 Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens ! 
 Dusk the hall with yew ! 
 
36 EARLY POEMS 
 
 THE VOICE 
 
 As the kindling glances, 
 Queen-like and clear, 
 Which the bright moon lances 
 
 From her tranquil sphere 
 At the sleepless waters 
 Of a lonely mere, 
 On the wild whirling waves, mournfully, mournfully. 
 Shiver and die 
 
 As the tears of sorrow 
 
 Mothers have shed — 
 Prayers that to-morrow 
 Shall in vain be sped 
 When the flower they flow for 
 Lies frozen and dead — 
 Fall on the throbbing brow, fall on the burning breast, 
 Bringing no rest. 
 
 Like bright waves that fall 
 
 With a lifelike motion 
 On the lifeless margin of the sparkling Ocean ; 
 A wild rose climbing up a mouldering wall — 
 A gush of sunbeams through a ruin'd hall — 
 Strains of glad music at a funeral — 
 
 So sad, and with so wild a start 
 
 To this deep-sober'd heart. 
 
 So anxiously and painfully, 
 
 So drearily and doubtfully. 
 And oh, with such intolerable change 
 
 Of thought, such contrast strange, 
 
YOUTH'S AGITATIONS 37 
 
 O unforgotten voice, thy accents come, 
 Like wanderers from the world's extremity, 
 Unto their ancient home ! 
 
 In vain, all, all in vain. 
 
 They beat upon mine ear again. 
 
 Those melancholy tones so sweet and still. 
 
 Those lute-like tones which in the bygone year 
 
 Did steal into mine ear — 
 Blew such a thrilling summons to my will, 
 
 Yet could not shake it ; 
 Made my tost heart its very life-blood spill. 
 
 Yet could not break it. 
 
 YOUTH'S AGITATIONS 
 
 When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence, 
 From this poor present self which I am now ; 
 When youth has done its tedious vain expense 
 Of passions that for ever ebb and flow ; 
 
 Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind, 
 And breathe more happy in an even clime ? — 
 Ah no, for then I shall begin to find 
 A thousand virtues in this hated time ! 
 
 Then I shall wish its agitations back. 
 And all its thwarting currents of desire ; 
 Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack, 
 And call this hurrying fever, generous fire ; 
 
 And sigh that one thing only has been lent 
 To youth and age in common — discontent. 
 
38 EARLY POEMS 
 
 THE WORLD'S TRIUMPHS 
 
 So far as I conceive the world's rebuke 
 To him address'd who would recast her new, 
 Not from herself her fame of strength she took, 
 But from their weakness who would work her rue. 
 
 " Behold," she cries, " so many rages lull'd, 
 So many fiery spirits quite cool'd down ; 
 Look how so many valours, long undull'd. 
 After short commerce with me, fear my frown ! 
 
 " Thou too, when thou against my crimes wouldst cry, 
 Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue ! " — 
 The world speaks well ; yet might her foe reply : 
 " Are wills so weak ? — then let not mine wait long ! 
 
 " Hast thou so rare a poison ? — let me be 
 Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me !" 
 
 STAGIRIUS 3 
 
 Thou, who dost dwell alone — 
 Thou, who dost know thine own- 
 Thou, to whom all are known 
 From the cradle to the grave — 
 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 From the world's temptations. 
 
 From tribulations. 
 From that fierce anguish 
 Wherein we languish, 
 
STAGIRIUS 39 
 
 From that torpor deep 
 Wherein we lie asleep, 
 Heavy as death, cold as the grave, 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 
 When the soul, growing clearer, 
 
 Sees God no nearer ; 
 When the soul, mounting higher. 
 
 To God comes no nigher ; 
 But the arch-fiend Pride 
 Mounts at her side, 
 FoiHng her high emprise, 
 Sealing her eagle eyes, 
 And, when she fain would soar. 
 Makes idols to adore. 
 Changing the pure emotion 
 Of her high devotion. 
 To a skin-deep sense 
 Of her own eloquence , 
 Strong to deceive, strong to enslave — 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 
 From the ingrain'd fashion 
 Of this earthly nature 
 That mars thy creature ; 
 From grief that is but passion, 
 From mirth that is but feigning. 
 From tears that bring no healing. 
 From wild and weak complaining. 
 Thine old strength revealing. 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 From doubt, where all is double ; 
 Where wise men are not strong, 
 Where comfort turns to trouble, 
 
40 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Where just men suffer wrong ; 
 Where sorrow treads on joy, 
 Where sweet things soonest cloy, 
 Where faiths are built on dust, 
 Where love is half mistrust. 
 Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea- 
 Oh ! set us free. 
 O let the false dream fly, 
 Where our sick souls do lie 
 Tossing continually ! 
 
 O where thy voice doth come 
 Let all doubts be dumb, 
 Let all words be mild. 
 All strifes be reconciled. 
 All pains beguiled ! 
 Light bring no blindness, 
 Love no unkindness. 
 Knowledge no ruin, 
 Fear no undoing ! 
 From the cradle to the grave, 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 
 HUMAN LIFE 
 
 What mortal, when he saw, 
 
 Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend, 
 
 Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly : 
 
 " I have kept uninfringed my nature's law ; 
 
 The inly-written chart thou gavest me, 
 
 To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end"? 
 
 Ah ! let us make no claim, 
 On life's incognisable sea. 
 
TO A GIPSY CHILD 41 
 
 To too exact a steering of our way ; 
 Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim, 
 If some fair coast have lured us to make stay, 
 Or some friend hail'd us to keep company. 
 
 Ay ! we would each fain drive 
 
 At random, and not steer by rule. 
 
 Weakness ! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vain 
 
 Winds from our side the unsuiting consort rive, 
 
 We rush by coasts where we had lief remain ; 
 
 Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool. 
 
 No ! as the foaming swath 
 
 Of torn-up water, on the main, 
 
 Falls heavily away with long-drawn roar 
 
 On either side the black deep-furrow'd path 
 
 Cut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore, 
 
 And never touches the ship-side again ; 
 
 Even so we leave behind, 
 
 As, charter'd by some unknown Powers, 
 
 We stem across the sea of life Ly night, 
 
 The joys which were not for our use design'd ; — 
 
 The friends to whom we had no natural right. 
 
 The homes that were not destined to be ours. 
 
 TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEA-SHORE 
 
 DOUGLAS, ISLE OF MAN 
 
 Who taught this pleading to unpractised eyes ? 
 
 Who hid such import in an infant's gloom ? 
 
 Who lent thee, child, this meditative guise ? 
 
 Who mass'd, round that slight brow, these clouds of doom ? 
 
42 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Lo ! sails that gleam a moment and are gone ; 
 The swinging waters, and the cluster'd pier. 
 Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, 
 Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. 
 
 But thou, whom superfluity of joy 
 Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, 
 Nor weariness, the full-fed soul's annoy — 
 Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain ; 
 
 Thou, drugging pain by patience ; half averse 
 From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee ; 
 With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst converse, 
 And that soul-searching vision fell on me. 
 
 Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known ; 
 Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth. 
 Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own : 
 Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. 
 
 What mood wears like complexion to thy woe ? 
 His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day. 
 Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below ? 
 — Ah ! thine was not the shelter, but the fray 
 
 Some exile's, mindful how the past was glad? 
 Some angel's, in an aHen planet born ? 
 — No exile's dream was ever half so sad, 
 Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. 
 
 Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh 
 
 Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore ; 
 
 But in disdainful silence turn away. 
 
 Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more ? 
 
TO A GIPSY CHILD 43 
 
 Or do I wait, to hear some gray-hair'd king 
 Unravel all his many-colour'd lore ; 
 Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, 
 Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more ? 
 
 Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope. 
 Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give. 
 — Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope, 
 Foreseen thy harvest — yet proceed'st to live. 
 
 meek anticipant of that sure pain 
 
 Whose sureness gray-hair'd scholars hardly learn ! 
 What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain ? 
 What heavens, what earth, what sun shalt thou discern? 
 
 Ere the long night, whose stillness brooks no star, 
 Match that funereal aspect with her pall, 
 
 1 think, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far, 
 Have known too much or else forgotten all. 
 
 The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil 
 Betwixt our senses and our sorrow keeps ; 
 Hath sown with cloudless passages the tale 
 Of grief, and eased us with a thousand sleeps. 
 
 Ah ! not the nectarous poppy lovers use, 
 Not daily labour's dull, Lethaean spring. 
 Oblivion in lost angels can infuse 
 Of the soil'd glory, and the trailing wing. 
 
 And though thou glean, what strenuous gleaners may. 
 In the throng'd fields where winning comes by strife ; 
 And though the just sun gild, as mortals pray. 
 Some reaches of thy storm-vext stream of life ; 
 
44 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Thou^ that blank sunshine blind thee ; though the cloud 
 That sever'd the world's march and thine, be gone ; 
 Though ease dulls grace, and Wisdom be too proud 
 To halve a lodging that was all her own — 
 
 Once, ere the day decline, thou shalt discern, 
 Oh once, ere night, in thy success, thy chain ! 
 Ere the long evening close, thou shalt return, 
 And wear this majesty of grief again. 
 
 A QUESTION 
 
 TO FAUSTA 
 
 Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows 
 
 Like the wave ; 
 Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men. 
 Love lends life a little grace, 
 A few sad smiles ; and then, 
 Both are laid in one cold place, 
 In the grave. 
 
 Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die 
 
 Like spring flowers ; 
 Our vaunted life is one long funeral. 
 Men dig graves with bitter tears 
 For their dead hopes ; and all, 
 Mazed with doubts and sick with fears. 
 Count the hours. 
 
 We count the hours ! These dreams of ours. 
 
 False and hollow, 
 Do we go hence and find they are not dead ? 
 
IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS 45 
 
 Joys we dimly apprehend, 
 Faces that smiled and fled, 
 Hopes born here, and born to end, 
 Shall we follow? 
 
 IN UTRUMQUE PARATUS 
 
 If, in the silent mind of One all-pure, 
 
 At first imagined lay 
 The sacred world ; and by procession sure 
 From those still deeps, in form and colour drest. 
 Seasons alternating, and night and day. 
 The long-mused thought to north, south, east, and west. 
 
 Took then its all-seen way ; 
 
 O waking on a world which thus-wise springs ! 
 
 Whether it needs thee count 
 Betwixt thy waking and the birth of things 
 Ages or hours — O waking on life's stream ! 
 By lonely pureness to the all-pure fount 
 (Only by this thou canst) the colour'd dream 
 
 Of Hfe remount ! 
 
 Thin, thin the pleasant human noises grow, 
 
 And faint the city gleams ; 
 Rare the lone pastoral huts — marvel not thou ! 
 The solemn peaks but to the stars are known, 
 But to the stars, and the cold lunar beams ; 
 Alone the sun arises, and alone 
 
 Spring the great streams. 
 
 But, if the wild unfather'd mass no birth 
 In divine seats hath known ; 
 
46 EARLY POEMS 
 
 In the blank, echoing soHtiide if Earth, 
 Rocking her obscure body to and fro. 
 Ceases not from all time to heave and groan, 
 Unfruitful oft, and at her happiest throe 
 Forms, what she forms, alone ; 
 
 O seeming sole to awake, thy sun-bathed head 
 
 Piercing the solemn cloud 
 Round thy still dreaming brother-world outspread 
 O man, whom Earth, thy long-vext mother, bare 
 Not without joy — so radiant, so endow'd 
 (Such happy issue crown'd her painful care) — 
 
 Be not too proud ! 
 
 Oh when most self-exalted most alone. 
 Chief dreamer, own thy dream ! 
 
 Thy brother-world stirs at thy feet unknown. 
 
 Who hath a monarch's hath no brother's part ; 
 
 Yet doth thine inmost soul with yearning teem. 
 
 — Oh, what a spasm shakes the dreamer's heart ! 
 "/, too^ but seem." 
 
 THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST 
 
 TO CRITIAS 
 
 " Why, when the world's great mind 
 Hath finally inclined. 
 Why," you say, Critias, "be debating still? 
 Why, with these mournful rhymes 
 Learn'd in more languid climes. 
 Blame our activity 
 Who, with such passionate will. 
 Are what we mean to be ? 
 
HORATIAN ECHO 47 
 
 Critias, long since, I know 
 (For Fate decreed it so), 
 Long since the world hath set its heart to live ; 
 Long since, with credulous zeal 
 
 It turns life's mighty wheel, 
 Still doth for labourers send 
 
 Who still their labour give. 
 And still expects an end. 
 
 Yet, as the wheel flies round. 
 With no ungrateful sound 
 Do adverse voices fall on the world's ear. 
 Deafen'd by his own stir 
 The rugged labourer 
 Caught not till then a sense 
 So glowing and so near 
 Of his omnipotence. 
 
 So, when the feast grew loud 
 In Susa's palace proud, 
 A white-robed slave stole to the Great King's side. 
 He spake — the Great King heard ; 
 Felt the slow-rolling word 
 Swell his attentive soul ; 
 Breathed deeply as it died. 
 And drain'd his mighty bowl. 
 
 HORATIAN ECHO^ 
 
 (to an ambitious friend) 
 
 Omit, omit, my simple friend, 
 Still to enquire how parties tend, 
 
48 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Or what we fix with foreign powers. 
 If France and we are really friends, 
 And what the Russian Czar intends. 
 Is no concern of ours. 
 
 Us not the daily quickening race 
 
 Of the invading populace 
 
 Shall draw to swell that shouldering herd. 
 
 Mourn will w^e not your closing hour, 
 
 Ye imbeciles in present power, 
 
 Doom'd, pompous, and absurd ! 
 
 And let us bear, that they debate 
 Of all the engine-work of state, 
 Of commerce, laws, and policy. 
 The secrets of the world's machine, 
 And what the rights of man may mean. 
 With readier tongue than we. 
 
 Only, that with no finer art 
 They cloak the troubles of the heart 
 With pleasant smile, let us take care ; 
 Nor with a lighter hand dispose 
 Fresh garlands of this dewy rose, 
 To crown Eugenia's hair. 
 
 Of little threads our life is spun. 
 And he spins ill, who misses one. 
 But is thy fair Eugenia cold ? 
 Yet Helen had an equal grace, 
 And Juliet's was as fair a face. 
 
 And now their years are told. 
 
 The day approaches, when we must 
 Be crumbling bones and windy dust : 
 
THE SECOND BEST 49 
 
 And scorn us as our mistress may, 
 Her beauty will no better be 
 Than the poor face she slights in thee, 
 When dawns that day, that day. 
 
 THE SECOND BEST 
 
 Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, 
 Quiet living, strict-kept measure 
 Both in suffering and in pleasure — 
 'Tis for this thy nature yearns. 
 
 But so many books thou readest, 
 But so many schemes thou breedest, 
 But so many wishes feedest, 
 
 That thy poor head almost turns. 
 
 And (the world's so madly jangled, 
 Human things so fast entangled) 
 Nature's wish must now be strangled 
 For that best which she discerns. 
 
 So it must be ! yet, while leading 
 A strain'd life, while overfeeding. 
 Like the rest, his wit with reading. 
 No small profit that man earns. 
 
 Who through all he meets can steer him, 
 Can reject what cannot clear him. 
 Cling to what can truly cheer him ; 
 Who each day more surely learns 
 
 That an impulse, from the distance 
 Of his deepest, best existence. 
 To the words, " Hope, Light, Persistence," 
 Strongly sets and truly burns. 
 
 E 
 
50 EARLY rOEMS 
 
 CONSOLATION 
 
 Mist clogs the sunshine. 
 
 Smoky dwarf houses 
 Hem me round everywhere ; 
 A vague dejection 
 Weighs down my soul. 
 
 Yet, while I languish, 
 Everywhere countless 
 Prospects unroll themselves, 
 And countless beings 
 Pass countless moods. 
 
 Far hence, in Asia, 
 
 On the smooth convent-roofs^ 
 
 On the gilt terraces, 
 
 Of holy Lassa, 
 
 Bright shines the sun. 
 
 Grey time-worn marbles 
 Hold the pure Muses ; 
 In their cool gallery, 
 By yellow Tiber, 
 They still look fair. 
 
 Strange unloved uproar * 
 Shrills round their portal ; 
 Yet not on Helicon 
 Kept they more cloudless 
 Their noble calm. 
 
 Through sun-proof alleys 
 In a lone, sand-hemm'd 
 
 * Written during the siege of Rome by the French, 1849. 
 
CONSOLATION 51 
 
 City of Africa, 
 
 A blind, led beggar, 
 
 Age-bow'd, asks alms. 
 
 No bolder robber 
 Erst abode ambush 'd 
 Deep in the sandy waste ; 
 No clearer eyesight 
 Spied prey afar. 
 
 Saharan sand-winds 
 Sear'd his keen eyeballs ; 
 Spent is the spoil he won. 
 For him the present 
 Holds only pain. 
 
 Two young, fair lovers, 
 Where the warm June-wind, 
 Fresh from the summer fields 
 Plays fondly round them. 
 Stand, tranced in joy. 
 
 With sweet, join'd voices, 
 And with eyes brimming : 
 "Ah," they cry, "Destiny, 
 Prolong the present ! 
 Time, stand still here !" 
 
 The prompt stern Goddess 
 Shakes her head, frowning ; 
 Time gives his hour-glass 
 Its due reversal ; 
 Their hour is gone. 
 
 With weak indulgence 
 Did the just Goddess 
 
52 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Lengthen their happiness, 
 She lengthen'd also 
 Distress elsewhere. 
 
 The hour, whose happy 
 Unalloy'd moments 
 I would eternalise, 
 Ten thousand mourners 
 Well pleased see end. 
 
 The bleak, stern hour, 
 Whose severe moments 
 I would annihilate, 
 Is pass'd by others 
 In warmth, light, joy. 
 
 Time, so complain'd of, 
 Who to no one man 
 Shows partiality, 
 Brings round to all men 
 Some undimm'd hours. 
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 TO FAUSTA 
 
 To die be given iis^ or attain ! 
 
 Fierce work it were^ to do again. 
 
 So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, pray'd 
 
 At burning noon ; so warriors said, 
 
 Scarf 'd with the cross, who watch'd the miles 
 
 Of dust which wreathed their struggling files 
 
 Down Lydian mountains ; so, when snows 
 
RESIGNATION 53 
 
 Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, 
 
 The Goth, bound Rome-wards ; so the Hun, 
 
 Crouch'd on his saddle, while the sun 
 
 Went lurid down o'er flooded plains 
 
 Through which the groaning Danube strains 
 
 To the drear Euxine ; — so pray all, 
 
 Whom labours, self-ordain'd, enthrall ; 
 
 Because they to themselves propose 
 
 On this side the all-common close 
 
 A goal which, gain'd, may give repose. 
 
 So pray they ; and to stand again 
 
 Where they stood once, to them were pain ; 
 
 Pain to thread back and to renew 
 
 Past straits, and currents long steer'd through. 
 
 But milder natures, and more free — 
 
 Whom an unblamed serenity 
 
 Hath freed from passions, and the state 
 
 Of struggle these necessitate ; 
 
 Whom schooling of the stubborn mind 
 
 Hath made, or birth hath found, resign'd — 
 
 These mourn not, that their goings pay 
 
 Obedience to the passing day. 
 
 These claim not every laughing Hour 
 
 For handmaid to their striding power ; 
 
 Each in her turn, with torch uprear'd. 
 
 To await their march ; and when appear'd, 
 
 Through the cold gloom, with measured race. 
 
 To usher for a destined space 
 
 (Her own sweet errands all forgone) 
 
 The too imperious traveller on. 
 
 These, Fausta, ask not this ; nor thou, 
 
 Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now ! 
 
54 EARLY POEMS 
 
 We left, just ten years since, you sayj 
 That wayside inn we left to-day.^ 
 Our jovial host, as forth we fare, 
 Shouts greeting from his easy chair. 
 High on a bank our leader stands. 
 Reviews and ranks his motley bands, 
 Makes clear our goal to every eye — 
 The valley's western boundary, 
 A gate swings to ! our tide hath flow'd 
 Already from the silent road. 
 The valley-pastures, one by one. 
 Are threaded, quiet in the sun ; 
 And now beyond the rude stone bridge 
 Slopes gracious up the western ridge. 
 Its woody border, and the last 
 Of its dark upland farms is past — 
 Cool farms, with open-lying stores. 
 Under their burnish'd sycamores ; 
 All past ! and through the trees we glide, 
 Emerging on the green hill-side. 
 There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign. 
 Our wavering, many-colour'd line ; 
 There winds, upstreaming slowly still 
 Over the summit of the hill. 
 And now, in front, behold outspread 
 Those upper regions we must tread ! 
 Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells. 
 The cheerful silence of the fells. 
 Some two hours' march with serious air. 
 Through the deep noontide heats we fare ; 
 The red-grouse, springing at our sound, 
 Skims, now and then, the shining ground ; 
 No life, save his and ours, intrudes 
 
RESIGNATION 55 
 
 Upon these breathless solitudes. 
 
 O joy ! again the farms appear. 
 
 Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer ; 
 
 There springs the brook will guide us down, 
 
 Bright comrade, to the noisy town. 
 
 Lingering, we follow down ; we gain 
 
 The town, the highway, and the plain. 
 
 And many a mile of dusty way, 
 
 Parch'd and road-worn, we made that day ; 
 
 But, Fausta, I remember well. 
 
 That as the balmy darkness fell 
 
 We bathed our hands with speechless glee. 
 
 That night, in the wide-glimmering sea. 
 
 Once more we tread this self-same road, 
 Fausta, which ten years since we trod ; 
 Alone we tread it, you and I, 
 Ghosts of that boisterous company. 
 Here, where the brook shines, near its head, 
 In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed ; 
 Here, whence the eye first sees, far down, 
 Capp'd with faint smoke, the noisy town ; 
 Here sit we, and again unroll. 
 Though slowly, the familiar whole. 
 The solemn wastes of heathy hill 
 Sleep in the July sunshine still ; 
 The self-same shadows now, as then, 
 Play through this grassy upland glen ; 
 The loose dark stones on the green way 
 Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay ; 
 On this mild bank above the stream, 
 (You crush them !) the blue gentians gleam. 
 
56 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Still this wild brook, the rushes cool, 
 The sailing foam, the shining pool ! 
 These are not changed ; and we, you say, 
 Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they. 
 
 The gipsies, whom we met below, 
 They, too, have long roam'd to and fro ; 
 They ramble, leaving, where they pass, 
 Their fragments on the cumber'd grass. 
 And often to some kindly place 
 Chance guides the migratory race. 
 Where, though long wanderings intervene, 
 They recognise a former scene. 
 The dingy tents are pitch'd ; the fires 
 Give to the wind their wavering spires ; 
 In dark knots crouch round the wild flame 
 Their children, as when first they came ; 
 They see their shackled beasts again 
 Move, browsing, up the gray-wall'd lane. 
 Signs are not wanting, which might raise 
 The ghost in them of former days — 
 Signs are not wanting, if they would ; 
 Suggestions to disquietude. 
 For them, for all, time's busy touch. 
 While it mends little, troubles much. 
 Their joints grow stiffer — but the year 
 Runs his old round of dubious cheer ; 
 Chilly they grow — yet winds in March, 
 vStill, sharp as ever, freeze and parch ; 
 They must live still — and yet, God knows. 
 Crowded and keen the country grows; 
 It seems as if, in their decay. 
 The law grew stronger every day. 
 
RESIGNATION 57 
 
 So might they reason, so compare, 
 Fausta, times past with times that are. 
 But no ! — they rubb'd through yesterday 
 In their hereditary way, 
 And they will rub through, if they can. 
 To-morrow on the self-same plan, 
 Till death arrive to supersede. 
 For them, vicissitude and need. 
 
 The poet, to whose mighty heart 
 
 Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart, 
 
 Subdues that energy to scan 
 
 Not his own course, but that of man. 
 
 Though he move mountains, though his day 
 
 Be pass'd on the proud heights of sway. 
 
 Though he hath loosed a thousand chains, 
 
 Though he hath borne immortal pains. 
 
 Action and suffering though he know — 
 
 He hath not lived, if he lives so. 
 
 He sees, in some great-historied land, 
 
 A ruler of the people stand, 
 
 Sees his strong thought in fiery flood 
 
 Roll through the heaving multitude 
 
 Exults — yet for no moment's space 
 
 Envies the all-regarded place. 
 
 Beautiful eyes meet his — and he 
 
 Bears to admire uncravingly ; 
 
 They pass — he, mingled with the crowd, 
 
 Is in their far-off triumphs proud. 
 
 From some high station he looks down, 
 
 At sunset, on a populous town ; 
 
 Surveys each happy group, which fleets, 
 
 Toil ended, through the shining streets, 
 
58 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Each with some errand of its own — 
 And does not say : / am alone. 
 He sees the gentle stir of birth 
 AVhen morning purifies the earth ; 
 He leans upon a gate and sees 
 The pastures, and the quiet trees. 
 Low, woody hill, with gracious bound, 
 Folds the still valley almost round ; 
 The cuckoo, loud on some high lawn, 
 Is answer'd from the depth of dawn ; 
 In the hedge straggling to the stream. 
 Pale, dew-drench'd, half-shut roses gleam ; 
 But, where the farther side slopes down. 
 He sees the drowsy new-waked clown 
 In his white quaint-embroider'd frock 
 Make, whistling, tow'rd his mist-wreathed flock- 
 Slowly, behind his heavy tread, 
 The wet, flower'd grass heaves up its head- 
 Lean'd on his gate, he gazes — tears 
 Are in his eyes, and in his ears 
 The murmur of a thousand years. 
 Before him he sees hfe unroll, 
 A placid and continuous whole — 
 That general life, which does not cease. 
 Whose secret is not joy, but peace ; 
 That life, whose dumb wish is not miss'd 
 If birth proceeds, if things subsist ; 
 The life of plants, and stones, and rain, 
 The life he craves — if not in vain 
 Fate gave, what chance shall not control. 
 His sad lucidity of soul. 
 
 You listen — but that wandering smile, 
 
RESIGNATION 59 
 
 Fausta, betrays you cold the while ! 
 
 Your eyes pursue the bells of foam 
 
 Wash'd, eddying, from this bank, their home. 
 
 Those gipsies^ so your thoughts I scan, -^ 
 
 Are less, the poet more, than man. \ 
 
 They feel ?tot, though they move and see; 
 
 Deeper the poet feels ; but lie 
 
 Breathes, tvhen he will, ivunortal air, 
 
 Where Orpheus and where Ho7ner are. 
 
 In the dafs life, whose iron round 
 
 Hems us all in, he is not bound ; 
 
 He leaves his kind, derleaps their pe?i, 
 
 And flees the common life of men. 
 
 He escapes thence, but we abide — 
 
 Not deep the poet sees, but wide. ^ 
 
 The world in which we live and move 
 
 Outlasts aversion, outlasts love. 
 
 Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, 
 
 Remorse, grief, joy ; — and were the scope 
 
 Of these affections wider made, 
 
 Man still would see, and see dismay'd, 
 
 Beyond his passion's widest range, 
 
 Far regions of eternal change. 
 
 Nay, and since death, which wipes out man. 
 
 Finds him with many an unsolved plan, 
 
 With much unknown, and much untried, 
 
 Wonder not dead, and thirst not dried. 
 
 Still gazing on the ever full 
 
 Eternal mundane spectacle — 
 
 This world in which we draw our breath. 
 
 In some sense, Fausta, outlasts death. 
 
6o EARLY POEMS 
 
 Blame thou not, therefore, him who dares 
 
 Judge vain beforehand human cares ; 
 
 Whose natural insight can discern 
 
 What through experience others learn ; 
 
 Who needs not love and power, to know 
 
 Love transient, power an unreal show ; 
 
 Who treads at ease life's uncheer'd ways — 
 
 Him blame not, Fausta, rather praise ! 
 
 Rather thyself for some aim pray 
 
 Nobler than this, to fill the day ; 
 
 Rather that heart, which burns in thee. 
 
 Ask, not to amuse, but to set free ; 
 
 Be passionate hopes not ill resign'd 
 
 For quiet, and a fearless mind. 
 
 And though fate grudge to thee and me 
 
 The poet's rapt security, 
 A- Yet they, believe me, who await 
 i No gifts from chance, have conquer'd fate. 
 '"^ They, winning room to see and hear. 
 
 And to men's business not too near. 
 
 Through clouds of individual strife 
 
 Draw homeward to the general life. 
 
 Like leaves by suns not yet uncurl'd ; 
 
 To the wise, foolish ; to the world. 
 
 Weak ; — yet not weak, I might reply, 
 
 Not foolish, Fausta, in His eye, 
 
 To whom each moment in its race. 
 
 Crowd as we will its neutral space, 
 
 Is but a quiet watershed 
 
 Whence, equally, the seas of life and death are fed. 
 
 Enough, we live ! — and if a life, 
 With large results so little rife, 
 
RESIGNATION 6i 
 
 Though bearable, seem hardly worth 
 
 This pomp of worlds, this pain of birth ; 
 
 Yet, Faiista, the mute turf we tread, 
 
 The solemn hills around us spread, 
 
 This stream which falls incessantly, 
 
 The strange-scrawl'd rocks, the lonely sky, 
 
 If I might lend their life a voice. 
 
 Seem to bear rather than rejoice. 
 
 And even could the intemperate prayer 
 
 Man iterates, while these forbear, 
 
 For movement, for an ampler sphere, 
 
 Pierce Fate's impenetrable ear 5 
 
 Not milder is the general lot 
 
 Because our spirits have forgot. 
 
 In action's dizzying eddy whirl'd. 
 
 The something that infects the world. 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 
 
 AN EPISODE 
 
 And the first grey of morning fill'd the east, 
 
 And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 
 
 But all the Tartar camp along the stream 
 
 Was hush'd, and stilfthe men were plunged in sleep ; 
 
 Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all night long 
 
 He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; ^^ 
 
 But when the grey dawn stole into his tent, ^ 
 
 He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, 9^ 
 
 And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent. 
 
 And went abroad into the cold wet fog. 
 
 Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. 
 
 Through the black Tartar tents he pass'd, which stood 
 Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand 
 Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow 
 When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere ; 
 Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand, 
 And to a hillock came, a little back 
 From the stream's brink — the spot where first a boat. 
 Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. 
 The men of former times had crown'd the top 
 With a clay fort ; but that was fall'n, and now 
 The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 
 
 F 
 
66 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. 
 And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 
 Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent, 
 And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
 Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. 
 And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 
 Was dull'd ; for he slept light, an old man's sleep ; 
 And he rose quickly on one arm, and said : — 
 
 " Who art thou ? for it is not yet clear dawn. 
 Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm?" 
 
 But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said : — 
 "Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ! it is I. 
 The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
 Sleep ; but I sleep not ; all night long I lie 
 Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 
 For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
 Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son. 
 In Samarcand, before the army march'd ; 
 And I will tell thee what my heart desires. 
 Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first 
 I came among the Tartars and bore arms, 
 I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, 
 At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
 This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on 
 The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world. 
 And beat the Persians back on every field, 
 I seek one man, one man, and one alone — 
 Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet, 
 Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field, 
 His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
 So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
 Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
 Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 6/ 
 
 Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 
 
 To meet me, man to man ; if I prevail, 
 
 Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — 
 
 Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 
 
 Dim is the rumour of a common fight, 
 
 Where host meets host, and many names are sunk ; 
 
 But of a single combat fame speaks clear." 
 
 He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
 Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said : — 
 
 " O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
 Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, 
 And share the battle's common chance with us 
 Who love thee, but must press for ever first, 
 In single fight incurring single risk, 
 To find a father thou hast never seen ? 
 That were far best, my son, to stay with us 
 Unmurmuring ; in our tents, while it is war. 
 And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. 
 But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 
 To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight ! 
 Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 
 O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 
 But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 
 For now it is not as when I was young, 
 When Rustum was in front of every fray ; 
 But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 
 In Seistan^ with Zal, his father old. 
 Whether tliat his own mighty strength at last 
 Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age. 
 Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 
 There go ! — Thou wilt not ? Yet my heart forebodes 
 Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
 Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost 
 
68 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 To us ; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 
 To seek thy father, not seek single fights 
 In vain ; — but who can keep the lion's cub 
 From ravening, and who govern Rustum's son ? 
 Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires." 
 
 So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and left 
 His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay ; 
 And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat 
 He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet. 
 And threw a white cloak round him, and he took 
 In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword; 
 And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, 
 Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul ; 
 And raised the curtain of his tent, and call'd 
 His herald to his side, and went abroad. 
 
 The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog 
 From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. 
 And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 
 Into the open plain ; so Haman bade — 
 Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled 
 The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 
 From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream'd ; 
 As when some grey November morn the files. 
 In marching order spread, of long-neck'd cranes 
 Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes 
 Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries. 
 Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound 
 For the warm Persian sea-board — so they stream'd. 
 The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, 
 First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears ; 
 Large men, large steeds ; who from Bokhara come 
 And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 
 Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 69 
 
 The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 
 
 And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands ; 
 
 Light men and on light steeds, who only drink 
 
 The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 
 
 And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came 
 
 From far, and a more doubtful service own'd ; 
 
 The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 
 
 Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
 
 And close-set skull-caps ; and those wilder hordes 
 
 AVho roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, 
 
 Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray 
 
 Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 
 
 Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere ; 
 
 These all filed out from camp into the plain. 
 
 And on the other side the Persians form'd ; — ^ 
 
 First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem'd, 
 
 The Ilyats of Khorassan ; and behind. 
 
 The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 
 
 Marshall'd battalions bright in burnish'd steel. 
 
 But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 
 
 Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, 
 
 And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. 
 
 And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw 
 
 That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 
 
 He took his spear, and to the front he came. 
 
 And check'd his ranks, and fix'd them where they stood. 
 
 And the old Tartar came upon the sand 
 
 Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said : — 
 
 " Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear ! 
 Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 
 But choose a champion from the Persian lords 
 To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man." 
 
 As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
 
70 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
 A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — 
 So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
 A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran 
 Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. 
 
 But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, 
 Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
 That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow ; 
 Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass 
 Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow. 
 Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves 
 Slake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mulberries — 
 In single file they move, and stop their breath. 
 For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging snow^s — 
 So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. 
 
 And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 
 To counsel ; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, 
 And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
 Second, and was the uncle of the King ; 
 These came and counsell'd, and then Gudurz said : — 
 
 " Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, 
 Yet champion have we none to match this youth. 
 He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 
 But Rustum came last night ; aloof he sits 
 And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents apart. 
 Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 
 The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name. 
 Haply he w^ill forget his wrath, and fight. 
 Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up." 
 
 So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth and cried : — 
 " Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said ! 
 Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man." 
 
 He spake : and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strode 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 71 
 
 Back, through the opening squadrons to his tent. 
 But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 
 And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and reach'd, 
 Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. 
 Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, 
 Just pitch'd ; the high pavilion in the midst 
 Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around. 
 And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found 
 Rustum ; his morning meal was done, but still 
 The table stood before him, charged with food — 
 A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread. 
 And dark green melons ; and there Rustum sate 
 Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist. 
 And play'd with it ; but Gudurz came and stood 
 Before him ; and he look'd, and saw him stand, 
 And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd the bird, 
 And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said : — 
 
 " Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. 
 What news ? but sit down first, and eat and drink." 
 
 But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said : — 
 " Not now ! a time will come to eat and drink, 
 But not to-day ; to-day has other needs. 
 The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze ; 
 For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
 To pick a champion from the Persian lords 
 To fight their champion — and thou know'st his name — 
 Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 
 O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's ! 
 He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart ; 
 And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old. 
 Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to thee. 
 Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose !" 
 
 He spoke ; but Rustum answer'd with a smile : — • 
 
72 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 " Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I 
 
 Am older ; if the young are weak, the King 
 
 Errs strangely ; for the King, for Kai Khosroo, 
 
 Himself is young, and honours younger men, 
 
 And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
 
 Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — 
 
 The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. 
 
 For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame ? 
 
 For would that I myself had such a son, 
 
 And not that one slight helpless girl I have — 
 
 A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 
 
 And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, 
 
 My father, whom the robber Afghans vex. 
 
 And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 
 
 And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
 
 There would I go, and hang my armour up, 
 
 And with my great name fence that weak old man. 
 
 And spend the goodly treasures I have got. 
 
 And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, 
 
 And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings. 
 
 And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more." 
 
 He spoke, and smiled ; and Gudurz made reply : — 
 " What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, 
 When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
 Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, 
 Hidest thy face ? Take heed lest men should say : 
 Like some old miser ^ Rustum hoa7'ds his fame ^ 
 Arid shuns to peril it with yoimger men!' 
 
 And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply : — 
 "O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words? 
 Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
 What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, 
 Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 73 
 
 Are not they mortal, am not I myself? 
 
 But who for men of nought would do great deeds ? 
 
 Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame ! 
 
 But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms ; 
 
 Let not men say of Rustum, he was match'd 
 
 In single fight with any mortal man." 
 
 He spoke, and frown'd ; and Gudurz turn'd, and ran 
 Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — 
 Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 
 But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call'd 
 His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, 
 And clad himself in steel ; the arms he chose 
 Were plain, and on his shield was no device. 
 Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 
 And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume 
 Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. 
 So arm'd, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, his horse, 
 Followed him like a faithful hound at heel — 
 Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, 
 The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once 
 Did in Bokhara by the river find 
 A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home. 
 And rear'd him ; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 
 Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green 
 Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work'd 
 All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. 
 So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd 
 The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd. 
 And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts 
 Hail'd ; but the Tartars knew not who he was. 
 And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
 Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 
 By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, 
 
74 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, 
 Having made up his tale of precious pearls, 
 Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
 L So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 
 
 And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, 
 And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and came. 
 And as afield the reapers cut a swath 
 Down through the middle of a rich man's corn, 
 And on each side are squares of standing corn, 
 And in the midst a stubble, short and bare — 
 So on each side were squares of men, with spears 
 Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. 
 And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 
 His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 
 Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 
 
 As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, 
 Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge 
 Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire — 
 At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, 
 When the frost flowers the whiten'd window-panes — 
 And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts 
 Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rustum eyed 
 The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar 
 Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
 All the most valiant chiefs ; long he perused 
 His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. 
 For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd ; 
 Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight. 
 Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
 Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, 
 By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound — 
 So slender Sohrab seem'd, so softly rear'd. 
 And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 75 
 
 As he beheld him coming ; and he stood, 
 
 And beckon'd to him with his hand, and said : — 
 
 " O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, 
 And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave is cold ! 
 Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. 
 Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron. 
 And tried ; and I have stood on many a field 
 Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe — 
 Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 
 O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death ? 
 Be govern'd ! quit the Tartar host, and come 
 To Iran, and be as my son to me. 
 And fight beneath my banner till I die ! 
 There are no youths in Iran brave as thou." 
 
 So he spake, mildly ; Sohrab heard his voice, 
 The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw 
 His giant figure planted on the sand, 
 Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
 Hath builded on the waste in former years 
 Against the robbers ; and he saw that head, 
 Streak'd with its first grey hairs ; — hope filled his soul, 
 And he ran forward and embraced his knees, 
 And clasp'd his hand within his own, and said : — 
 
 " O, by thy father's head ! by thine own soul ! 
 Art thou not Rustum? speak ! art thou not he?" 
 
 But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, 
 And turn'd away, and spake to his own soul : — 
 
 " Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean ! 
 False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
 For if I now confess this thing he asks. 
 And hide it not, but say : Rustum is here ! 
 He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes. 
 But he will find some pretext not to fight, 
 
76 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts 
 
 A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 
 
 And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, 
 
 In Samarcand, he will arise and cry : 
 
 ' I challenged once, when the two armies camp'd 
 
 Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
 
 To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
 
 Shrank, only Rustum dared ; then he and I 
 
 Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.' 
 
 So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud ; 
 
 Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me." 
 
 And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud : — 
 " Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 
 Of Rustum ? I am here, whom thou hast call'd 
 By challenge forth ; make good thy vaunt, or yield ! 
 Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight ? 
 Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee ! 
 For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 
 Before thy face this day, and were reveal'd, 
 There would be then no talk of fighting more. 
 But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
 Do thou record it in thine inmost soul : 
 Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield, 
 Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds 
 Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, 
 Oxus in summer wash them all away." 
 
 He spoke ; and Sohrab answer'd, on his feet : — 
 " Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright me so ! 
 I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
 Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand 
 Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
 But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
 Begin ! thou art more vast, more dread than I, 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 77 
 
 And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — 
 But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. 
 And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
 Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
 For we are allj^hke swimmers in the sea, 
 
 Poised on the top of a huge wave of fa^, 
 
 Which hangs uncertain to wh ich side to fall. 
 
 And whether it will heave us up to land. 
 
 Or whether it will roll us out to sea, 
 
 Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death. 
 
 We know not, and no search will make us know; 
 
 Only the event will teach us in its hour." 
 
 He spoke, and Rustum answer'd not, but hurl'd 
 His spear ; down from the shoulder, down it came. 
 As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, 
 That long has tower'd in the airy clouds. 
 Drops like a plummet ; Sohrab saw it come, 
 And sprang aside, quick as a flash ; the spear 
 Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand. 
 Which it sent flying wide ; — then Sohrab threw 
 In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield ; sharp rang. 
 The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear. 
 And Rustum seized his club, which none but he 
 Could wield ; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge. 
 Still rough — like those which men in treeless plains 
 To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, 
 Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
 By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
 Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack. 
 And strewn the channels with torn boughs — so huge 
 The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 
 One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang aside, 
 Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came 
 
78 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand. 
 And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and fell 
 To his knees, and with his fingers clutch'd the sand ; 
 And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, 
 And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay 
 Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand ; 
 But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, 
 But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said : — 
 
 "Thou strik'st too hard ! that club of thine will float 
 Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. 
 But rise, and be not wroth ! not wroth am I ; 
 No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 
 Thou say'st, thou art not Rustum ; be it so ! 
 Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul ? 
 Boy as I am, I have seen battles too — 
 Have waded foremost in their bloody waves. 
 And heard their hollow roar of dying men ; 
 But never was my heart thus touch'd before. 
 Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart ? 
 O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven ! 
 Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears. 
 And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 
 And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, 
 And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. 
 There are enough foes in the Persian host. 
 Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang ; 
 Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 
 Mayst fight ; fight them^ when they confront thy spear ! 
 But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me !" 
 
 He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had risen. 
 And stood erect, trembling with rage ; his club 
 He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear. 
 Whose fiery pf)int now in his mail'd right-hand 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 79 
 
 Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, 
 
 The baleful sign of fevers ; dust had soil'd 
 
 His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering arms. 
 
 His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voice 
 
 Was choked with rage ; at last these words broke way : — 
 
 " Girl ! nimble wdth thy feet, not with thy hands ! 
 Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sw^eet words ! 
 Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! 
 Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now^ 
 With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance ; 
 But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
 Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
 Of w^ar ; I fight it out, and hand to hand. 
 Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine ! 
 Remember all thy valour ; try thy feints 
 And cunning ! all the pity I had is gone ; 
 Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts 
 With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles." 
 
 He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 
 And he too drew his sword ; at once they rush'd 
 Together, as tw^o eagles on one prey 
 Come rushing down together from the clouds. 
 One from the east, one from the west ; their shields 
 Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
 Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
 Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 
 Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such blows 
 Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. 
 And you would say that sun and stars took part 
 In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud 
 Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sun 
 Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose 
 Under their feet, and moaning swept the' plain, 
 
So NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 
 
 In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they alone ; 
 
 For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
 
 Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 
 
 And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
 
 But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes 
 
 And labouring breath ; first Rustum struck the shield 
 
 Which Sohrab held stiff out ; the steel-spiked spear 
 
 Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the skin, 
 
 And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. 
 
 Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm. 
 
 Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all the crest 
 
 He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, 
 
 Never till now defiled, sank to the dust ; 
 
 And Rustum bow'd his head ; but then the gloom 
 
 Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, 
 
 And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh, the horse. 
 
 Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry ; — 
 
 No horse's cry was that, most like the roar 
 
 Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day 
 
 Hath trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side, 
 
 And comes at night to die upon the sand. 
 
 The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, 
 
 And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. 
 
 But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on, 
 
 And struck again ; and again Rustum bow'd 
 
 His head ; but this time all the blade, like glass. 
 
 Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, 
 
 And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone. 
 
 Then Rustum raised his head ; his dreadful eyes 
 
 Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, 
 
 And shouted : Rustiwi ! — Sohrab heard that shout, 
 
 And shrank amazed ; bnrk he recoil'd one step, 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 8l 
 
 And scann'd with blinking eyes the advancing form ; 
 And then he stood bewilder'd ; and he dropp'd 
 His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 
 He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to the ground; 
 And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, 
 And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 
 The cloud ; and the two armies saw the pair — 
 Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet. 
 And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. 
 
 Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began : — 
 '' Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
 A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
 And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
 Or else that the great Rustum v/ould come down 
 Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
 His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
 And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
 Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
 To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
 Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man ) 
 Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be 
 Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." 
 
 And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied : — 
 " Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
 Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! 
 No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
 For were I match'd with ten such men as thee. 
 And I were that which till to-day I was. 
 They should be lying here, I standing there. 
 But that beloved name unnerved my arm — 
 That name, and something, I confess, in thee. 
 Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield 
 Fall ; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm'd foe. 
 
 G 
 
82 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. 
 But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear 
 The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! 
 My father, whom I seek through all the world, 
 lie shall avenge my deatli, and punish thee !" 
 
 As when some hunter in the spring hath found 
 A, breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 
 Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake. 
 And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, 
 And foUow'd her to find her where she fell 
 Far off; — anon her mate comes winging back 
 From hunting, and a great way off descries 
 His huddling young left sole ; at that, he checks 
 His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
 Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
 Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but she 
 Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 
 In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 
 A heap of fluttering feathers — never more 
 Shall the lake glass her, flying over it ; 
 Never the black and dripping precipices 
 Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — 
 As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, 
 So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood 
 Over his dying son, and knew him not. 
 
 But, with a cold incredulous voice, he said : — 
 " What prate is this of fathers and revenge ? 
 The mighty Rustum never had a son." 
 
 And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied : — 
 *' Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
 Surely the news will one day reach his ear. 
 Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, 
 Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here. 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 83 
 
 And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
 
 To aims, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 
 
 Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son ! 
 
 What will that grief, what will that vengeance be ? 
 
 Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen ! 
 
 Yet him I pity not so much, but her, 
 
 My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
 
 With that old king, her father, who grows grey 
 
 With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
 
 Her most I pity, who no more will see 
 
 Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, 
 
 With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 
 
 But a dark rumour will be bruited up, 
 
 From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear ; 
 
 And then will that defenceless woman learn 
 
 That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more. 
 
 But that in battle with a nameless foe, 
 
 By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." 
 
 He spoke ; and as he ceased, he wept aloud, 
 Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
 He spoke ; but Rustum listen'd, plunged in thought. 
 Nor did he yet beHeve it was his son 
 Who spoke, although he call'd back names he knew ; 
 For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
 Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, 
 Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — 
 So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 
 Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms 
 And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, 
 By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son ; 
 Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 
 So deem'd he ; yet he listen'd, plunged in thought 
 And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
 
84 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 
 
 At the full moon ; tears gather'd in his eyes ; 
 
 For he remember'd his own early youth, 
 
 And all its bounding rapture ; as, at dawn, 
 
 The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries 
 
 A far, bright city, smitten by the sun. 
 
 Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw 
 
 His youth ; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom ; 
 
 And that old king, her father, who loved well 
 
 His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 
 
 With joy ; and all the pleasant life they led, 
 
 They three, in that long-distant summer-time — 
 
 The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 
 
 And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 
 
 In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 
 
 Of age and looks to be his own dear son, 
 
 Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
 
 Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe 
 
 Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 
 
 Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 
 
 And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, 
 
 On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay, 
 
 Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
 
 And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said : — 
 
 " O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
 Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might w^ell have loved. 
 Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
 Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum's son. 
 For Rustum had no son ; one child he had — 
 But one — a girl ; who with her mother now 
 Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — 
 Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war." 
 
 But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath ; for now 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 85 
 
 The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, 
 And he desired to draw forth the steel, 
 And let the blood flow free, and so to die — 
 But first he would convince his stubborn foe ; 
 And, rising sternly on one arm, he said : — 
 
 " Man, who art thou who dost deny my words ? 
 Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, 
 And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. 
 I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm I bear 
 That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, 
 That she might prick it on the babe she bore." 
 
 He spoke ; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks. 
 And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand 
 Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand. 
 That the hard iron corslet clank'd aloud ; 
 And to his heart he press'd the other hand. 
 And in a hollow voice he spake, and said : — 
 
 " Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie ! 
 If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son." 
 Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed 
 His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm. 
 And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points 
 Prick'd ; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
 Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase. 
 An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, 
 And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp 
 Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands — 
 So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd 
 On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. 
 It was that grifiin, which of old rear'd Zal, 
 Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 
 A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks ; 
 Him that kind creature found, and rear'd, and loved — 
 
86 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 
 And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, 
 And himself scann'd it long with mournful eyes, 
 And then he touch'd it with his hand and said : — 
 
 " How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper sign 
 Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's ? " 
 
 He spoke ; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood 
 Speechless ; and then he utter'd one sharp cry : 
 
 boy — thy father / — and his voice choked there. 
 And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes, 
 And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 
 But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast 
 His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips, 
 
 And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks. 
 Trying to call him back to life ; and life 
 Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes. 
 And they stood wide with horror ; and he seized 
 In both his hands the dust which lay around. 
 And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his hair, — 
 His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms ; 
 And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast. 
 And his sobs choked him ; and he clutch'd his sword, 
 To draw it, and for ever let life out. 
 But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, 
 And with a soothing voice he spake, and said : — 
 
 " Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 
 The doom which at my birth was written down 
 In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. 
 Surely my heart cried out that it was thou. 
 When first I saw thee ; and thy heart spoke too, 
 
 1 know it ! but fate trod those promptings down 
 Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged 
 
 The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear. 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 87 
 
 But let us speak no more of this ! I find 
 My father ; let me feel that I have found ! 
 Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
 My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, 
 And wash them with thy tears, and say : My son ! 
 Quick ! quick ! for number'd are my sands of life, 
 And swift ; for like the lightning to this field 
 I came, and like the wind I go away — 
 Sudden, and swift, and hke a passing wnnd. 
 But it was writ in Heaven that this should be." 
 
 So said he, and his voice released the heart 
 Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth ; he cast 
 His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud. 
 And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts, 
 When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse. 
 With his head bowing to the ground and mane 
 Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe 
 First to the one then to the other moved 
 His head, as if inquiring what their grief 
 Might mean ; and from his dark, compassionate eyes. 
 The big warm tears roll'd down, and caked the sand. 
 But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said : — 
 
 " Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh, thy feet 
 Should first have rotted on their nimble joints. 
 Or ere they brought thy master to this field ! " 
 
 But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said ; — 
 " Is this, then, Ruksh ? How often, in past days, 
 My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, 
 My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said, 
 That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
 Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane ! 
 O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; 
 For thou hast gone where I shall never go, 
 
NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 And snuff'd the breezes of my father's home. 
 
 And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 
 
 And seen the River of Hehnund, and the Lake 
 
 Of Zirrah ; and the aged Zal himself 
 
 Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, 
 
 Corn in a golden platter soak'd with wine, 
 
 And said ; O Ruksh I bear Riisticin ivell ! — but I 
 
 Have never known my grandsire's furrow'd face, 
 
 Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 
 
 Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream ; 
 
 But lodged among my father's foes, and seen 
 
 Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
 
 Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste. 
 
 And the black Toorkmun tents ; and only drunk 
 
 The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 
 
 Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep. 
 
 The northern Sir ; and this great Oxus stream. 
 
 The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." 
 
 Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail'd : — 
 " Oh, that its waves were flowing over me ! 
 Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
 Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head ! " 
 
 But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied : — 
 " Desire not that, my father ! thou must live. 
 For some are born to do great deeds, and live. 
 As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
 Do thou the deeds I die too young to do. 
 And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
 Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
 But come ! thou seest this great host of men 
 Which follow me ; I pray thee, slay not these ! 
 Let me entreat for them ; what have they done ? 
 They follow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 89 
 
 Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
 
 But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, 
 
 But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
 
 And place me on a bed, and mourn for me. 
 
 Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all thy friends. 
 
 And thou must lay me in that lovely earth. 
 
 And heap a stately mound above my bones, 
 
 And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
 
 That so the passing horseman on the waste 
 
 May see my tomb a great way off, and cry : 
 
 Sohrab^ the mighty Riistum^s son, lies there, 
 
 Whojfi his great father did iji ignorance kill I 
 
 And I be not forgotten in my grave." 
 
 And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied : — 
 " Fear not ! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, 
 So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents, 
 And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me. 
 And carry thee away to Seistan, 
 And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee. 
 With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
 And I will lay thee in that lovely earth. 
 And heap a stately mound above thy bones. 
 And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
 And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 
 And I will spare thy host ; yea, let them go ! 
 Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace ! 
 What should I do with slaying any more ? 
 For would that all that I have ever slain 
 Might be once more alive ; my bitterest foes. 
 And they who were call'd champions in their time. 
 And through whose death I won that fame I have — 
 And I were nothing but a common man, 
 A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, 
 
90 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 So thou mightest live too, my son, my son ! 
 Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
 Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
 Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine. 
 Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not thou ; 
 And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 
 And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine ; 
 And say : O son, I iveep thee not too sore, 
 For willingly, I hioiv, thou i?iefst thine end ! 
 But now in blood and battles was my youth, 
 And full of blood and battles is my age. 
 And I shall never end this life of blood." 
 
 Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied : — 
 " A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! 
 But thou shalt yet have peace ; only not now, 
 Not yet ! but thou shalt have it on that day. 
 When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship. 
 Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, 
 Returning home over the salt blue sea, 
 From laying thy dear master in his grave." 
 
 And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said : — 
 " Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! 
 Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure," 
 
 He spoke ; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took 
 The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
 His wound's imperious anguish ; but the blood 
 Came welling from the open gash, and life 
 Flow'd with the stream ; — all down his cold white side 
 The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd, 
 Like the soil'd tissue of white violets 
 Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, 
 By children whom their nurses call with haste 
 Indoors from the sun's eye ; his head droop'd low. 
 
SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 91 
 
 His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, he lay — 
 White, with eyes closed ; only when heavy gasps, 
 Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, 
 Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them. 
 And fix'd them feebly on his father's face ; 
 Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbs 
 Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 
 Regretting the warm mansion which it left. 
 And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. 
 
 So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead ; 
 And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak 
 Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
 As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd 
 By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
 His house, now 'mid their broken flights of steps 
 Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side — 
 So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 
 
 And night came down over the solemn waste, 
 And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair. 
 And darken'd all ; and a cold fog, with night. 
 Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
 As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
 Began to twinkle through the fog ; for now 
 Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal ; 
 The Persians took it on the open sands 
 Southward, the Tartars by the river marge ; 
 And Rustum and his son were left alone. 
 
 But the majestic river floated on. 
 Out of the mist and hum of that low land. 
 Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, 
 Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste, 
 Under the solitary moon ; — he flow'd 
 Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 
 
92 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Brimming, and bright, and large ; then sands begin 
 
 To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, 
 
 And spHt his currents ; that for many a league 
 
 The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along 
 
 Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — 
 
 Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
 
 In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, 
 
 A foil'd circuitous wanderer — till at last 
 
 The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 
 
 His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
 
 And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars 
 
 Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 
 
 THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA 
 
 Hussein 
 
 O MOST just Vizier, send away 
 The cloth-merchants, and let them be. 
 Them and their dues, this day ! the King 
 Is ill at ease, and calls for thee. 
 
 The Vizier 
 
 O merchants, tarry yet a day 
 Here in Bokhara ! but at noon. 
 To-morrow, come, and ye shall pay 
 Each fortieth web of cloth to me, 
 As the law is, and go your way. 
 
THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA 93 
 
 O Hussein, lead me to the King ! 
 Thou teller of sweet tales, thine own, 
 Ferdousi's, and the others', lead ! 
 How is it with my lord ? 
 
 Hussein 
 
 Alone, 
 Ever since prayer-time, he doth wait, 
 O Vizier ! without lying down. 
 In the great window of the gate, 
 Looking into the Registan, 
 Where through the sellers' booths the slaves 
 Are this way bringing the dead man. — 
 O Vizier, here is the King's door ! 
 
 The King 
 O Vizier, I may bury him ? 
 
 The Vizier 
 
 O King, thou know'st, I have been sick 
 These many days, and heard no thing 
 (For Allah shut my ears and mind), 
 Not even what thou dost, O King ! 
 Wherefore, that I may counsel thee. 
 Let Hussein, if thou wilt, make haste 
 To speak in order what hath chanced. 
 
 The King 
 O Vizier, be it as thou say'st ! 
 
 Hussein 
 Three days since, at the time of prayer 
 A certain Moollah, with his robe 
 
94 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 All rent, and dust upon his hair, 
 
 Watch'd my lord's coming forth, and push'd 
 
 The golden mace-bearers aside, 
 
 And fell at the King's feet, and cried : 
 
 "Justice, O King, and on myself! 
 On this great sinner, who did break 
 The law, and by the law must die ! 
 Vengeance, O King ! " 
 
 But the King spake : 
 " What fool is this, that hurts our ears 
 With folly ? or what drunken slave ? 
 My guards, what, prick him with your spears ! 
 Prick me the fellow from the path ! " 
 As the King said, so it w^as done. 
 And to the mosque my lord pass'd on. 
 
 But on the morrow, when the King 
 Went forth again, the holy book 
 Carried before him, as is right. 
 And through the square his way he took ; 
 My man comes running, fleck'd with blood 
 From yesterday, and falling down 
 Cries out most earnestly : " O King, 
 My lord, O King, do right, I pray ! 
 
 " How canst thou, ere thou hear, discern 
 If I speak folly? but a king, 
 Whether a thing be great or small. 
 Like Allah, hears and judges all. 
 
 " Wherefore hear thou ! Thou know'st, how fierce 
 In these last days the sun hath burn'd ; 
 That the green water in the tanks 
 
THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA 95 
 
 Is to a putrid puddle turn'd ; 
 And the canal, which from the stream 
 Of Samarcand is brought this way, 
 A\'astes, and runs thinner every day. 
 
 " Now I at nightfall had gone forth 
 Alone, and in a darksome place 
 Under some mulberry-trees I found 
 A little pool ; and in short space, 
 With all the w^ater that was there 
 I fill'd my pitcher, and stole home 
 Unseen ; and having drink to spare, 
 I hid the can behind the door. 
 And went up on the roof to sleep. 
 
 " But in the night, which was with wind 
 And burning dust, again I creep 
 Down, having fever, for a drink. 
 
 " Now meanwhile had my brethren found 
 The water-pitcher, where it stood 
 Behind the door upon the ground. 
 And call'd my mother ; and they all, 
 As they were thirsty, and the night 
 Most sultry, drain'd the pitcher there ; 
 That they sate with it, in my sight. 
 Their lips still wet, when I came down. 
 
 " Now mark ! I, being fever'd, sick 
 
 (Most unblest also), at that sight 
 
 Brake forth, and cursed them — dost thou hear? — 
 
 One was my mother Now, do right !" 
 
 But my lord mused a space, and said : 
 " Send him away, Sirs, and make on ! 
 
96 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 It is some madman ! " the King said. 
 As the King bade, so was it done. 
 
 The morrow, at the self-same hour. 
 In the King's path, behold, the man, 
 Not kneeling, sternly fix'd ! he stood 
 Right opposite, and thus began. 
 Frowning grim down : " Thou wicked King, 
 Most deaf where thou shouldst most give ear 
 What, must I howl in the next world, 
 Because thou wilt not listen here ? 
 
 " What, wilt thou pray, and get thee grace, 
 And all grace shall to me be grudged ? 
 Nay but, I swear, from this thy path 
 I will not stir till I be judged ! " 
 
 Then they who stood about the King 
 Drew close together and conferr'd ; 
 Till that the King stood forth and said : 
 "Before the priests thou shalt be heard." 
 
 But Avhen the Ulemas were met. 
 
 And the thing heard, they doubted not ; 
 
 / But sentenced him, as the law is, 
 
 i To die by stoning on the spot. 
 
 Now the King charged us secretly : 
 " Stoned must he be, the law stands so- 
 Yet, if he seek to fly, give way ; 
 Hinder him not, but let him go." 
 
 wSo saying, the King took a stone, 
 And cast it softly ; — but the man, 
 With a great joy upon his face, 
 Kneel'd down, and cried not, neither ran. 
 
THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA 97 
 
 So they, whose lot it was, cast stones, 
 That they flew thick and bruised him sore. 
 But he praised Allah with loud voice. 
 And remain'd kneeling as before. 
 
 My lord had cover'd up his face ; 
 
 But when one told him, " He is dead," 
 
 Turning him quickly to go in, 
 
 " Bring thou to me his corpse," he said. 
 
 And truly, while I speak, O King, 
 
 I hear the bearers on the stair ; 
 
 Wilt thou they straightway bring him in ? 
 
 — Ho ! enter ye who tarry there ! 
 
 The Vizier 
 
 O King, in this I praise thee not ! 
 Now must I call thy grief not wise. 
 Is he thy friend, or of thy blood, 
 To find such favour in thine eyes ? 
 
 Nay, were he thine own mother's son, 
 Still, thou art king, and the law stands. 
 It were not meet the balance swerved. 
 The sword were broken in thy hands. 
 
 But being nothing, as he is. 
 Why for no cause make sad thy face? — 
 Lo, I am old ! three kings, ere thee, 
 Have I seen reigning in this place. 
 
 But who, through all this length of time. 
 Could bear the burden of his years, 
 If he for strangers pain'd his heart 
 Not less than those who merit tears ? 
 
 H 
 
93 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Fathers we must have, wife and child, 
 And grievous is the grief for these ; 
 This pain alone, which must be borne, 
 Makes the head white, and bows the knees. 
 
 But other loads than this his own 
 One man is not well made to bear. 
 Besides, to each are his own friends, 
 To mourn with him, and show him care. 
 
 Look, this is but one single place, 
 Though it be great ; all the earth round, 
 If a man bear to have it so. 
 Things which might vex him shall be found. 
 
 Upon the Russian frontier, where 
 The watchers of two armies stand 
 Near one another, many a man, 
 Seeking a prey unto his hand, 
 
 Hath snatch'd a little fair-hair'd slave ; 
 They snatch also, towards Merve, 
 The Shiah dogs, who pasture sheep, 
 And up from thence to Orgunj^. 
 
 And these all, labouring for a lord. 
 Eat not the fruit of their own hands ; 
 Which is the heaviest of all plagues, 
 To that man's mind, who understands. 
 
 The kaffirs also (whom God curse !) 
 Vex one another, night and day ; 
 There are the lepers, and all sick ; 
 There are the poor, who faint alway 
 
THE SICK KING IN BOKHARA 99 
 
 All these have sorrow, and keep still, 
 Whilst other men make cheer, and sing. 
 Wilt thou have pity on all these ? 
 No, nor on this dead dog, O King ! 
 
 The King 
 
 O Vizier, thou art old, I young ! 
 Clear in these things I cannot see. 
 My head is burning, and a heat 
 Is in my skin which angers me. 
 
 But hear ye this, ye sons of men ! 
 They that bear rule, and are obey'd, 
 Unto a rule more strong than theirs 
 Are in their turn obedient made. 
 
 In vain therefore, with wistful eyes 
 Gazing up hither, the poor man, 
 Who loiters by the high-heap'd booths, 
 Below there, in the Registan, 
 
 Says : " Happy he, who lodges there ! 
 With silken raiment, store of rice, 
 And for this drought, all kinds of fruits, 
 Grape-syrup, squares of colour'd ice, 
 
 " With cherries serv'd in drifts of snow." 
 In vain hath a king power to build 
 Houses, arcades, enamell'd mosques ; 
 And to make orchard-closes, fill'd 
 
 With curious fruit-trees brought from far 
 With cisterns for the winter-rain. 
 And, in the desert, spacious inns 
 In divers places — if that pain 
 
loo NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Is not more lighten'd, which he feels, 
 If his will be not satisfied ; 
 And that it be not, from all time 
 The law is planted, to abide. 
 
 Thou wast a sinner, thou poor man ! 
 Thou wast athirst ; and didst not see, 
 That, though we take what we desire, 
 We must not snatch it eagerly. 
 
 And I have meat and drink at will, 
 And rooms of treasures, not a few. 
 But I am sick, nor heed I these ; 
 And what I would, I cannot do. 
 
 Even the great honour which I have. 
 When I am dead, will soon grow still ; 
 So have I neither joy, nor fame. 
 But what I can do, that I will. 
 
 I have a fretted brick-work tomb 
 Upon a hill on the right hand, 
 Hard by a close of apricots, 
 Upon the road of Samarcand ; 
 
 Thither, O Vizier, will I bear 
 This man my pity could not save. 
 And, plucking up the marble flags, 
 There lay his body in my grave. 
 
 Bring water, nard, and linen rolls ! 
 Wash off all blood, set smooth each limb ! 
 Then say : " He was not wholly vile, 
 Because a king shall bury him.'* 
 
BALDER DEAD loi 
 
 BALDER DEAD 7 
 
 I. SENDING 
 
 So on the floor lay Balder dead ; and round 
 Lay thickly strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, 
 Which all the Gods in sport had idly thrown 
 At Balder, whom no weapon pierced or clove ; 
 But in his breast stood fixt the fatal bough 
 Of mistletoe, which Lok the Accuser gave 
 To Hoder, and unwitting Hoder threw — 
 'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. 
 
 And all the Gods and all the Heroes came. 
 And stood round Balder on the bloody floor. 
 Weeping and wailing ; and Valhalla rang 
 Up to its golden roof with sobs and cries ; 
 And on the tables stood the untasted meats. 
 And in the horns and gold-rimm'd skulls the wine. 
 And now would night have fall'n, and found them yet 
 Waihng ; but otherwise was Odin's will. 
 And thus the father of the ages spake : — 
 
 " Enough of tears, ye Gods, enough of wail ! 
 Not to lament in was Valhalla made. 
 If any here might weep for Balder's death, 
 I most might weep, his father ; such a son 
 I lose to-day, so bright, so loved a God. 
 But he has met that doom, which long ago 
 The Nornies, when his mother bare him, spun, 
 And fate set seal, that so his end must be. 
 Balder has met his death, and ye survive — 
 Weep him an hour, but what can grief avail ? 
 For ye yourselves, ye Gods, shall meet your doom, 
 
 ■■H«* 
 
I02 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 All ye' who hear me, and inhabit Heaven, 
 
 Arxd I too, Odin too, the Lord of all. 
 
 But ours we shall not meet, when that day comes. 
 
 With women's tears and weak complaining cries — 
 
 Why should we meet another's portion so ? 
 
 Rather it fits you, having wept your hour, 
 
 With cold dry eyes, and hearts composed and stern, 
 
 To live, as erst, your daily life in Heaven. 
 
 By me shall vengeance on the murderer Lok, 
 
 The foe, the accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate. 
 
 Be strictly cared for, in the appointed day. 
 
 Meanwhile, to-morrow, when the morning dawns, 
 
 Bring wood to the seashore to Balder's ship, 
 
 And on the deck build high a funeral-pile. 
 
 And on the top lay Balder's corpse, and put 
 
 Fire to the wood, and send him out to sea 
 
 To burn ; for that is what the dead desire." 
 
 So spake the King of Gods, and straightway rose. 
 And mounted his horse Sleipner, whom he rode ; 
 And from the hall of Heaven he rode away 
 To Lidskialf, and sate upon his throne, 
 The mount, from whence his eye surveys the world. 
 And far from Heaven he turn'd his shining orbs 
 To look on Midgard, and the earth, and men. 
 And on the conjuring Lapps he bent his gaze 
 Whom antler'd reindeer pull over the snow ; 
 
 And on the Finns, the gentlest of mankind. 
 
 Fair men, who live in holes under the ground ; 
 Nor did he look once more to Ida's plain, 
 Nor tow'rd Valhalla, and the sorrowing Gods ; 
 For well he knew the Gods would heed his word. 
 And cease to mourn, and think of Balder's pyre. 
 
 But in Valhalla all the Gods went back 
 
BALDER DEAD 103 
 
 From around Balder, all the Heroes went ; 
 And left his body stretch'd upon the floor. 
 And on their golden chairs they sate again, 
 Beside the tables, in the hall of Heaven ; 
 And before each the cooks who served them placed 
 New messes of the boar Serimner's flesh. 
 And the Valkyries crown'd their horns with mead. 
 So they, with pent-up hearts and tearless eyes. 
 Wailing no more, in silence ate and drank. 
 While twilight fell, and sacred night came on. 
 But the blind Hoder left the feasting Gods 
 In Odin's hall, and went through Asgard streets. 
 And past the haven where the Gods have moor'd 
 Their ships, and through the gate, beyond the wall ; 
 Though sightless, yet his own mind led the God. 
 Down to the margin of the roaring sea 
 He came, and sadly went along the sand, 
 Between the waves and black o'erhanging cliffs 
 Where in and out the screaming seafowl fly ; 
 Until he came to where a gully breaks 
 Through the cliff-wall, and a fresh stream runs down 
 From the high moors behind, and meets the sea. 
 There, in the glen, Fensaler stands, the house 
 Of Frea, honour'd mother of the Gods, 
 And shows its lighted windows to the main. 
 There he went up, and pass'd the open doors ; 
 And in the hall he found those women old, 
 The prophetesses, who by rite eterne 
 On Frea's hearth feed high the sacred fire 
 Both night and day ; and by the inner wall 
 Upon her golden chair the Mother sate, 
 With folded hands, revolving things to come. 
 To her drew Hoder near, and spake, and said : — 
 
I04 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 " Mother, a child of bale thou bar'st in me ! 
 For, first, thou barest me with blinded eyes, 
 Sightless and helpless, wandering weak in Heaven ; 
 And, after that, of ignorant witless mind 
 Thou barest me, and unforeseeing soul ; 
 That I alone must take the branch from Lok, 
 The foe, the accuser, whom, though Gods, we hate, 
 And cast it at the dear-loved Balder's breast 
 At whom the Gods in sport their weapons threw — 
 'Gainst that alone had Balder's life no charm. 
 Now therefore what to attempt, or whither fly, 
 For who will bear my hateful sight in Heaven ? 
 Can I, O mother, bring them Balder back ? 
 Or — for thou know'st the fates, and things allow'd — 
 Can I with Hela's power a compact strike, 
 And make exchange, and give my life for his?" 
 
 He spoke : the mother of the Gods replied : — 
 " Hoder, ill-fated, child of bale, my son. 
 Sightless in soul and eye, what words are these ? 
 That one, long portion'd with his doom of death. 
 Should change his lot, and fill another's life. 
 And Hela yield to this, and let him go ! 
 On Balder Death hath laid her hand, not thee ; 
 Nor doth she count this life a price for that. 
 For many Gods in Heaven, not thou alone. 
 Would freely die to purchase Balder back, 
 And wend themselves to Hela's gloomy realm. 
 For not so gladsome is that life in Heaven 
 Which Gods and heroes lead, in feast and fray, 
 Waiting the darkness of the final times. 
 That one should grudge its loss for Balder's sake. 
 Balder their joy, so bright, so loved a God. 
 But fate withstands, and laws forbid this way. 
 
BALDER DEAD 105 
 
 Yet in my secret mind one way I know, 
 
 Nor do I judge if it shall win or fail ; 
 
 But much must still be tried, which shall but fail." 
 
 And the blind Hoder answer'd her, and said : — 
 " What way is this, O mother, that thou show'st ? 
 Is it a matter which a God might try?" 
 
 And straight the mother of the Gods replied : — 
 " There is a road which leads to Hela's realm. 
 Untrodden, lonely, far from light and Heaven. 
 Who goes that way must take no other horse 
 To ride, but Sleipner, Odin's horse, alone. 
 Nor must he choose that common path of Gods 
 Which every day they come and go in Heaven, 
 O'er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch. 
 Past Midgard fortress, down to earth and men. 
 But he must tread a dark untravell'd road 
 Which branches from the north of Heaven, and ride 
 Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice. 
 Through valleys deep-engulph'd, with roaring streams. 
 And he will reach on the tenth morn a bridge 
 Which spans with golden arches Giall's stream, 
 Not Bifrost, but that bridge a damsel keeps, 
 Who tells the passing troops of dead their way ' 
 To the low shore of ghosts, and Hela's realm. 
 And she will bid him northward steer his course. 
 Then he will journey through no lighted land, 
 Nor see the sun arise, nor see it set ; 
 But he must ever watch the northern Bear, 
 Who from her frozen height with jealous eye 
 Confronts the Dog and Hunter in the south. 
 And is alone not dipt in Ocean's stream. 
 And straight he will come down to Ocean's strand — 
 Ocean, whose watery ring enfolds the world, 
 
io6 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 And on whose marge the ancient giants dwell. 
 But he will reach its unknown northern shore, 
 Far, far beyond the outmost giant's home, 
 At the chink'd fields of ice, the waste of snow. 
 And he must fare across the dismal ice 
 Northward, until he meets a stretching wall 
 Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. 
 But then he must dismount, and on the ice 
 Tighten the girths of Sleipner, Odin's horse. 
 And make him leap the grate, and come within. 
 And he will see stretch round him Hela's realm. 
 The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead, 
 And hear the roaring of the streams of Hell. 
 And he will see the feeble, shadowy tribes. 
 And Balder sitting crown'd, and Hela's throne. 
 Then must he not regard the wailful ghosts 
 Who all will flit, like eddying leaves, around ; 
 But he must straight accost their solemn queen, 
 And pay her homage, and entreat with prayers, 
 Telling her all that grief they have in Heaven 
 For Balder, whom she holds by right below ; 
 If haply he may melt her heart with words, 
 And make her yield, and give him Balder back." 
 
 She spoke ; but Hoder answer'd her and said : — 
 " Mother, a dreadful way is this thou show'st ; 
 No journey for a sightless God to go !" 
 
 And straight the mother of the Gods replied : — 
 " Therefore thyself thou shalt not go, my son. 
 But he whom first thou meetest when thou com'st 
 I To Asgard, and declar'st this hidden way, 
 Shall go ; and I will be his guide unseen." 
 
 She spoke, and on her face let fall her veil, 
 And bow'd her head, and sate with folded hands, 
 
BALDER DEAD 107 
 
 But at the central hearth those women old, 
 
 Who while the Mother spake had ceased their toil, 
 
 Began again to heap the sacred fire. 
 
 And Hoder turn'd, and left his mother's house, 
 
 Fensaler, whose lit windows look to sea; 
 
 And came again down to the roaring waves. 
 
 And back along the beach to Asgard went. 
 
 Pondering on that which Frea said should be. 
 
 But night came down, and darken'd Asgard streets 
 Then from their loathed feasts the Gods arose. 
 And lighted torches, and took up the corpse 
 Of Balder from the floor of Odin's hall. 
 And laid it on a bier, and bare him home 
 Through the fast-darkening streets to his own house, 
 Breidablik, on whose columns Balder graved 
 The enchantments that recall the dead to life. 
 For wise he was, and many curious arts. 
 Postures of runes, and healing herbs he knew ; 
 Unhappy ! but that art he did not know, 
 To keep his own life safe, and see the sun. 
 There to his hall the Gods brought Balder home. 
 And each bespake him as he laid him down : — 
 
 " Would that ourselves, O Balder, we were borne 
 Home to our halls, with torchlight, by our kin. 
 So thou might'st live, and still delight the Gods ! " 
 
 They spake ; and each went home to his own house. 
 But there was one, the first of all the Gods 
 For speed, and Hermod was his name in Heaven ; 
 Most fleet he was, but now he went the last, 
 Heavy in heart for Balder, to his house, 
 Which he in Asgard built him, there to dwell, 
 Against the harbour, by the city-wall. 
 Him the blind Hoder met, as he came up 
 
loS NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 From the sea cityward, and knew his step ; 
 
 Nor yet could Hermod see his brother's face, 
 
 For it grew dark ; but Hoder touch'd his arm. 
 
 And as a spray of honeysuckle flowers 
 
 Brushes across a tired traveller's face 
 
 Who shuffles through the deep dew-moisten'd dust. 
 
 On a May evening, in the darken'd lanes, 
 
 And starts him, that he thinks a ghost went by — 
 
 So Hoder brush'd by Hermod's side, and said : — 
 
 "Take Sleipner, Hermod, and set forth with dawn 
 To Hela's kingdom, to ask Balder back ; 
 And they shall be thy guides, who have the power." 
 
 He spake, and brush'd soft by, and disappear'd. 
 And Hermod gazed into the night, and said : — 
 
 " Who is it utters through the dark his best 
 So quickly, and will wait for no reply ? 
 The voice was like the unhappy Hoder's voice. 
 Howbeit I will see, and do his hest ; 
 For there rang note divine in that command." 
 
 So speaking, the fleet-footed Hermod came 
 Home, and lay down to sleep in his own house ; 
 And all the Gods lay down in their own homes. 
 And Hoder too came home, distraught with grief, 
 Loathing to meet, at dawn, the other Gods ; 
 And he went in, and shut the door, and fixt 
 His sword upright, and fell on it, and died. 
 
 But from the hill of Lidskialf Odin rose. 
 The throne, from which his eye surveys the world ; 
 And mounted Sleipner, and in darkness rode 
 To Asgard. And the stars came out in heaven, 
 High over Asgard, to light home the King. 
 But fiercely Odin gallop'd, moved in heart ; 
 And swift to Asgard, to the gate, he came. 
 
BALDER DEAD 109 
 
 And terribly the hoofs of Sleipner rang 
 Along the flinty floor of Asgard streets, 
 And the Gods trembled on their golden beds 
 Hearing the wrathful Father coming home — - 
 For dread, for like a whirlwind, Odin came. 
 And to Valhalla's gate he rode, and left 
 Sleipner ; and Sleipner went to his own stall ; 
 And in Valhalla Odin laid him down. 
 
 But in Breidablik, Nanna, Balder's wife. 
 Came with the Goddesses who wrought her will, 
 And stood by Balder lying on his bier. 
 And at his head and feet she station'd Scalds 
 Who in their lives were famous for their song ; 
 These o'er the corpse intoned a plaintive strain, 
 A dirge — and Nanna and her train replied. 
 And far into the night they wail'd their dirge. 
 But when their souls were satisfied with wail, 
 They went, and laid them down, and Nanna went 
 Into an upper chamber, and lay down ; 
 And Frea seal'd her tired lids with sleep. 
 
 And 'twas when night is bordering hard on dawn, 
 rWhen air is chiUiest, and the stars sunk low; 
 f Then Balder's spirit through the gloom drew near, 
 In garb, in form, in feature as he was. 
 Alive ; and still the rays were round his head 
 Which were his glorious mark in Heaven ; he stood 
 Over against the curtain of the bed, 
 And gazed on Nanna as she slept, and spake : — 
 
 " Poor lamb, thou sleepest, and forgett'st thy woe ! 
 Tears stand upon the lashes of thine eyes. 
 Tears wet the pillow by thy cheek ; but thou. 
 Like a young child, hast cried thyself to sleep. 
 Sleep on ; I watch thee, and am here to aid. 
 
no NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Alive I kept not far from thee, dear soul ! 
 Neither do I neglect thee now, though dead. 
 For with to-morrow's dawn the Gods prepare 
 To gather wood, and build a funeral-pile 
 Upon my ship, and burn my corpse with fire. 
 That sad, sole honour of the dead ; and thee 
 - — They think to burn, and all my choicest wealth, 
 With me, for thus ordains the common rite. 
 But it shall not be so ; but mild, but swift. 
 But painless shall a stroke from Frea come. 
 To cut thy thread of life, and free thy soul, 
 And they shall burn thy corpse with mine, not thee. 
 And well I know that by no stroke of death. 
 Tardy or swift, would'st thou be loath to die. 
 So it restored thee, Nanna, to my side. 
 Whom thou so well hast loved ; but I can smooth 
 Thy way, and this, at least, my prayers avail. 
 Yes, and I fain would altogether ward 
 Death from thy head, and with the Gods in Heaven 
 Prolong thy life, though not by thee desired — 
 But right bars this, not only thy desire. 
 Yet dreary, Nanna, is the life they lead 
 In that dim world, in Hela's mouldering realm ; 
 And doleful are the ghosts, the troops of dead. 
 Whom Hela with austere control presides. 
 For of the race of Gods is no one there, 
 Save me alone, and Hela, solemn queen ; 
 And all the nobler souls of mortal men 
 On battle-field have met their death, and now 
 Feast in Valhalla, in my father's hall ; 
 Only the inglorious sort are there below. 
 The old, the cowards, and the weak are there — 
 Men spent by sickness, or obscure decay. 
 
BALDER DEAD m 
 
 But even there, O Nanna, we might find 
 Some solace in each other's look and speech, 
 Wandering together through that gloomy world, 
 And talking of the life we led in Heaven, 
 While we yet lived, among the other Gods." 
 
 He spake, and straight his lineaments began 
 To fade ; and Nanna in her sleep stretch'd out 
 Her arms towards him with a cry — but he 
 Mournfully shook his head, and disappear'd. 
 And as the woodman sees a little smoke 
 Hang in the air, afield, and disappear, 
 So Balder faded in the night away. 
 And Nanna on her bed sank back ; but then 
 Frea, the mother of the Gods, with stroke 
 Painless and swift, set free her airy soul. 
 Which took, on Balder's track, the way below ; 
 And instantly the sacred morn appear'd. 
 
 2. JOURNEY TO THE DEAD 
 
 Forth from the east, up the ascent of Heaven, 
 Day drove his courser with the shining mane ; 
 And in Valhalla, from his gable-perch. 
 The golden-crested cock began to crow. 
 Hereafter, in the blackest dead of night. 
 With shrill and dismal cries that bird shall crow, 
 Warning the Gods that foes draw nigh to Heaven • 
 But now he crew at dawn, a cheerful note, 
 To wake the Gods and Heroes to their tasks. 
 And all the Gods, and all the Heroes, woke. 
 And from their beds the Heroes rose, and donn'd 
 Their arms, and led their horses from the stall. 
 And mounted them, and in Valhalla's court 
 
112 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 U^ere ranged ; and then the daily fray began. 
 
 And all day long they there are hack'd and hewn, 
 
 'Mid dust, and groans, and limbs lopp'd off, and blood ; 
 
 But all at night return to Odin's hall, 
 
 Woundless and fresh ; such lot is theirs in Heaven. 
 
 And the Valkyries on their steeds went forth 
 
 Tow'rd earth and fights of men ; and at their side 
 
 Skulda, the youngest of the Nornies, lode ; 
 
 And over Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch, 
 
 Past Midgard fortress, down to earth they came ; 
 
 There through some battle-field, where men fall fast, 
 
 Their horses fetlock-deep in blood, they ride, 
 
 And pick the bravest warriors out for death. 
 
 Whom they bring back with them at night to Heaven 
 
 To glad the Gods, and feast in Odin's hall. 
 
 But the Gods went not now, as otherwhile, 
 Into the tilt-yard, where the Heroes fought. 
 To feast their eyes with looking on the fray ; 
 Nor did they to their judgment-place repair 
 By the ash Igdrasil, in Ida's plain. 
 Where they hold council, and give laws for men. 
 But they went, Odin first, the rest behind. 
 To the hall Gladheim, which is built of gold ; 
 Where are in circle ranged twelve golden chairs. 
 And in the midst one higher, Odin's throne. 
 There all the Gods in silence sate them down ; 
 And thus the Father of the ages spake : — 
 
 " Go quickly, Gods, bring wood to the seashore, 
 With all, which it beseems the dead to have. 
 And make a funeral-pile on Balder's ship ; 
 On the twelfth day the Gods shall burn his corpse. 
 But Hermod, thou, take Sleipner, and ride down 
 To Hela's kingdom, to ask Balder back." 
 
BALDER DEAD 113 
 
 So said he ; and the Gods arose, and took 
 Axes and ropes, and at their head came Thor, 
 Shouldering his hammer, which the giants know. 
 Forth wended they, and drave their steeds before. 
 And up the dewy mountain-tracks they fared 
 To the dark forests, in the early dawn ; 
 And up and down, and side and slant they roam'd. 
 And from the glens all day an echo came 
 Of crashing falls ; for with his hammer Thor 
 Smote 'mid the rocks the lichen-bearded pines. 
 And burst their roots, while to their tops the Gods 
 Made fast the woven ropes, and haled them down. 
 And lopp'd their boughs, and clove them on the sward. 
 And bound the logs behind their steeds to draw. 
 And drave them homeward ; and the snorting steeds 
 Went straining through the crackling brushwood down, 
 And by the darkling forest-paths the Gods 
 Follow'd, and on their shoulders carried boughs. 
 And they came out upon the plain, and pass'd 
 Asgard, and led their horses to the beach. 
 And loosed them of their loads on the seashore, 
 And ranged the wood in stacks by Balder's ship ; 
 And every God went home to his own house. 
 
 But when the Gods were to the forest gone, 
 Hermod led Sleipner from Valhalla forth 
 And saddled him ; before that, Sleipner brook'd 
 No meaner hand than Odin's on his mane. 
 On his broad back no lesser rider bore ; 
 Yet docile now he stood at Hermod's side. 
 Arching his neck, and glad to be bestrode. 
 Knowing the God they went to seek, how dear. 
 But Hermod mounted him, and sadly fared 
 In silence up the dark untravell'd road 
 
 I 
 
114 NARRATIVE TOEMS 
 
 "\Miicli branches from the north of Heaven, and went 
 All day ; and dayhght waned, and night came on. 
 And all that night he rode, and journey'd so, 
 Nine days, nine nights, toward the northern ice. 
 Through valleys deep-engulph'd, by roaring streams. 
 And on the tenth morn he beheld the bridge 
 Which spans with golden arches Giall's stream, 
 And on the bridge a damsel watching arm'd, 
 In the strait passage, at the farther end, 
 Where the road issues between walling rocks. 
 Scant space that warder left for passers by ; — 
 But as when cowherds in October drive 
 Their kine across a snowy mountain-pass 
 To winter-pasture on the southern side, 
 And on the ridge a waggon chokes the way. 
 Wedged in the snow ; then painfully the hinds 
 With goad and shouting urge their cattle past. 
 Plunging through deep untrodden banks of snow 
 To right and left, and warm steam fills the air — 
 So on the bridge that damsel block'd the way. 
 And question'd Hermod as he came, and said : — 
 
 " Who art thou on thy black and fiery horse 
 Under whose hoofs the bridge o'er Giall's stream 
 Rumbles and shakes ? Tell me thy race and home. 
 But yestermorn, five troops of dead pass'd by, 
 Bound on their way below to Hela's realm. 
 Nor shook the bridge so much as thou alone. 
 And thou hast flesh and colour on thy cheeks, 
 Like men who live, and draw the vital air ; 
 Nor look'st thou pale and wan, like men deceased, 
 Souls bound below, my daily passers here." 
 
 And the fleet-footed Hermod answer'd her : — 
 " O damsel, Hermod am I call'd, the son 
 
BALDER DEAD iiS 
 
 Of Odin ; and my high-roofd house is built 
 Far hence, in Asgard, in the city of Gods ; 
 And Sleipner, Odin's horse, is this I ride. 
 And I come, sent this road on Balder's track ; 
 Say then, if he hath cross'd thy bridge or no?" 
 
 He spake ; the warder of the bridge repUed : — 
 " O Hermod, rarely do the feet of Gods 
 Or of the horses of the Gods resound 
 Upon my bridge ; and, when they cross, I know. 
 Balder hath gone this way, and ta'en the road 
 Below there, to the north, tow'rd Hela's realm. 
 From here the cold white mist can be discerned. 
 Nor lit with sun, but through the darksome air 
 By the dim vapour-blotted light of stars. 
 Which hangs over the ice where lies the road. 
 For in that ice are lost those northern streams. 
 Freezing and ridging in their onward flow, 
 Which from the fountain of Vergelmer run. 
 The spring that bubbles up by Hela's throne. 
 There are the joyless seats, the haunt of ghosts, 
 Hela's pale swarms ; and there was Balder bound. 
 Ride on ! pass free ! but he by this is there." 
 
 She spake, and stepp'd aside, and left him room. 
 And Hermod greeted her, and gallop'd by 
 Across the bridge ; then she took post again. 
 But northward Hermod rode, the way below ; 
 And o'er a darksome tract, which knows no sun. 
 But by the blotted light of stars, he fared. 
 And he came down to Ocean's northern strand, 
 At the drear ice, beyond the giants' home. 
 Thence on he journey 'd o'er the fields of ice 
 Still north, until he met a stretching wall 
 Barring his way, and in the wall a grate. 
 
ii6 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Then he dismounted, and drew tight the girths, 
 
 On the smooth ice, of Sleipner, Odin's horse. 
 
 And made him leap the grate, and came within. 
 
 And he beheld spread round him Hela's realm, 
 
 The plains of Niflheim, where dwell the dead, 
 
 And heard the thunder of the streams of Hell. 
 
 For near the wall the river of Roaring flows. 
 
 Outmost ; the others near the centre run — 
 
 The Storm, the Abyss, the Howling, and the Pain ; 
 
 These flow by Hela's throne, and near their spring. 
 
 And from the dark flock'd up the shadowy tribes ; — 
 
 And as the swallows crowd the bulrush-beds 
 
 Of some clear river, issuing from a lake, 
 
 On autumn-days, before they cross the sea ; 
 
 And to each bulrush-crest a swallow hangs 
 
 Quivering, and others skim the river-streams. 
 
 And their quick twittering fills the banks and shores — 
 
 So around Hermod swarm'd the twittering ghosts. 
 
 Women, and infants, and young men who died 
 
 Too soon for fame, with white ungraven shields ; 
 
 And old men, known to glory, but their star 
 
 Betray'd them, and of wasting age they died, 
 
 Not wounds ; yet, dying, they their armour wore, 
 
 And now have chief regard in Hela's realm. 
 
 Behind flock'd wrangling up a piteous crew. 
 
 Greeted of none, disfeatured and forlorn — 
 
 Cowards, who were in sloughs interr'd alive ; 
 
 And round them still the wattled hurdles hung. 
 
 Wherewith they stamp'd them down, and trod them deep, 
 
 To hide their shameful memory from men. 
 
 But all he pass'd unhail'd, and reach'd the throne 
 
 Of Hela, and saw, near it. Balder crown'd. 
 
 And Hela set thereon, with countenance stern 
 
BALDER DEAD 117 
 
 And thus bespake him first the solemn queen : — 
 
 " Unhappy, how hast thou endured to leave 
 The light, and journey to the cheerless land 
 Where idly flit about the feeble shades ? - 
 How didst thou cross the bridge o'er Giall's stream, 
 Being alive, and come to Ocean's shore ? 
 Or how o'erleap the grate that bars the wall?" 
 
 She spake : but down off Sleipner Hermod sprang, 
 And fell before her feet, and clasp'd her knees ; 
 And spake, and mild entreated her, and said : — 
 
 " O Hela, wherefore should the Gods declare 
 Their errands to each other, or the ways 
 They go ? the errand and the way is known. 
 Thou know'st, thou know'st, what grief we have in Heaven 
 For Balder, whom thou hold'st by right below. 
 Restore him ! for what part fulfils he here ? 
 ■ Shall he shed cheer over the cheerless seats, 
 And touch the apathetic ghosts with joy ? 
 Not for such end, O queen, thou hold'st thy realm. 
 For Heaven was Balder born, the city of Gods 
 And Heroes, where they live in light and joy. 
 Thither restore him, for his place is there ! " 
 
 He spoke ; and grave replied the solemn queen : — 
 " Hermod, for he thou art, thou son of Heaven ! 
 A strange unlikely errand, sure, is thine. 
 Do the Gods send to me to make them blest? 
 Small bliss my race hath of the Gods obtained. 
 Three mighty children to my father Lok 
 Did Angerbode, the giantess, bring forth — 
 Fenris the wolf, the Serpent huge, and me. 
 Of these the Serpent in the sea ye cast, 
 Who since in your despite hath wax'd amain. 
 And now with gleaming ring enfolds the world ; 
 
ii8 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Me on this cheerless nether world ye threw, 
 
 And gave me nine unlighted realms to rule ; 
 
 While on his island in the lake afar, 
 
 Made fast to the bored crag, by wile not strength 
 
 Subdued, with limber chains lives Fenris bound. 
 
 Lok still subsists in Heaven, our father wise, 
 
 Your mate, though loathed, and feasts in Odin's hall ; 
 
 But him too foes await, and netted snares, 
 
 And in a cave a bed of needle-rocks. 
 
 And o'er his visage serpents dropping gall. 
 
 Yet he shall one day rise, and burst his bonds, 
 
 And with himself set us his offspring free, 
 
 When he guides Muspel's children to their bourne. 
 
 Till then in peril or in pain we live, 
 
 Wrought by the Gods — and ask the Gods our aid ? 
 
 Howbeit, we abide our day ; till then. 
 
 We do not as some feebler haters do — 
 
 Seek to afflict our foes with petty pangs, 
 
 Helpless to better us, or ruin them. 
 
 Come then ! if Balder was so dear beloved, 
 
 And this is true, and such a loss is Heaven's — 
 
 Hear, how to Heaven may Balder be restored. 
 
 Show me through all the world the signs of grief] 
 
 Fails but one thing to grieve, here Balder stops ! 
 
 Let all that lives and moves upon the earth 
 
 Weep him, and all that is without life weep ; 
 
 Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep him ; plants and stones ! 
 
 So shall I know the lost was dear indeed. 
 
 And bend my heart, and give him back to Heaven." 
 
 She spake ; and Hermod answer'd her, and said : — 
 " Hela, such as thou say'st, the terms shall be. 
 But come, declare me this, and truly tell : 
 May I, ere I depart, bid Balder hail, 
 
BALDER DEAD 119 
 
 Or is it here withheld to greet the dead ? " 
 
 He spake, and straightway Hela answered him : — 
 " Hermod, greet Balder if thou wilt, and hold 
 Converse ; his speech remains, though he be dead." 
 
 And straight to Balder Hermod turn'd, and spake : — 
 " Even in the abode of death, O Balder, hail ! 
 Thou hear'st, if hearing, like as speech, is thine, 
 The terms of thy releasement hence to Heaven ; 
 Fear nothing but that all shall be fulfill'd. 
 For not unmindful of thee are the Gods, 
 Who see the light, and blest in Asgard dwell ; 
 Even here they seek thee out, in Hela's realm. 
 And sure of all the happiest far art thou 
 Who ever have been known in earth or Heaven ; 
 Alive, thou wast of Gods the most beloved. 
 And now thou sittest crown'd by Hela's side, 
 Here, and hast honour among all the dead." 
 
 He spake ; and Balder utter'd him reply. 
 But feebly, as a voice far off; he said : — 
 
 " Hermod the nimble, gild me not my death ! 
 Better to live a serf, a captured man. 
 Who scatters rushes in a master's hall. 
 Than be a crown'd king here, and rule the dead. 
 And now I count not of these terms as safe 
 To be fulfill'd, nor my return as sure. 
 Though I be loved, and many mourn my death ; 
 For double-minded ever was the seed 
 Of Lok, and double are the gifts they give. 
 Howbeit, report thy message ; and therewith. 
 To Odin, to my father, take this ring, 
 Memorial of me, whether saved or no ; 
 And tell the Heaven-born Gods how thou hast seen 
 Me sitting here below by Hela's side, 
 
J20 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Crown'd, having honour among all the dead." 
 
 He spake, and raised his hand, and gave the ring. 
 And with inscrutable regard the queen 
 Of Hell beheld them, and the ghosts stood dumb. 
 But Hermod took the ring, and yet once more 
 Kneel'd and did homage to the solemn queen ; 
 Then mounted Sleipner, and set forth to ride 
 Back, through the astonish'd tribes of dead, to Heaven. 
 And to the wall he came, and found the grate 
 Lifted, and issued on the fields of ice. 
 And o'er the ice he fared to Ocean's strand. 
 And up from thence, a wet and misty road. 
 To the arm'd damsel's bridge, and Giall's stream. 
 Worse was that way to go than to return, 
 For him ; — for others all return is barr'd 
 Nine days he took to go, two to return. 
 And on the twelfth morn saw the light of Heaven. 
 And as a traveller in the early dawn 
 To the steep edge of some great valley comes. 
 Through which a river flows, and sees, beneath, 
 Clouds of white rolling vapours fill the vale, 
 But o'er them, on the farther slope, descries 
 Vineyards, and crofts, and pastures, bright with sun — 
 So Hermod, o'er the fog between, saw Heaven. 
 And Sleipner snorted, for he smelt the air 
 Of Heaven ; and mightily, as wing'd, he flew. 
 And Hermod saw the towers of Asgard rise ; 
 And he drew near, and heard no living voice 
 In Asgard ; and the golden halls were dumb. 
 Then Hermod knew what labour held the Gods ; 
 And through the empty streets he rode, and pass'd 
 Under the gate-house to the sands, and found 
 The Gods on the sea-shore by Balder's ship. 
 
BALDER DEAD 121 
 
 3. FUNERAL 
 
 The Gods held talk together, group'd in knots, 
 Round Balder's corpse, which they had thither borne ; 
 And Hermod came down tow'rds them from the gate. 
 And Lok, the father of the serpent, first 
 Beheld him come, and to his neighbour spake : — 
 
 " See, here is Hermod, who comes single back 
 From Hell ; and shall I tell thee how he seems ? 
 Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog, 
 Some morn, at market, in a crowded town — 
 Through many streets the poor beast runs in vain, 
 And follows this man after that, for hours ; 
 And, late at evening, spent and panting, falls 
 Before a stranger's threshold, not his home, 
 With flanks a-tremble, and his slender tongue 
 Hangs quivering out between his dust-smear'd jaws. 
 And piteously he eyes the passers by ; 
 But home his master comes to his own farm, 
 Far in the country, wondering where he is — 
 So Hermod comes to-day unfollow'd home." 
 
 And straight his neighbour, moved with wrath, replied :- 
 " Deceiver ! fair in form, but false in heart ! 
 Enemy, mocker, whom, though Gods, we hate — 
 Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee gibe ! 
 Would I might see him snatch thee in his hand, 
 And bind thy carcase, like a bale, with cords. 
 And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim ! 
 If clear from plotting Balder's death, to swim ; 
 But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown. 
 And perish, against fate, before thy day." 
 
 So they two soft to one another spake. 
 But Odin look'd toward the land, and saw 
 
122 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 His messenger ; and he stood forth, and cried. 
 And Hermod came, and leapt from Sleipner down, 
 And in his father's hand put Sleipner's rein, 
 And greeted Odin and the Gods, and said : — 
 
 " Odin, my father, and ye, Gods of Heaven ! 
 Lo, home, having perform'd your will, I come. 
 Into the joyless kingdom have I been, 
 Below, and look'd upon the shadowy tribes 
 Of ghosts, and communed with their solemn queen ; 
 And to your prayer she sends you this reply : 
 Sho7v her through all the world the sigtis of grief I 
 Fails but Ofte thiftg to grieve, there Balder stops ! 
 Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep hirn ; plants and stones : 
 So shall she knoiv your loss was dear indeed, 
 Ajid bend her heart, a7id give you Balder back." 
 
 He spoke ; and all the Gods to Odin look'd ; 
 And straight the Father of the ages said : — 
 
 " Ye GodSj these terms may keep another day. 
 But now, put on your arms, and mount your steeds, 
 And in procession all come near, and weep 
 Balder ; for that is what the dead desire. 
 When ye enough have wept, then build a pile 
 Of the heap'd wood, and burn his corpse with fire 
 Out of our sight ; that we may turn from grief. 
 And lead, as erst, our daily life in Heaven." 
 
 He spoke, and the Gods arm'd ; and Odin donn'd 
 His dazzling corslet and his helm of gold. 
 And led the way on Sleipner ; and the rest 
 Follow'd, in tears, their father and their king. 
 And thrice in arms around the dead they rode, 
 Weeping ; the sands were wetted, and their arms, 
 With their thick-falling tears — so good a friend 
 They mourn'd that day, so bright, so loved a God. 
 
BALDER DEAD 123 
 
 And Odin came, and laid his kingly hands 
 On Balder's breast, and thus began the wail : — • 
 
 " Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, my son 1 
 In that great day, the twilight of the Gods, 
 When Muspel's children shall beleaguer Heaven, 
 Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy arm." 
 
 Thou camest near the next, O warrior Thor ! 
 Shouldering thy hammer, in thy chariot drawn. 
 Swaying the long-hair'd goats with silver'd rein ; 
 And over Balder's corpse these words didst say : — 
 
 " Brother, thou dwellest in the darksome land. 
 And talkest with the feeble tribes of ghosts, 
 Now, and I know not how they prize thee there — 
 But here, I know, thou wilt be miss'd and mourn 'd. 
 For haughty spirits and high wraths are rife 
 Among the Gods and Heroes here in Heaven, 
 As among those whose joy and work is war ; 
 And daily strifes arise, and angry words. 
 But from thy lips, O Balder, night or day, 
 Heard no one ever an injurious word 
 To God or Hero, but thou keptest back 
 The others, labouring to compose their brawls. 
 Be ye then kind, as Balder too was kind ! 
 For we lose him, who smoothed all strife in Heaven." 
 
 He spake, and all the Gods assenting wail'd. 
 And Freya next came nigh, with golden tears ; 
 The loveliest Goddess she in Heaven, by all 
 Most honour'd after Frea, Odin's wife. 
 Her long ago the wandering Oder took 
 To mate, but left her to roam distant lands ; 
 Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears of gold. 
 Names hath she many ; Vanadis on earth 
 They call her, Freya is her name in Heaven ; 
 
124 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 She in her hands took Balder's head, and spake : — 
 
 " Balder, my brother, thou art gone a road 
 Unknown and long, and haply on that way 
 My long-lost wandering Oder thou hast met, 
 For in the paths of Heaven he is not found. 
 Oh, if it be so, tell him what thou wast 
 To his neglected wife, and what he is. 
 And wring his heart with shame, to hear thy word 1 
 For he, my husband, left me hear to pine. 
 Not long a wife, when his unquiet heart 
 First drove him from me into distant lands ; 
 Since then I vainly seek him through the world. 
 And weep from shore to shore my golden tears, 
 But neither god nor mortal heeds my pain. 
 Thou only. Balder, wast for ever kind. 
 To take my hand, and wipe my tears, and say : 
 Weep not, O F7'eya, weep no golden tears ! 
 One day the wandering Oder will ?'ettir7t, 
 Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful search 
 On some great road, or resting in an inn, 
 Or at a ford, or sleepiiig by a tree. 
 So Balder said ; — but Oder, well I know, 
 My truant Oder I shall see no more 
 To the world's end ; and Balder now is gone. 
 And I am left uncomforted in Heaven." 
 
 She spake ; and all the Goddesses bewail'd. 
 Last from among the Heroes one came near, 
 No God, but of the hero-troop the chief — • 
 Regner, who swept the northern sea with fleets, 
 And ruled o'er Denmark and the heathy isles, 
 Living ; but Ella captured him and slew ; — 
 A king whose fame then fiU'd the vast of Heaven, 
 Now time obscures it, and men's later deeds. 
 
BALDER DEAD 125 
 
 He last approach'd the corpse, and spake, and said : — 
 
 " Balder, there yet are many Scalds in Heaven 
 Still left, and that chief Scald, thy brother Brage, 
 Whom we may bid to sing, though thou art gone. 
 And all these gladly, while we drink, we hear, 
 After the feast is done, in Odin's hall ; 
 But they harp ever on one string, and wake 
 Remembrance in our soul of wars alone. 
 Such as on earth we valiantly have waged. 
 And blood, and ringing blows, and violent death. 
 But when thou sangest, Balder, thou didst strike 
 Another note, and, like a bird in spring. 
 Thy voice of joyance minded us, and youth, 
 And wife, and children, and our ancient home. 
 Yes, and I, too, remember'd then no more 
 My dungeon, where the serpents stung me dead, 
 Nor Ella's victory on the English coast — 
 But I heard Thora laugh in Gothland Isle, 
 And saw my shepherdess, Aslauga, tend 
 Her flock along the white Norwegian beach. 
 Tears started to mine eyes with yearning joy. 
 Therefore with grateful heart I mourn thee dead." 
 
 So Regner spake, and all the Heroes groan'd. 
 But now the sun had pass'd the height of Heaven, 
 And soon had all that day been spent in wail ; 
 But then the Father of the ages said : — 
 
 " Ye Gods, there well may be too much of wail ! 
 Bring now the gather'd wood to Balder's ship ; 
 Heap on the deck the logs, and build the pyre." 
 
 But when the Gods and Heroes heard, they brought 
 The wood to Balder's ship, and built a pile. 
 Full the deck's breadth, and lofty ; then the corpse 
 Of Balder on the highest top they laid, 
 
126 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 ^Vith Nanna on his right, and on his left 
 
 Hoder, his brother, whom his own hand slew. 
 
 And they set jars of wine and oil to lean 
 
 Against the bodies, and stuck torches near. 
 
 Splinters of pine-wood, soak'd with turpentine ; 
 
 And brought his arms and gold, and all his stuff, 
 
 And slew the dogs who at his table fed. 
 
 And his horse, Balder's horse, w^hom most he loved, 
 
 And placed them on the pyre, and Odin threw 
 
 A last choice gift thereon, his golden ring. 
 
 The mast they fixt, and hoisted up the sails. 
 
 Then they put fire to the wood ; and Thor 
 
 Set his stout shoulder hard against the stern 
 
 To push the ship through the thick sand ; — sparks flew 
 
 From the deep trench she plough'd, so strong a God 
 
 Furrow'd it ; and the water gurgled in. 
 
 And the ship floated on the waves, and rock'd. 
 
 But in the hills a strong east-wind arose, 
 
 And came dow^n moaning to the sea ; first squalls 
 
 Ran black o'er the sea's face, then steady rush'd 
 
 The breeze, and fill'd the sails, and blew the fire. 
 
 And wreathed in smoke the ship stood out to sea. 
 
 Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire. 
 
 And the pile crackled ; and between the logs 
 
 Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt. 
 
 Curling and darting, higher, until they lick'd 
 
 The summit of the pile, the dead, the mast. 
 
 And ate the shrivelling sails ; but still the ship 
 
 Drove on, ablaze above her hull with fire. 
 
 And the Gods stood upon the beach, and gazed. 
 
 And while they gazed, the sun went lurid down 
 
 Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on. 
 
 Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm ; 
 
BALDER DEAD 127 
 
 But through the dark they watch'd the burning ship — ' 
 
 Still carried o'er the distant waters on, 
 
 Farther and farther, like an eye of fire. 
 
 And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder' s pile; 
 
 But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared. 
 
 The bodies were consumed, ash choked the pile. 
 
 And as, in a decaying winter-fire, 
 
 A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower of sparks — 
 
 So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in. 
 
 Reddening the sea around ; and all was dark. 
 
 But the Gods went by starlight up the shorey 
 To Asgard, and sate down in Odin's hall / 
 At table, and the funeral-feast began. 
 All night they ate the boar Serimner's flesh. 
 And from their horns, with silver rimm'd, drank mead, 
 Silent, and waited for the sacred morn. 
 
 And morning over all the world was spread. 
 Then from their loathed feasts the Gods arose. 
 And took their horses, and set forth to ride 
 O'er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heimdall's watch, 
 To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida's plain ; 
 Thor came on foot, the rest on horseback rode. 
 And they found Mimir sitting by his fount 
 Of wisdom, which beneath the ashtree springs ; 
 And saw the Nornies watering the roots 
 Of that world-shadowing tree with honey-dew. 
 There came the Gods, and sate them down on stones ; 
 And thus the Father of the ages said : — 
 
 *' Ye Gods, the terms ye know, which Hermod brought. 
 Accept them or reject them ! both have grounds. 
 Accept them, and they bind us, unfulfiU'd, 
 To leave for ever Balder in the grave, 
 An unrecover'd prisoner, shade with shades. 
 
128 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 But how, ye say, should the fulfilment fail ? — 
 
 Smooth sound the terms, and light to be fulfiU'd ; 
 
 For dear-beloved was Balder while he lived 
 
 In Heaven and earth, and who would grudge him tears ? 
 
 But from the traitorous seed of Lok they come, 
 
 These terms, and I suspect some hidden fraud. 
 
 Bethink ye, Gods, is there no other way ? — 
 
 Speak, were not this a way, the way for Gods? 
 
 If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms. 
 
 Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior Thor 
 
 Drawn in his car beside me, and my sons. 
 
 All the strong brood of Heaven, to swell my train, 
 
 Should make irruption into Hela's realm, 
 
 And set the fields of gloom ablaze with light. 
 
 And bring in triumph Balder back to Heaven ? " 
 
 He spake, and his fierce sons applauded loud. 
 But Frea, mother of the Gods, arose. 
 Daughter and wife of Odin ; thus she said : — 
 
 " Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat is this ! 
 Thou threatenest what transcends thy might, even thine. 
 For of all powers the mightiest far art thou, 
 Lord over men on earth, and Gods in Heaven ; 
 Yet even from thee thyself hath been withheld 
 One thing — to undo what thou thyself hast ruled. 
 For all which hath been fixt, was fixt by thee. 
 In the beginning, ere the Gods were born. 
 Before the Heavens were builded, thou didst slay 
 The giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought forth, 
 Thou and thy brethren fierce, the sons of Bor, 
 And cast his trunk to choke the abysmal void. 
 But of his fiesh and members thou didst build 
 The earth and Ocean, and above them Heaven. 
 And from the flaming world, where Muspel reigns, 
 
BALDER DEAD 129 
 
 Thou sent'st and fetched'st fire, and madest lights, 
 Sun, moon, and stars, which thou hast hung in Heaven, 
 Dividing clear the paths of night and day. 
 And Asgard thou didst build, and Midgard fort; 
 Then me thou mad'st ; of us the Gods were born. 
 Last, walking by the sea, thou foundest spars 
 Of wood, and framed'st men, who till the earth. 
 Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail. 
 And all the race of Ymir thou didst drown, 
 Save one, Bergelmer ; — he on shipboard fled 
 Thy deluge, and from him the giants sprang. 
 But all that brood thou hast removed far off, 
 And set by Ocean's utmost marge to dwell ; 
 But Hela into Niflheim thou threw'st. 
 And gav'st her nine unlighted worlds to rule, 
 A queen, and empire over all the dead. 
 That empire wilt thou now invade, light up 
 Her darkness, from her grasp a subject tear ? — 
 Try it ; but I, for one, will not applaud. 
 Nor do I merit, Odin, thou should'st slight 
 Me and my words, though thou be first in Heaven ; 
 For I too am a Goddess, born of thee, 
 Thine eldest, and of me the Gods are sprung ; 
 And all that is to come I know, but lock 
 In mine own breast, and have to none reveal'd. 
 Come then ! since Hela holds by right her prey, 
 But offers terms for his release to Heaven, 
 Accept the chance ; thou canst no more obtain. 
 Send through the world thy messengers ; entreat 
 All living and unliving things to weep 
 For Balder ; if thou haply thus may'st melt 
 Hela, and win the loved one back to Heaven." 
 She spake, and on her face let fall her veil, 
 
 K 
 
I30 NARRATIVE ROEMS 
 
 And bow'd her head, and sate with folded hands. 
 Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word ; 
 Straightway he spake, and thus address'd the Gods : 
 
 " Go quickly forth through all the world, and pray 
 All living and unliving things to weep 
 Balder, if haply he may thus be won." 
 
 When the Gods heard, they straight arose, and took 
 Their horses, and rode forth through all the world ; 
 North, south, east, west, they struck, and roam'd the world, 
 Entreating all things to weep Balder's death. 
 And all that lived, and all without life, wept. 
 And as in winter, when the frost breaks up, 
 At winter's end, before the spring begins, 
 And a warm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in — 
 ^ After an hour a dripping sound is heard 
 In all the forests, and the soft-strewn snow 
 Under the trees is dibbled thick with holes, 
 And from the boughs the snowloads shuffle down ; 
 And, in fields sloping to the south, dark plots 
 Of grass peep out amid surrounding snow. 
 And widen, and the peasant's heart is glad — 
 So through the world was heard a dripping noise 
 Of all things weeping to bring Balder back ; 
 And there fell joy upon the Gods to hear. 
 
 But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he took 
 To show him spits and beaches of the sea 
 Far off, where some unwarn'd might fail to weep — 
 Niord, the God of storms, whom fishers know ; 
 Not born in Heaven ; he was in Vanheim rear'd, 
 With men, but lives a hostage with the Gods ; 
 He knows each frith, and every rocky creek 
 Fringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl scream — 
 They two scour'd every coast, and all things wept. 
 
BALDER DEAD 
 
 And they rode home together, through the wood 
 Of Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard lies 
 Bordering the giants, where the trees are iron ; 
 There in the wood before a cave they came, 
 Where sate, in the cave's mouth, a skinny hag. 
 Toothless and old ; she gibes the passers by. 
 Thok is she call'd, but now Lok wore her shape ; 
 She greeted them the first, and laugh'd, and said : — 
 
 " Ye Gods, good lack, is it so dull in Heaven, 
 That ye come pleasuring to Thok's iron wood ? 
 Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites. 
 Look, as in some boor's yard a sweet-breath'd cow, 
 Whose manger is stuff'd full of good fresh hay. 
 Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head 
 To chew the straw, her litter, at her feet — 
 So ye grow squeamish, Gods, and sniff at Heaven 1 " 
 
 She spake ; but Hermod answer'd her and said :— 
 "Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears. 
 Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey. 
 But will restore, if all things give him tears. 
 Begrudge not thine 1 to all was Balder dear." 
 
 Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied : — 
 " Is Balder dead ? and do ye come for tears ? 
 Thok with dry eyes will weep o'er Balder's pyre. 
 Weep him all other things, if weep they will — 
 I weep him not ! let Hela keep her prey." 
 
 She spake, and to the cavern's depth she fled, 
 Mocking ; and Hermod knew their toil was vain. 
 And as seafaring men, who long have wrought 
 In the great deep for gain, at last come home, 
 And towards evening see the headlands rise 
 Of their dear country, and can plain descry 
 A fire of wither'd furze which boys have lit 
 
 131 
 
132 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weeds 
 Out of a till'd field inland ; — then the wind 
 Catches them, and drives out again to sea ; 
 And they go long days tossing up and down 
 Over the grey sea-ridges, and the glimpse 
 Of port they had makes bitterer far their toil — 
 So the Gods' cross was bitterer for their joy. 
 
 Then, sad at heart, to Niord Hermod spake : — 
 " It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all ! 
 Ride back, and tell in Heaven this heavy news ; 
 I must again below, to Hela's realm." 
 
 He spoke ; and Niord set forth back to Heaven. 
 But northward Hermod rode, the way below, 
 The way he knew ; and traversed Giall's stream, 
 And down to Ocean groped, and cross'd the ice. 
 And came beneath the wall, and found the grate 
 Still lifted ; well was his return foreknown. 
 And once more Hermod saw around him spread 
 The joyless plains, and heard the streams of Hell. 
 But as he enter'd, on the extremest bound 
 Of Niflheim, he saw one ghost come near. 
 Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid — 
 Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand slew. 
 And Hermod look'd, and knew his brother's ghost, 
 And call'd him by his name, and sternly said : — 
 
 " Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and eyes ! 
 Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the gulph 
 Of the deep inner gloom, but flittest here. 
 In twilight, on the lonely verge of Hell, 
 Far from the other ghosts, and Hela's throne ? 
 Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder's voice, 
 Thy brother, whom through folly thou didst slay." 
 
 He spoke ; but Hoder answer'd him, and said : — 
 
BALDER DEAD 133 
 
 " Hermod the nimble, dost thou still pursue 
 
 The unhappy with reproach, even in the grave ? 
 
 For this I died, and fled beneath the gloom, 
 
 Not daily to endure abhorring Gods, 
 
 Nor with a hateful presence cumber Heaven ; 
 
 And canst thou not, even here, pass pitying by ? 
 
 No less than Balder have I lost the light 
 
 Of Heaven, and communion with my kin ; 
 
 I too had once a wife, and once a child. 
 
 And substance, and a golden house in Heaven — 
 
 But all I left of my own act, and fled 
 
 Below, and dost thou hate me even here ? 
 
 Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all. 
 
 Though he has cause, have any cause ; but he. 
 
 When that with downcast looks I hither came, 
 
 Stretch'd forth his hand, and with benignant voice, 
 
 Welcome, he said, if there be ivelcome here, 
 
 Brother and fellow-sport of Lok with me f 
 
 And not to ofl'end thee, Hermod, nor to force 
 
 My hated converse on thee, came I up 
 
 From the deep gloom, where I will now return ; 
 
 But earnestly I long'd to hover near. 
 
 Not too far off", when that thou camest by ; 
 
 To feel the presence of a brother God, 
 
 And hear the passage of a horse of Heaven, 
 
 For the last time — for here thou com'st no more." 
 
 He spake, and turn'd to go to the inner gloom. 
 But Hermod stay'd him with mild words, and said : — 
 
 *' Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder blind ! 
 Truly thou say'st, the planning guilty mind ^ 
 
 Was Lok's ; the unwitting hand alone was thine. 
 But Gods are like the sons of men in this — 
 When they have woe, they blame the nearest cause. 
 
134 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Howbeit stay, and be appeased ! and tell : 
 
 Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela's side, 
 
 Or is he mingled with the unnumber'd dead?" 
 
 And the blind Hoder answer'd him and spake : — 
 " His place of state remains by Hela's side, 
 But empty ; for his wife, for Nanna came 
 Lately below, and join'd him ; and the pair 
 Frequent the still recesses of the realm 
 Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb'd. 
 But they too, doubtless, will have breathed the balm, 
 Which floats before a visitant from Heaven, 
 And have drawn upward to this verge of Hell." 
 
 He spake ; and, as he ceased, a puff of wind 
 Roll'd heavily the leaden mist aside 
 Round where they stood, and they beheld two forms 
 Make toward them o'er the stretching cloudy plain. 
 And Hermod straight perceived them, who they were 
 Balder and Nanna ; and to Balder said : — 
 
 " Balder, too truly thou foresaw'st a snare ! 
 Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her prey. 
 No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor lodge 
 In thy own house, Breidablik, nor enjoy 
 The love all bear toward thee, nor train up 
 Forset, thy son, to be beloved like thee. 
 Here must thou lie, and wait an endless age. 
 Therefore for the last time, O Balder, hail !" 
 
 He spake ; and Balder answer'd him, and said : — 
 " Hail and farewell ! for here thou com'st no more. 
 Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when thou sitt'st 
 In Heaven, nor let the other Gods lament. 
 As wholly to be pitied, quite forlorn. 
 For Nanna hath rejoin'd me, who, of old. 
 In Heaven, was seldom parted from my side ; 
 
BALDER DEAD 135 
 
 And still the acceptance follows me, which crown'd 
 My former life, and cheers me even here. 
 The iron frown of Hela is relax'd 
 When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes of dead 
 Love me, and gladly bring for my award 
 Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates — 
 Shadows of hates, but they distress ihem still." 
 And the fleet-footed Hermod made reply : — 
 " Thou hast then all the solace death allows, 
 Esteem and function ; and so far is well. 
 Yet here thou liest, Balder, underground. 
 Rusting for ever ; and the years roll on, 
 The generations pass, the ages grow, 
 And bring us nearer to the final day 
 When from the south shall march the fiery band 
 And cross the bridge of Heaven, with Lok for guide, 
 And Fenris at his heel with broken chain ; 
 While from the east the giant Rymer steers 
 His ship, and the great serpent makes to land ; 
 And all are marshall'd in one flaming square 
 Against the Gods, upon the plains of Heaven, 
 
 I mourn thee, that thou canst not help us then." 
 He spake ; but Balder answer'd him, and said : — 
 
 " Mourn not for me ! Mourn, Hermod, for the Gods ; 
 
 Mourn for the men on earth, the Gods in Heaven, 
 
 Who live, and with their eyes shall see that day ! 
 
 The day will come, when fall shall Asgard's towers, 
 
 And Odin, and his sons, the seed of Heaven ; 
 
 But what were I, to save them in that hour ? 
 
 If strength might save them, could not Odin save, 
 
 My father, and his pride, the warrior Thor, 
 
 Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr ? 
 
 I, what were I, when these can nought avail ? 
 
136 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle comes, 
 
 And the two hosts are marshall'd, and in Heaven 
 
 The golden-crested cock shall sound alarm. 
 
 And his black brother-bird from hence reply, 
 
 And bucklers clash, and spears begin to pour — 
 
 Longing will stir within my breast, though vain. 
 
 But not to me so grievous, as, I know, 
 
 To other Gods it were, is my enforced 
 
 Absence from fields where I could nothing aid ; 
 
 For I am long since weary of your storm 
 
 Of carnage, and find, Hermod, in your life 
 
 Something too much of war and broils, which make 
 
 Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood. 
 
 Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy hail ; 
 
 Mine ears are stunn'd with blows, and sick for calm. 
 
 Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom, 
 
 Unarm'd, inglorious ; I attend the course 
 
 Of ages, and my late return to light. 
 
 In times less alien to a spirit mild, 
 
 In new-recover'd seats, the happier day." 
 
 He spake ; and the fleet Hermod thus replied : — 
 " Brother, what seats are these, w^hat happier day ? 
 Tell me, that I may ponder it when gone." 
 
 And the ray-crowned Balder answer'd him : — 
 " Far to the south, beyond the blue, there spreads 
 Another Heaven, the boundless — no one yet 
 Hath reach'd it ; there hereafter shall arise 
 The second Asgard, with another name. 
 Thither, when o'er this present earth and Heavens 
 The tempest of the latter days hath swept. 
 And they from sight have disappear'd, and sunk. 
 Shall a small remnant of the Gods repair ; 
 Hoder and I shall join them from the grave. 
 
BALDER DEAD 137 
 
 There re-assembling we shall see emerge 
 
 From the bright Ocean at our feet an earth 
 
 More fresh, more verdant than the last, with fruits 
 
 Self-springing, and a seed of man preserved, 
 
 Who then shall live in peace, as now in war. 
 
 But we in Heaven shall find again with joy 
 
 The ruin'd palaces of Odin, seats 
 
 Familiar, halls where we have supp'd of old ; 
 
 Re-enter them with wonder, never fill 
 
 Our eyes with gazing, and rebuild with tears. 
 
 And we shall tread once more the well-known plain 
 
 Of Ida, and among the grass shall find 
 
 The golden dice wherewith we play'd of yore ; 
 
 And that will bring to mind the former life 
 
 And pastime of the Gods, the wise discourse 
 
 Of Odin, the delights of other days, 
 
 Hermod, pray that thou may'st join us then ! 
 Such for the future is my hope ; meanwhile, 
 
 1 rest the thrall of Hela, and endure 
 
 Death, and the gloom which round me even now 
 Thickens, and to its inner gulph recalls. 
 Farewell, for longer speech is not allow'd ! " 
 
 He spoke, and waved farewell, and gave his hand 
 To Nanna ; and she gave their brother blind 
 Her hand, in turn, for guidance ; and the three 
 Departed o'er the cloudy plain, and soon 
 Faded from sight into the interior gloom. 
 But Hermod stood beside his drooping horse, 
 Mute, gazing after them in tears ; and fain, 
 Fain had he foUow'd their receding steps. 
 Though they to death were bound, and he to Heaven, 
 Then ; but a power he could not break withheld. 
 And as a stork which idle boys have trapp'd, 
 
138 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 And tied him in a yard, at autumn sees 
 
 Flocks of his kind pass flying o'er his head 
 
 To warmer lands, and coasts that keep the sun ; — 
 
 He strains to join their flight, and from his shed 
 
 Follows them with a long complaining cry — 
 
 So Hermod gazed, and yearn'd to join his kin. 
 
 At last he sigh'd, and set forth back to Heaven. 
 
 TRISTRAM AND ISEULT s 
 
 I 
 
 STristram 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Is she not come ? The messenger was sure. 
 
 Prop me upon the pillows once again — 
 
 Raise me, my page ! this cannot long endure. 
 
 — Christ, what a night ! how the sleet whips the pane I 
 
 What lights will those out to the northward be ? 
 
 The Page 
 The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. 
 
 Tristram 
 Soft — who is that, stands by the dying fire? 
 
 The Page 
 Iseult. 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Ah ! not the Iseult I desire. 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 139 
 
 What Knight is this so weak and pale, 
 
 Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, 
 
 Propt on pillows in his bed, 
 
 Gazing seaward for the light 
 
 Of some ship that fights the gale 
 
 On this wild December night ? 
 
 Over the sick man's feet is spread 
 
 A dark green forest-dress ; 
 
 A gold harp leans against the bed, 
 
 Ruddy in the fire's light. 
 
 I know him by his harp of gold, 
 
 Famous in Arthur's court of old ; 
 
 I know him by his forest-dress — 
 
 The peerless hunter, harper, knight, 
 
 Tristram of Lyoness. 
 
 What Lady is this, whose silk attire 
 Gleams so rich in the light of the fire ? 
 The ringlets on her shoulders lying 
 In their flitting lustre vying 
 With the clasp of burnish'd gold 
 Which her heavy robe doth hold. 
 Her looks are mild, her fingers slight 
 As the driven snow are white ; 
 But her cheeks are sunk and pale. 
 Is it that the bleak sea-gale 
 Beating from the Atlantic sea 
 On this coast of Brittany, 
 Nips too keenly the sweet flower? 
 Is it that a deep fatigue 
 Hath come on her, a chilly fear, 
 Passing all her youthful hour 
 Spinning with her maidens here. 
 
140 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Listlessly through the window-bars 
 
 Gazing seawards many a league, 
 
 From her lonely shore-built tower, 
 
 While the knights are at the wars ? 
 
 Or, perhaps, has her young heart 
 
 Felt already some deeper smart, 
 
 Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, 
 
 Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair ? 
 
 Who is this snowdrop by the sea ? — 
 
 I know her by her mildness rare, 
 
 Her snow-white hands, her golden hair ; 
 
 I know her by her rich silk dress, 
 
 And her fragile loveliness — 
 
 The sweetest Christian soul alive, 
 
 Iseult of Brittany. 
 
 Iseult of Brittany ? — but where 
 
 Is that other Iseult fair. 
 
 That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen ? 
 
 She, whom Tristram's ship of yore 
 
 From Ireland to Cornwall bore, 
 
 To Tyntagel, to the side 
 
 Of King Marc, to be his bride ? 
 
 She who, as they voyaged, quafPd 
 
 With Tristram that spiced magic draught. 
 
 Which since then for ever rolls 
 
 Through their blood, and binds their souls, 
 
 Working love, but working teen ? — 
 
 There were two Iseults who did sway 
 
 Each her hour of Tristram's day ; 
 
 But one possess'd his waning time, 
 
 The other his resplendent prime. 
 
 Behold her here, the patient flower. 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 141 
 
 Who possess'd his darker hour ! 
 Iseult of the Snow-White Hand 
 Watches pale by Tristram's bed. 
 She is here who had his gloom, 
 Where art thou who hadst his bloom ? 
 One such kiss as those of yore 
 Might thy dying knight restore ! 
 Does the love-draught work no more ? 
 Art thou cold, or false, or dead, 
 Iseult of Ireland ? 
 
 Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain. 
 
 And the knight sinks back on his pillows again. 
 
 He is weak with fever and pain, 
 
 And his spirit is not clear. 
 
 Hark ! he mutters in his sleep, 
 
 As he wanders far from here. 
 
 Changes place and time of year, 
 
 And his closed eye doth sweep 
 
 O'er some fair unwintry sea. 
 
 Not this fierce Atlantic deep. 
 
 While he mutters brokenly : — 
 
 Tristraj?i 
 
 The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails ; 
 Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, 
 And overhead the cloudless sky of May. — 
 ^^ Ahj would I were in those green fields at J)lay\ 
 Not pe?it on ship -board this delicious day I 
 Tristram^ I pray thee, of thy courtesy, 
 Reach 7ne my golden phial stands by thee, 
 But pledge me in it first for courtesy. — " 
 
142 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Ha ! dost thou start ? are thy lips blanch'd Hke mine ? 
 Child, 'tis no true draught this, 'tis poison'd wine ! 
 Iseult ! . . . . 
 
 Ah, sweet angels, let him dream 1 
 
 Keep his eyelids ! let him seem 
 
 Not this fever-wasted wight 
 
 Thinn'd and paled before his time, 
 
 But the brilliant youthful knight 
 
 In the glory of his prime. 
 
 Sitting in the gilded barge. 
 
 At thy side, thou lovely charge, 
 
 Bending gaily o'er thy hand, 
 
 Iseult of Ireland ! 
 
 And she too, that princess fair 
 
 If her bloom be now less rare. 
 
 Let her have her youth again — 
 
 Let her be as she was then ! 
 
 Let her have her proud dark eyes. 
 
 And her petulant quick replies — 
 
 Let her sweep her dazzling hand 
 
 With its gesture of command. 
 
 And shake back her raven hair 
 
 With the old imperious air ! 
 
 As of old, so let her be, 
 
 That first Iseult, princess bright, 
 
 Chatting with her youthful knight 
 
 As he steers her o'er the sea. 
 
 Quitting at her father's will 
 
 The green isle where she was bred, 
 
 And her bower in Ireland, 
 
 For the surge-beat Cornish strand ; 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 143 
 
 Where the prince whom she must wed 
 
 Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill, 
 
 High above the sounding sea. 
 
 And that potion rare her mother 
 
 Gave her, that her future lord. 
 
 Gave her, that King Marc and she. 
 
 Might drink it on their marriage-day, 
 
 And for ever love each other — 
 
 Let her, as she sits on board, 
 
 Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly ! 
 
 See it shine, and take it up. 
 
 And to Tristram laughing say : 
 
 " Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, 
 
 Pledge me in my golden cup !" 
 
 Let them drink it — let their hands 
 
 Tremble, and their cheeks be flame, 
 
 As they feel the fatal bands 
 
 Of a love they dare not name, 
 
 With a wild delicious pain. 
 
 Twine about their hearts again ! 
 
 Let the early summer be 
 
 Once more round them, and the sea 
 
 Blue, and o'er its mirror kind 
 
 Let the breath of the May-wind, 
 
 Wandering through their drooping sails. 
 
 Die on the green fields of Wales ! 
 
 Let a dream like this restore 
 
 What his eye must see no more ! 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear — 
 Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here ? 
 Were feet like those made for so wild a way ? 
 
/» 
 
 144 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 The southern winter-parlour, by my fay, 
 
 Had been the hkeUest trysting-place to-day ! 
 
 " Tristram ! — na}\ nay — thou vmst not take my hand ! — 
 
 Tristram ! — sweet love ! — we are betray' d — oiit-plann' d. 
 
 Fly — save thyself- — save me ! — / dare not stayJ^ — 
 
 One last kiss first ! — '"7}'^ vai?i — to horse — aivay !^ 
 
 Ah ! sweet saints, his dream doth move 
 
 Faster surely than it should, 
 
 From the fever in his blood ! 
 
 All the spring-time of his love 
 
 Is already gone and past, 
 
 And instead thereof is seen 
 
 Its winter, which endureth still — 
 
 Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill. 
 
 The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen, 
 
 The flying leaves, the straining blast, 
 
 And that long, wild kiss — their last. 
 
 And this rough December-night, 
 
 And his burning fever-pain. 
 
 Mingle with his hurrying dream, 
 
 Till they rule it, till he seem 
 
 The press'd fugitive again, 
 
 The love-desperate banish'd knight 
 
 With a fire in his brain 
 
 Flying o'er the stormy main. 
 
 — Whither does he wander now? 
 
 Haply in his dreams the wind 
 
 Wafts him here, and lets him find 
 
 The lovely orphan child again 
 
 In her castle by the coast ; 
 
 The youngest, fairest chatelaine, 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 145 
 
 Whom this reahn of France can boast, 
 
 Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, 
 
 Iseult of Brittany. 
 
 And — for through the haggard air. 
 
 The stain'd arms, the matted hair 
 
 Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd. 
 
 There gleam'd something, which recall'd 
 
 The Tristram who in better days 
 
 Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Card — 
 
 Welcomed here, and here install'd, 
 
 Tended of his fever here. 
 
 Haply he seems again to move 
 
 His young guardian's heart with love ; 
 
 In his exiled loneliness. 
 
 In his stately, deep distress. 
 
 Without a word, without a tear. 
 
 — Ah ! 'tis well he should retrace 
 
 His tranquil life in this lone place ; 
 
 His gentle bearing at the side 
 
 Of his timid youthful bride ; 
 
 His long rambles by the shore 
 
 On winter-evenings, when the roar 
 
 Of the near waves came, sadly grand. 
 
 Through the dark, up the drown'd sand, 
 
 Or his endless reveries 
 
 In the woods, where the gleams play 
 
 On the grass under the trees. 
 
 Passing the long summer's day 
 
 Idle as a mossy stone 
 
 In the forest-depths alone. 
 
 The chase neglected, and his hound 
 
 Couch'd beside him on the ground. 
 
 — Ah ! what trouble 's on his brow ? 
 
146 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Hither let him wander now; 
 
 Hither, to the quiet hours 
 
 Pass'd among these heaths of ours 
 
 By the grey Atlantic sea ; 
 
 Hours, if not of ecstasy, 
 
 From violent anguish surely free 1 
 
 Tristram 
 
 All red with blood the whirling river flows, 
 
 The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. 
 
 Upon us are the chivalry of Rome — 
 
 Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. 
 
 " Up, Tristram, up," men cry, " thou moonstruck knight 1 
 
 What foul fiend rides thee ? On into the fight ! " 
 
 — Above the din her voice is in my ears ; 
 
 I see her form glide through the crossing spears.— 
 
 Iseult ! . . . 
 
 Ah ! he wanders forth again ; 
 
 We cannot keep him \ now, as then. 
 
 There 's a secret in his breast 
 
 Which will never let him rest. 
 
 These musing fits in the green wood 
 
 They cloud the brain, they dull the blood I 
 
 — His sword is sharp, his horse is good; 
 
 Beyond the mountains will he see 
 
 The famous towns of Italy, 
 
 And label with the blessed sign 
 
 The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. 
 
 At Arthur's side he fights once more 
 
 With the Roman Emperor, 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 147 
 
 There 's many a gay knight where he goes 
 
 Will help him to forget his care ; 
 
 The march, the leaguer, Heaven's blithe air, 
 
 The neighing steeds, the ringing blows — 
 
 Sick pining comes not where these are. 
 
 Ah ! what boots it, that the jest 
 
 Lightens every other brow, 
 
 What, that every other breast 
 
 Dances as the trumpets blow, 
 
 If one's own heart beats not light 
 
 On the waves of the toss'd fight, 
 
 If oneself cannot get free 
 
 From the clog of misery ? 
 
 Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale 
 
 Watching by the salt sea-tide 
 
 With her children at her side 
 
 For the gleam of thy white sail. 
 
 Home, Tristram, to thy halls again ! 
 
 To our lonely sea complain. 
 
 To our forests tell thy pain ! 
 
 Tristram 
 
 All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, 
 
 But it is moonlight in the open glade ; 
 
 And in the bottom of the glade shine clear 
 
 The forest-chapel and the fountain near. 
 
 — I think, I have a fever in my blood ; 
 
 Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood. 
 
 Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. 
 
 — Mild shines the cold spring in the moon's clear light ; 
 
 God ! 'tis her face plays in the waters bright. 
 
 "Fair love," she says, "canst thou forget so soon. 
 
148 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 At this soft hour, under this sweet moon ? ''- — 
 Iseult ! . . . 
 
 * * -X- Jf 
 
 Ah, poor soul ! if this be so, 
 Only death can balm thy woe. 
 The solitudes of the green wood 
 Had no medicine for thy mood ; 
 The rushing battle clear'd thy blood 
 As little as did solitude. 
 — Ah ! his eyelids slowly break 
 Their hot seals, and let him wake ; 
 What new change shall we now see ? 
 A happier ? Worse it cannot be. 
 
 Tristram 
 Is my page here ? Come, turn me to the fire ! 
 Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright ; 
 The wind is down — but she'll not come to-night. 
 Ah no ! she is asleep in Cornwall now, 
 Far hence ; her dreams are fair — smooth is her brow 
 Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire. 
 — I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, 
 Would take a score years from a strong man's age ; 
 And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear. 
 Scant leisure for a second messenger. 
 — My princess, art thou there ? Sweet, do not wait ! 
 To bed, and sleep ! my fever is gone by ; 
 To-night my page shall keep me company. 
 Where do the children sleep ? kiss them for me 1 
 Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I j 
 This comes of nursing long and watching late. 
 To bed — good night ! 
 
 * •«■ •:{• * 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 149 
 
 She left the gleam-lit fireplace, 
 She came to the bed-side ; 
 She took his hands in hers — her tears 
 Down on his wasted fingers rain'd. 
 She raised her eyes upon his face — 
 Not with a look of wounded pride, 
 A look as if the heart complained — 
 Her look was like a sad embrace ; 
 The gaze of one who can divine 
 A grief, and sympathise. 
 Sweet flower ! thy children's eyes 
 Are not more innocent than thine. 
 But they sleep in shelter'd rest. 
 Like helpless birds in the warm nest, 
 On the castle's southern side ; 
 Where feebly comes the mournful roar 
 Of buffeting wind and surging tide 
 Through many a room and corridor. 
 — Full on their window the moon's ray 
 Makes their chamber as bright as day. 
 It shines upon the blank white walls, 
 And on the snowy pillow falls. 
 And on two angel-heads doth play 
 Turn'd to each other — the eyes closed. 
 The lashes on the cheeks reposed. 
 Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 
 Hardly lets peep the golden hair ; 
 Through the soft-open'd lips the air 
 Scarcely moves the coverlet 
 One little wandering arm is thrown 
 At random on the counterpane, 
 And often the fingers close in haste 
 As if their baby-owner chased 
 
I50 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 The butterflies again. 
 
 This stir they have, and this alone ; 
 
 But else they are so still ! 
 
 — Ah, tired madcaps ! you lie still ; 
 
 But were you at the window now, 
 
 To look forth on the fairy sight 
 
 Of your illumined haunts by night, 
 
 To see the park-glades where you play 
 
 Far lovelier than they are by day, 
 
 To see the sparkle on the eaves. 
 
 And upon every giant-bough 
 
 Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 
 
 Are jewell'd with bright drops of rain — 
 
 How would your voices run again ! 
 
 And far beyond the sparkling trees 
 
 Of the castle-park one sees 
 
 The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, 
 
 Moor behind moor, far, far away. 
 
 Into the heart of Brittany. 
 
 And here and there, lock'd by the land, 
 
 Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, 
 
 And many a stretch of watery sand 
 
 All shining in the white moon-beams — 
 
 But you see fairer in your dreams ! 
 
 . What voices are these on the clear night-air ? 
 What lights in the court — what steps on the stair? 
 
 II 
 
 iQzvXt of ErelanK 
 Trist7-am 
 Raise the light, my page ! that I may see her. — 
 Thou art come at last, then, haughty Queen ! 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 151 
 
 Long I've waited, long I've fought my fever ; 
 Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. 
 
 Iseu/t 
 
 Blame me not, poor sufferer ! that I tarried ; 
 
 Bound I was, I could not break the band. 
 Chide not with the past, but feel the present ! 
 
 I am here — we meet — I hold thy hand. 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Thou art come, indeed — thou hast rejoin'd me ; 
 
 Thou hast dared it — but too late to save. 
 Fear not now that men should tax thine honour ! 
 
 I am dying : build — (thou may'st) — my grave ! 
 
 Iseult 
 
 Tristram, ah, for love of Heaven, speak kindly ! 
 
 What, I hear these bitter words from thee ? 
 Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel — 
 
 Take my hand — dear Tristram, look on me I 
 
 Tristram 
 
 I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage — 
 Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. 
 
 But thy dark eyes are not dimm'd, proud Iseult ! 
 And thy beauty never was more fair. 
 
 Iseult 
 
 Ah, harsh flatterer ! let alone my beauty ! 
 
 I, like thee, have left my youth afar. 
 Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers — 
 
 See my cheek and lips, how white they are ! 
 
152 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Thou art paler — but thy sweet charm, Iseult ! 
 
 Would not fade with the dull years away. 
 Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight ! 
 
 I forgive thee, Iseult ! — thou wilt stay ? 
 
 Iseult 
 
 Fear me not, I will be always with thee ; 
 
 I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain ; 
 Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, 
 
 Join'd at evening of their days again. 
 
 Tristram 
 
 No, thou shalt not speak ! I should be finding 
 Something alter'd in thy courtly tone. 
 
 Sit — sit by me ! I will think, we've lived so 
 In the green wood, all our lives, alone. 
 
 Iseult 
 
 Alter'd, Tristram ? Not in courts, believe me. 
 Love like mine is alter'd in the breast ; 
 
 Courtly life is light and cannot reach it — 
 Ah ! it lives, because so deep-suppress'd ! 
 
 What, thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers 
 ^. Words by which the wretched are consoled ? 
 
 /^ What, thou think'st this aching brow was cooler, 
 ( Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold ? 
 
 I \ Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong'd husband — 
 ^--> That was bliss to make my sorrows flee ! 
 
 Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings — 
 Those were friends to make me false to thee ! 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 153 
 
 Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced, 
 Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown — 
 
 Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, 
 
 Me, a smiling queen upon my throne ? 
 
 Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd 
 Both have pass'd a youth consumed and sad, 
 
 Both have brought their anxious day to evening, 
 And have now short space for being glad ! 
 
 Join'd we are henceforth ; nor will thy people, 
 
 Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill. 
 That a former rival shares her office. 
 
 When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. 
 
 I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, 
 
 I, a statue on thy chapel-floor, 
 Pour'd in prayer before the Virgin-Mother, 
 
 Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. 
 
 She will cry : " Is this the foe I dreaded ? 
 
 This his idol ? this that royal bride ? 
 Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight ! 
 
 Stay, pale queen ! for ever by my side." 
 
 Hush, no words ! that smile, I see, forgives me. 
 
 I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. 
 Close thine eyes — this flooding moonlight blinds 
 them ! — 
 
 Nay, all 's well again ! thou must not weep. 
 
 Trtsfraju 
 
 I am happy ! yet I feel, there 's something 
 Swells my heart, and takes my breath away. 
 
 Through a mist I see thee ; near — come nearer ! 
 Bend — bend down ! — I yet have much to say. 
 
154 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Iseult 
 
 Heaven ! his head sinks back upon the pillow — 
 Tristram ! Tristram ! let thy heart not fail ! 
 
 Call on God and on the holy angels ! 
 
 What, love, courage ! — Christ ! he is so pale. 
 
 Tristram 
 
 Hush, 'tis vain, I feel my end approaching ! 
 
 This is what my mother said should be, 
 When the fierce pains took her in the forest. 
 
 The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. 
 
 " Son," she said, " thy name shall be of sorrow ; 
 
 Tristram art thou call'd for my death's sake." 
 So she said, and died in the drear forest. 
 
 Grief since then his home with me doth make. 
 
 I am dying. — Start not, nor look wildly ! 
 
 Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. 
 But, since living we were ununited. 
 
 Go not far, O Iseult ! from my grave. 
 
 Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult j 
 Speak her fair, she is of royal blood ! 
 
 Say, I will'd so, that thou stay beside me — 
 She will grant it ; she is kind and good. 
 
 Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee — 
 One last kiss upon the living shore ! 
 
 Iseult 
 
 Tristram! — Tristram! — stay — receive me with thee ! 
 Iseult leaves thee, Tristram ! never more. 
 * * * * 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 155 
 
 You see them clear — the moon shines bright. 
 
 Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, 
 
 She sinks upon the ground ; — her hood 
 
 Had fallen back ; her arms outspread 
 
 Still hold her lover's hand ; her head 
 
 Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. 
 
 O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair 
 
 Lies in disorder'd streams ; and there, 
 
 Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, 
 
 And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 
 
 Flash on her white arms still. 
 
 The very same which yesternight 
 
 Flash'd in the silver sconces' light. 
 
 When the feast was gay and the laughter loud 
 
 In Tyntagel's palace proud. 
 
 But then they deck'd a restless ghost 
 
 With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, 
 
 And quivering lips on which the tide 
 
 Of courtly speech abruptly died. 
 
 And a glance which over the crowded floor, 
 
 The dancers, and the festive host, 
 
 Flew ever to the door. 
 
 That the knights eyed her in surprise. 
 
 And the dames whispered scoffingly : 
 
 " Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers ! 
 
 But yesternight and she would be 
 
 As pale and still as wither'd flowers, 
 
 And now to-night she laughs and speaks 
 
 And has a colour in her cheeks ; 
 
 Christ keep us from such fantasy !" — 
 
 Yes, now the longing is o'erpast, 
 
 Which, dogg'd by fear and fought by shame, 
 
156 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Shook her weak bosom day and night, 
 
 Consumed her beauty hke a flame, 
 
 And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. 
 
 And though the bed-clothes hide her face, 
 
 Yet were it lifted to the light, 
 
 The sweet expression of her brow 
 
 Would charm the gazer, till his thought 
 
 Erased the ravages of time, 
 
 Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought 
 
 A freshness back as of her prime — 
 
 So healing is her quiet now. 
 
 So perfectly the lines express 
 
 A tranquil, settled loveliness. 
 
 Her younger rival's purest grace. 
 
 The air of the December-night 
 
 Steals coldly around the chamber bright, 
 
 Where those lifeless lovers be ; 
 
 Swinging with it, in the light 
 
 Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. 
 
 And on the arras wrought you see 
 
 A stately Huntsman, clad in green, 
 
 And round him a fresh forest-scene. 
 
 On that clear forest-knoll he stays. 
 
 With his pack round him, and delays. 
 
 He stares and stares, with troubled face, 
 
 At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace. 
 
 At that bright, iron-figured door, 
 
 And those blown rushes on the floor. 
 
 He gazes down into the room 
 
 With heated cheeks and flurried air. 
 
 And to himself he seems to say : 
 
 " What place is thisy and ivho are they ? 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 157 
 
 Who is that kneeling Lady fair ? 
 
 And on his pillows that pale Knight 
 
 Who seems of marble on a tomh ? 
 
 Hoiv conies it here, this chamber bright, 
 
 Through whose mullion^d windows clear 
 
 The castle-court all wet with rain, 
 
 The drawbridge and the moat appear. 
 
 And then the beach, and, marked with spray, 
 
 The sunken reefs, and far aivay 
 
 The unquiet bright Atlantic plain ? 
 
 — What, has some glamour made me sleep. 
 
 And setit me with my dogs to sweep. 
 
 By night, with boisterous bugle-peal, 
 
 Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall. 
 
 Not in the free green wood at all ? 
 
 That K?iight ^s asleep, and at her prayer 
 
 That Lady by the bed doth kneel — 
 
 Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal I " 
 
 — The wild boar rustles in his lair ; 
 
 The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air ; 
 
 But lord and hounds keep rooted there. 
 
 Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, 
 O Hunter ! and without a fear 
 Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow. 
 And through the glades thy pastime take — 
 For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here ! 
 For these thou seest are unmoved ; 
 Cold, cold as those who lived and loved 
 A thousand years ago. 
 
158 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 III 
 
 Kscult of Brittanu 
 A YEAR had flown, and o'er the sea away, 
 In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay ; 
 In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old — 
 There in a ship they bore those lovers cold. 
 
 The young surviving Iseult, one bright day. 
 Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play 
 In a green circular hollow in the heath 
 Which borders the sea-shore — a country path 
 Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. 
 The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined. 
 And to one standing on them, far and near 
 The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear 
 Over the waste. This cirque of open ground 
 Is hght and green ; the heather, which all round 
 Creeps thickly, grows not here ; but the pale grass 
 Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd mass 
 Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there 
 Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. 
 In the smooth centre of the opening stood 
 Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, 
 Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green 
 With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's food. 
 Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands. 
 Watching her children play ; their little hands 
 Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 
 Of stagshorn for their hats ; anon, with screams 
 Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound 
 Among the holly-clumps and broken ground. 
 Racing full speed, and startling in their rush 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 159 
 
 The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush 
 Out of their glossy coverts ; — but when now 
 Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow, 
 Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair, 
 In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair — 
 Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three 
 Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she 
 Told them an old-world Breton history. 
 
 Warm in their mantles wrapt the three stood there, 
 Under the hollies, in the clear still air — 
 Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering 
 Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. 
 Long they stay'd still — then, pacing at their ease, 
 Moved up and down under the glossy trees. 
 But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, 
 From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd. 
 And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes 
 Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise ; 
 Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side. 
 Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, 
 Nor to the snow, which, though 't was all away 
 From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, 
 Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams 
 Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, 
 Swooping to landward ; nor to where, quite clear. 
 The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 
 And they would still have listen'd, till dark night 
 Came keen and chill down on the heather bright j 
 But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold, 
 And the grey turrets of the castle old 
 Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air, 
 Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, 
 
i6o NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, 
 And led them home over the darkening heath. 
 
 And is she happy ? Does she see unmoved 
 
 The days in which she might have lived and loved 
 
 Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, 
 
 One after one, to-morrow like to-day ? 
 
 Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will — 
 
 Is it this thought which makes her mien so still. 
 
 Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, 
 
 So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet 
 
 Her children's ? She moves slow ; her voice alone 
 
 Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, 
 
 But even that comes languidly ; in truth, 
 
 She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 
 
 And now she will go home, and softly lay 
 
 Her laughing children in their beds, and play 
 
 Awhile with them before they sleep ; and then 
 
 She '11 light her silver lamp, which fishermen 
 
 Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar. 
 
 Along this iron coast, know like a star, 
 
 And take her broidery-frame, and there she '11 sit 
 
 Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it ; 
 
 Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind 
 
 Her children, or to listen to the wind. 
 
 And when the clock peals midnight, she will move 
 
 Her work away, and let her fingers rove 
 
 Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound 
 
 Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground ; 
 
 Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 
 
 Fixt, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap ; then rise. 
 
 And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told 
 
 Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold. 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT i6i 
 
 Then to her soft sleep — and to-morrow '11 be 
 To-day's exact repeated effigy. 
 
 Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. 
 
 The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal, 
 
 Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound, 
 
 Are there the sole companions to be found. 
 
 But these she loves ; and noisier life than this 
 
 She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. 
 
 She has her children, too, and night and day 
 
 Is with them ; and the wide heaths where they play, 
 
 The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore. 
 
 The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails. 
 
 These are to her dear as to them ; the tales 
 
 With which this day the children she beguiled 
 
 She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, 
 
 In every hut along this sea-coast wild. 
 
 She herself loves them still, and, when they are told. 
 
 Can forget all to hear them, as of old. 
 
 Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear, 
 
 Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear 
 
 To all that has delighted them before. 
 
 And lets us be what we were once no more. 
 
 No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain 
 
 Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, 
 
 By what of old pleased us, and will again. 
 
 No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world, 
 
 In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd 
 
 Until they crumble, or else grow like steel — 
 
 Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring — 
 
 Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel. 
 
 But takes away the power — this can avail, 
 
 By drying up our joy in everything, 
 
 M 
 
i62 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 To make our former pleasures all seem stale. 
 This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit 
 Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, 
 Till for its sake alone we live and move — 
 Call it ambition, or remorse, or love — 
 This too can change us wholly, and make seem 
 All which we did before, shadow and dream. 
 
 And yet, I swear, it angers me to see 
 How this fool passion gulls men potently; 
 Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, 
 And an unnatural overheat at best. 
 How they are full of languor and distress 
 Not having it ; which when they do possess, 
 They straightway are burnt up with fume and care. 
 And spend their lives in posting here and there 
 Where this plague drives them ; and have little ease, 
 Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. 
 Like that bold Caesar, the famed Roman wight. 
 Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight 
 Who made a name at younger years than he ; 
 Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry. 
 Prince Alexander, Philip's peerless son, 
 Who carried the great war from Macedon 
 Into the Soudan's realm, and thundered on 
 To die at thirty-five in Babylon. 
 
 What tale did Iseult to the children say. 
 Under the hollies, that bright winter's day? 
 
 She told them of the fairy-haunted land 
 Away the other side of Brittany, 
 Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea ; 
 Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, 
 
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT 163 
 
 Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps, 
 
 Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. 
 
 For here he came with the fay Vivian, 
 
 One April, when the warm days first began. 
 
 He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, 
 
 On her white palfrey ; here he met his end. 
 
 In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day, 
 
 This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay 
 
 Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear 
 
 Before the children's fancy him and her. 
 
 Blowing between the stems, the forest-air 
 
 Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, 
 
 Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes 
 
 Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. 
 
 Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, 
 
 For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. 
 
 A brier in that tangled wilderness 
 
 Had scored her white right hand, which she allows 
 
 To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress ; 
 
 The other warded off" the drooping boughs. 
 
 But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes 
 
 Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. 
 
 Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, 
 
 The spirit of the woods was in her face. 
 
 She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight 
 
 Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight ; 
 
 And he grew fond, and eager to obey 
 
 His mistress, use her empire as she may. 
 
 They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day 
 Peer'd 'twixt the stems ; and the ground broke away. 
 In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook ; 
 And up as high as where they stood to look 
 
j64 NARRATIVE ROEMS 
 
 On the brook's farther side was clear, but then 
 
 The underwood and trees began again. 
 
 This open glen was studded thick with thorns 
 
 Then white with blossom ; and you saw the horns, 
 
 Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer 
 
 Who come at noon down to the water here. 
 
 You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along 
 
 Under the thorns on the green sward ; and strong 
 
 The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, 
 
 And the weird chipping of the woodpecker 
 
 Rang lonelily and sharp ; the sky was fair, 
 
 And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. 
 
 Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow, 
 
 To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough 
 
 Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild, 
 
 As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. 
 
 Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here 
 
 The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear 
 
 Across the hollow ; white anemonies 
 
 Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses 
 
 Ran out from the dark underwood behind. 
 
 No fairer resting-place a man could find. 
 
 " Here let us halt," said MerHn then ; and she 
 
 Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. 
 
 They sate them down together, and a sleep 
 
 Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. 
 
 Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose. 
 
 And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, 
 
 And takes it in her hand, and waves it over 
 
 The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. 
 
 Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, 
 
 And made a little plot of magic ground. 
 
SAINT BRANDAN 165 
 
 And in that daised circle, as men say, 
 Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day ; 
 But she herself whither she will can rove — 
 For she was passing weary of his love. 
 
 SAINT BRANDAN 
 
 Saint Brandan sails the northern main ; 
 
 The brotherhoods of saints are glad. 
 
 He greets them once, he sails again ; 
 
 So late ! — such storms ! — The Saint is mad ! 
 
 He heard, across the howling seas, 
 Chime convent-bells on wintry nights ; 
 He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides, 
 Twinkle the monastery-lights. 
 
 But north, still north. Saint Brandan steer'd — 
 And now no bells, no convents more ! 
 The hurtling Polar lights are near'd, 
 The sea without a human shore. 
 
 At last — (it was the Christmas night ; 
 Stars shone after a day of storm) — 
 He sees float past an iceberg white. 
 And on it — Christ ! — a living form. 
 
 That furtive mien, that scowling eye, 
 
 Of hair that red and tufted fell 
 
 It is — Oh, where shall Brandan fly ? — 
 The traitor Judas, out of hell ! 
 
 Palsied with terror, Brandan sate ; 
 The moon was bright, the iceberg near. 
 He hears a voice sigh humbly : " Wait ! 
 By high permission I am here. 
 
1 66 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 " One moment wait, thou holy man ! 
 On earth my crime, my death, they knew ; 
 My name is under all men's ban — 
 Ah, tell them of my respite too ! 
 
 " Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night — 
 (It was the first after I came, 
 Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, 
 To rue my guilt in endless flame) — 
 
 " I felt, as I in torment lay 
 'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, 
 An angel touch mine arm, and say : 
 Go hence and cool thyself an hour I 
 
 " 'Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said. 
 The Leper recollect^ said he, 
 Who ask^d the passers-by for aid^ 
 In /oppa, a?id thy charity. 
 
 " Then I remember'd how I went, 
 In Joppa, through the public street, 
 One morn when the sirocco spent 
 Its storms of dust with burning heat ; 
 
 "And in the street a leper sate, 
 Shivering with fever, naked, old ; 
 Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, 
 The hot wind fever'd him five-fold. 
 
 " He gazed upon me as I pass'd, 
 And murmur'd : Help me, or I die /— - 
 To the poor wretch my cloak I cast, 
 Saw him look eased, and hurried by. 
 
 " Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine. 
 What blessing must full goodness shower, 
 
THE NECKAN 167 
 
 When fragment of it small, like mine, 
 Hath such inestimable power ! 
 
 " Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, 1 
 Did that chance act of good, that one ! 
 Then went my way to kill and lie — 
 Forgot my good as soon as done. 
 
 " That germ of kindness, in the womb 
 Of mercy caught, did not expire ; 
 Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom. 
 And friends me in the pit of fire. 
 
 " Once every year, when carols wake. 
 On earth, the Christmas-night's repose, 
 Arising from the sinners' lake, 
 I journey to these healing snows. 
 
 " I stanch with ice my burning breast. 
 With silence balm my whirling brain. 
 O Brandan ! to this hour of rest 
 That Joppan leper's ease was pain." 
 
 Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes ; 
 He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer- 
 Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies ! 
 The iceberg, and no Judas there ! 
 
 THE NECKAN 
 
 In summer, on the headlands, 
 
 The Baltic Sea along, 
 Sits Neckan with his harp of gold. 
 
 And sings his plaintive song. 
 
1 68 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 Green rolls beneath the headlands, 
 
 Green rolls the Baltic Sea ; 
 And there, below the Neckan's feet, 
 
 His wife and children be. 
 
 He sings not of the ocean, 
 
 Its shells and roses pale ; 
 Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings, 
 
 He hath no other tale. 
 
 He sits upon the headlands. 
 
 And sings a mournful stave 
 Of all he saw and felt on earth 
 
 Far from the kind sea-wave. 
 
 Sings how, a knight, he wander'd 
 
 By castle, field, and town — 
 But earthly knights have harder hearts 
 
 Than the sea-children own. 
 
 Sings of his earthly bridal — 
 Priest, knights, and ladies gay. 
 
 " — And who art thou," the priest began, 
 "Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?" — 
 
 " — I am no knight," he answered; 
 
 " From the sea-waves I come." — 
 The knights drew sword, the ladies scream'd. 
 
 The surpliced priest stood dumb. 
 
 He sings how from the chapel 
 
 He vanish'd with his bride, 
 And bore her down to the sea-halls. 
 
 Beneath the salt sea-tide. 
 
 He sings how she sits weeping 
 'Mid shells that round her lie. 
 
THE NECKAN 169 
 
 " — False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps ; 
 " No Christian mate have I." — 
 
 He sings how through the billows 
 
 He rose to earth again, 
 And sought a priest to sign the cross, 
 
 That Neckan Heaven might gain. 
 
 He sings how, on an evening, 
 
 Beneath the birch-trees cool, 
 He sate and play'd his harp of gold. 
 
 Beside the river-pool. 
 
 Beside the pool sate Neckan — 
 
 Tears fill'd his mild blue eye. 
 On his white mule, across the bridge, 
 
 A cassock'd priest rode by. 
 
 " — Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, 
 
 And play'st thy harp of gold ? 
 Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves. 
 
 Than thou shalt Heaven behold." — 
 
 But, lo, the staff, it budded ! 
 
 It green'd, it branch'd, it waved. 
 " — O ruth of God," the priest cried out, 
 
 "This lost sea-creature saved !" 
 
 The cassock'd priest rode onwards, 
 
 And vanished with his mule ; 
 But Neckan in the twihght grey 
 
 Wept by the river-pool. 
 
 He wept : " The earth hath kindness, 
 
 The sea, the starry poles ; 
 Earth, sea, and sky, and God above — 
 
 But, ah, not human souls !" 
 
170 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 In summer, on the headlands, 
 The Baltic Sea along, 
 
 Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, 
 And sings this plaintive song. 
 
 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 
 
 Come, dear children, let us away ; 
 Down and away below ! 
 Now my brothers call from the bay. 
 Now the great winds shoreward blow, 
 Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 
 Now the wild white horses play, 
 Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
 Children dear, let us away ! 
 This way, this way ! 
 
 Call her once before you go — 
 
 Call once yet ! 
 
 In a voice that she will know : \\ 
 
 *' Margaret ! Margaret !" tJ^^ 
 
 Children's voices should be dear 
 
 (Call once more) to a mother's ear ; 
 
 Children's voices, wild with pain — 
 
 Surely she will come again ! 
 
 Call her once and come away ; 
 
 This way, this way ! 
 
 " Mother dear, we cannot stay ! 
 
 The wild white horses foam and fret." 
 
 Margaret ! Margaret ! 
 
 Come, dear children, come away down ; 
 Call no more ! 
 
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 171 
 
 One last look at the white-wall'd town, 
 
 And the little grey church on the windy shore; 
 
 Then come down ! 
 
 She will not come though you call all day ; 
 
 Come away, come away ! 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday 
 
 We heard the sweet bells over the bay ? 
 
 In the caverns where we lay, 
 
 Through the surf and through the swell, 
 
 The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 
 
 Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 
 
 Where the winds are all asleep ; 
 
 Where the spent lights quiver and gleam. 
 
 Where the salt weed sways in the stream, 
 
 Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, 
 
 Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ; 
 
 Where the sea-snakes coil and twine. 
 
 Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 
 
 Where great whales come sailing by. 
 
 Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 
 
 Round the world for ever and aye ? / 
 
 When did music come this way? < /^. l^^f 1^^^ 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday? - ' / 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday 
 
 (Call yet once) that she went away ? 
 
 Once she sate with you and me, ;.fzrc^«pw-<^ 
 
 On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, 
 
 And the youngest sate on her knee. 
 
 She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, 
 
 When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. 
 
 She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea ; 
 
 She said : " I must go, for my kinsfolk pray 
 
\12 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 
 
 'Twill be Easter-time in the world — ah me ! 
 
 And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here with thee." 
 
 I said : " CiO up, dear heart, through the waves ; 
 
 Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves ! " 
 
 She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday ? 
 
 Children dear, were we long alone ? 
 " The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan ; 
 Long prayers," I said, " in the world they say ; 
 Come ! " I said ; and we rose through the surf in the bay. 
 We went up the beach, by the sandy down 
 Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town ; 
 Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still. 
 To the little grey church on the windy hill. 
 From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, 
 But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. 
 We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn withjaiias, 
 And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. 
 She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
 " Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here ! 
 Dear heart," I said, "w^e are long alone; 
 The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." 
 But, ah, she gave me never a look, ^ (lut^f-^^ 
 For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book ! jL 
 Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the door. 
 Come away, children, call no more ! 
 Come away, come down, call no more ! 
 
 Down, down, down ! 
 Down to the depths of the sea ! 
 She sits at her wheel in the humming town. 
 
THE FORSAKEN iMERMAN 173 
 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 
 Hark what she sings : " O joy, O joy, 
 
 For the humming street, and the child with its toy ! 
 
 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well ; 
 
 For the wheel where I spun. 
 
 And the blessed light of the sun ! " 
 
 And so she sings her fill, 
 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 
 Till the spindle drops from her hand, 
 
 And the whizzing wheel stands still. •■?«/'/v<'v^ 
 
 She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, 
 
 And over the sand at the sea ; 
 
 And her eyes are set in a stare ; 
 
 And anon there breaks a sigh, 
 
 And anon there drops a tear, , ^ ^^.^-^c^^ 
 
 From a sorrow-clouded eye. 
 
 And a heart sorrow-laden, 
 
 A long, long sigh ; 
 
 For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden 
 
 And the gleam of her golden hair. 
 
 Come away, away children ; 
 Come children, come down ! 
 The hoarse wind blows coldly ; 
 Lights shine in the town. 
 
 She will start from her slumber • 
 
 When gusts shake the door ; "^^^ A'^' ^' ^ K<dk*^^^*~ 
 She will hear the winds howling, ;^'fj/v^ 
 
 Will hear the waves roar. 
 We shall see, while above us 
 The waves roar and whirl, 
 A ceiling of amber, 
 A pavement of pearl. 
 
174 NARRATIVE POEMS 
 
 ^^4-**'^ Singing : " Here came a mortal^ 
 
 .But faithless was she ! 
 And alone dwell for ever 
 The kings of the sea." 
 
 But, children, at midnight, 
 When soft the winds blow, 
 When clear falls the moonliorht, 
 When spring-tides are low ; 
 ( "T When sweet airs come seaward 
 \,((,^\ -: From heaths starr'd with broom, 
 And high rocks throw mildly 
 On the blanch'd sands a gloom ; 
 Up the still, glistening beaches, 
 Up the creeks we will hie. 
 Over banks of bright seaweed 
 The ebb-tide leaves dry. 
 We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 
 At the white, sleeping town ; 
 At the church on the hill-side — 
 And then come back down. 
 Singing : " There dwells a loved one, 
 But cruel is she ! 
 She left lonely for ever 
 The kings of the sea." 
 
SONNETS 
 
AUSTERITY OF POETRY 
 
 That son of Italy who tried to blow,^ 
 Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, 
 In his light youth amid a festal throng 
 Sate with his bride to see a public show. 
 
 Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 
 Youth like a star ; and what to youth belong — 
 Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. 
 A prop gave way ! crash fell a platform ! lo, 
 
 'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay ! 
 Shuddering, they drew her garments off — and found 
 A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. 
 
 Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse ! young, gay, 
 Radiant, adorn'd outside ; a hidden ground 
 Of thought and of austerity within. 
 
 A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD 
 
 What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell ?- 
 'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry 
 Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony ; 
 It was the sight of that Lord Arundel 
 
 N 
 
178 SONNETS 
 
 Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well, 
 And his child's reason flicker'd, and did die. 
 Painted (he will'd it) in the gallery 
 They hang ; the picture doth the story tell. 
 
 Behold the stern, mail'd father, staff in hand ! 
 The little fair-hair'd son, with vacant gaze, 
 ^Vhere no more lights of sense or knowledge are ! 
 
 Methinks the woe, which made that father stand 
 Baring his dumb remorse to future days. 
 Was woe than Byron's woe more tragic far. 
 
 RACHEL 
 
 I 
 
 In Paris all look'd hot and like to fade. 
 Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries, 
 Sere with September, droop'd the chestnut-trees. 
 ' Twas dawn ; a brougham roU'd through the streets 
 and made 
 
 Halt at the white and silent colonnade 
 
 Of the French Theatre. AVorn with disease, 
 
 Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease. 
 
 Sate in the brougham and those blank walls survey'd. 
 
 She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled 
 
 To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine ; 
 
 W' hy stops she by this empty play-house drear ? 
 
 Ah, where the spirit its highest life hath led. 
 
 All spots, match'd with that spot, are less divine ; 
 
 And Rachel's Switzerland, her Rhine, is here ! 
 
SONNETS 179 
 
 II 
 
 Unto a lonely villa, in a dell 
 
 Above the fragrant warm Proven gal shore, 
 
 The dying Rachel in a chair they bore 
 
 Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle, 
 
 i\nd laid her in a stately room, where fell 
 The shadow of a marble Muse of yore, 
 The rose-crown'd queen of legendary lore, 
 Polymnia, full on her death-bed. — 'Twas well ! 
 
 The fret and misery of our northern towns, 
 In this her life's last day, our poor, our pain, 
 Our jangle of false wits, our climate's frowns, 
 
 Do for this radiant Greek-soul'd artist cease ; 
 Sole object of her dying eyes remain 
 The beauty and the glorious art of Greece. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Sprung from the blood of Israel's scatter'd race, 
 At a mean inn in German Aarau born. 
 To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn, 
 Trick'd out with a Parisian speech and face. 
 
 Imparting life renew'd, old classic grace ; 
 Then, soothing with thy Christian strain forlorn, 
 A-Kempis ! her departing soul outworn. 
 While by her bedside Hebrew rites have place — 
 
 Ah, not the radiant spirit of Greece alone 
 
 She had — one power, which made her breast its home ! 
 
 In her, like us, there clash'd, contending powers, 
 
i8o SONNETS 
 
 Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome. 
 The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours ; 
 Her genius and her glory are her own. 
 
 WORLDLY PLACE 
 
 JLvEN in ct palace, life may be led well! 
 So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, 
 Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den 
 Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, 
 
 Our freedom for a little bread we sell, 
 And drudge under some foolish master's ken 
 Who rates us if we peer outside our pen — 
 Match'dwith a palace, is not this a hell? 
 
 Even in a palace ! On his truth sincere, 
 
 Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came ; 
 
 And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame 
 
 Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, 
 
 I'll stop, and say : " There were no succour here ! 
 
 The aids to noble life are all within." 
 
 EAST LONDON 
 
 'TwAS August, and the fierce sun overhead 
 Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, 
 And the pale weaver, through his windows seen 
 In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 
 
 I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 
 
 " 111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene ? "- 
 
SONNETS i8i 
 
 " Bravely ! ' said he ; " for I of late have been 
 
 Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living breads 
 
 O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
 Set up a mark of everlasting light, 
 Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 
 
 To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — 
 Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night 1 
 Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. 
 
 WEST LONDON 
 
 Crouch'd on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square, 
 
 A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied. 
 
 A babe was in her arms, and at her side 
 
 A girl ; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. 
 
 Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, 
 Pass'd opposite ; she touch'd her girl, who hied 
 Across, and begg'd, and came back satisfied. 
 The rich she had let pass with frozen stare. 
 
 Thought I : " Above her state this spirit towers ; 
 She will not ask of ahens, but of friends, 
 Of sharers in a common human fate. 
 
 " She turns from that cold succour, which attends 
 The unknown little from the unknowing great. 
 And points us to a better time than ours." 
 
 EAST AND WEST 
 
 In the bare midst of Anglesey they show 
 Two springs which close by one another play ] 
 
1 82 SONNETS 
 
 And, " Thirteen hundred years agone," they say, 
 " Two saints met often where those waters flow. 
 
 " One came from Penmon westward, and a glow 
 Whiten'd his face from the sun's fronting ray ; 
 Eastward the other, from the dying day, 
 And he with unsunn'd face did always go." 
 
 Seiriol the B?'ight, Kybi the Dark ! men said. 
 The seer from the East was then in light. 
 The seer from the AVest was then in shade. 
 
 Ah ! now 'tis changed. In conquering sunshine bright 
 The man of the bold West now comes array'd ; 
 He of the mystic East is touch'd with night. 
 
 THE BETTER PART 
 
 Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, 
 How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare ! 
 " Christ," some one says, " was human as we are ; 
 No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan ; 
 
 " We live no more, when we have done our span," — 
 "Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, "who can care? 
 From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear? 
 Live we like brutes our life without a plan ! " 
 
 So answerest thou ; but why not rather say : 
 
 " Hath man no second life ? — Pitch this one high / 
 
 Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see ? — 
 
 ''^ More strictly^ theji^ the inivard judge obey ! 
 Was Christ a man like us ? Ah ! let us tjy 
 If we then, too, cau be such men as he 1 " 
 
SONNETS 183 
 
 THE DIVINITY 
 
 " Yes, write it in the rock," Saint Bernard said, 
 " Grave it on brass with adamantine pen ! 
 'Tis God himself becomes apparent, when 
 God's wisdom and God's goodness are displayed, 
 
 " For God of these his attributes is made." — 
 Well spake the impetuous Saint, and bore of men 
 The suffrage captive ; now, not one in ten 
 Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh'd.^*^ 
 
 God's wisdom and God's goodness f — Ay, but fools 
 Mis-define these till God knows them no more. 
 Wisdom and goodness, they are God ! — what schools 
 
 Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore ? 
 This no Saint preaches, and this no Church rules ; 
 'Tis in the desert, now and heretofore. 
 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 Foil'd by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn, 
 We leave the brutal world to take its way, 
 And, Patience I i?i another life, we say, 
 The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne. 
 
 And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn 
 The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will they. 
 Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day. 
 Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? 
 
 No, no ! the energy of life may be 
 Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; 
 And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife. 
 
iS4 SONNETS 
 
 From strength to strength advancing — only he, 
 His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, 
 Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID 
 
 He saves the sheep, the goats he doth 7iot save. 
 So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side 
 Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried : ^^ 
 " Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, 
 
 "Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave." — 
 So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sigh'd, 
 The infant Church ! of love she felt the tide 
 Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave. 
 
 And then she smiled ; and in the Catacombs, 
 With eye suffused but heart inspired true. 
 On those walls subterranean, where she hid 
 
 Her head 'mid ignominy, death, and tombs, 
 She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew — 
 And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid. 
 
 MONICA'S LAST PRAYER 12 
 
 " Ah, could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be ! " 
 Care not for that, and lay me where I fall ! 
 Everyivhere heard will he the judg7nent-call ; 
 But at God's altar, oh ! 7'emember me. 
 
 Thus Monica, and died in Italy. 
 
 Yet fervent had her longing been, through all 
 
SONNETS 185 
 
 Her course, for home at last, and burial 
 With her own husband, by the Libyan sea. 
 
 Had been ! but at the end, to her pure soul 
 All tie with all beside seem'd vain and cheap, 
 And union before God the only care. 
 
 Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole. 
 Yet we her memory, as she pray'd, will keep. 
 Keep by this : Life in God, and imion there I 
 
LYRIC POEMS 
 
SWITZERLAND 
 
 I. MEETING 
 
 Again I see my bliss at hand, 
 
 The town, the lake are here ; 
 
 My Marguerite smiles upon the strand, ^^ 
 
 Unalter'd with the year. 
 
 I know that graceful figure fair, 
 That cheek of languid hue ; 
 I know that soft, enkerchief'd hair. 
 And those sweet eyes of blue. 
 
 Again I spring to make my choice ; 
 Again in tones of ire 
 I hear a God's tremendous voice : 
 "Be counsell'd, and retire." 
 
 Ye guiding Powers who join and part, 
 What would ye have with me ? 
 Ah, warn some more ambitious heart, 
 And let the peaceful be ! 
 
 2. PARTING 
 
 Ye storm-winds of Autumn ! 
 Who rush by, who shake 
 
 n 
 
I90 LYRIC POEiMS 
 
 The window, and ruffle 
 Tlie gleam-lighted lake ; 
 Who cross to the hill-side 
 Thin-sprinkled with farms, 
 AVhere the high woods strip sadly 
 Their yellowing arms — 
 "^ Ye are bound for the mountains i — 
 Ah ! with you let me go 
 Where your cold, distant barrier, 
 The vast range of snow, 
 Through the loose clouds lifts dimly 
 Its white peaks in air — 
 How deep is their stillness ! 
 Ah, would I were there ! 
 
 But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, 
 Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear ? 
 Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn 
 Lent it the music of its trees at dawn ? 
 Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook 
 That the sweet voice its upland clearness took ? 
 Ah ! it comes nearer — 
 Sweet notes, this way ! 
 
 Hark ! fast by the window 
 The rushing winds go, 
 To the ice-cumber'd gorges. 
 The vast seas of snow ! 
 There the torrents drive upward 
 Their rock-strangled hum ; 
 There the avalanche thunders 
 The hoarse torrent dumb. 
 — I come, O ye mountains ! 
 Ye torrents, I come ! 
 
SWITZERLAND 191 
 
 But who is this, by the half-open'd door, 
 Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor ? 
 The sweet blue eyes — the soft, ash-colour'd hair — 
 The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear — 
 The lovely lips, with their arch smile that tells 
 The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells — 
 
 Ah ! they bend nearer — 
 
 Sweet lips, this way ! 
 
 Hark ! the wind rushes past us ! 
 
 Ah ! with that let me go 
 
 To the clear, waning hill-side, 
 
 Unspotted by snow. 
 
 There to watch, o'er the sunk vale, 
 
 The frore mountain-wall, 
 
 Where the niched snow-bed sprays down 
 
 Its powdery fall. 
 
 There its dusky blue clusters 
 
 The aconite spreads ; 
 
 There the pines slope, the cloud-strips 
 
 Hung soft in their heads. 
 
 No life but, at moments, 
 
 The mountain-bee's hum. 
 
 • — I come, O ye mountains ! 
 
 Ye pine-woods, I come ! ..^--^ 
 
 Forgive me ! forgive me ! 
 
 Ah, Marguerite, fain 
 Would these arms reach to clasp thee ! ■ — 
 
 But see ! 'tis in vain. 
 
 In the void air, towards thee, 
 
 My stretch'd arms are cast ; 
 But a sea rolls between us — 
 
 Our different past ! * / 
 
^l 
 
 192 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 To the lips, ah ! of others ^ 
 Those Hps have been prest, 
 
 And others, ere I was, 
 
 Were strain'd to that breast ; 
 
 Far, far from each other 
 Our spirits have grown ; 
 
 And what heart knoAvs another? 
 Ah ! who knows his own ? / 
 
 Blow, ye winds ! lift me with you ! 
 
 I come to the wild. 
 Fold closely, O Nature ! 
 
 Thine arms round thy child. 
 
 To thee only God granted 
 
 A heart ever new — 
 To all always open, 
 
 To all always true. 
 
 Ah ! calm me, restore me ; 
 
 And dry up my tears 
 On thy high mountain-platforms, 
 
 Where morn first appears ; 
 
 Where the white mists, for ever. 
 
 Are spread and upfurl'd — 
 In the stir of the forces 
 
 Whence issued the world. 
 
 3. A FAREWELL 
 
 My horse's feet beside the lake, 
 
 Where sweet the unbroken moonbeams lay, 
 
 Sent echoes through the night to wake 
 
 Each glistening strand, each heath-fringed bay. 
 
SWITZERLAND 
 
 The poplar avenue was pass'd, 
 
 And the roof d bridge that spans the stream ; 
 
 Up the steep street I hurried fast, 
 
 Led by thy taper's starHke beam. 
 
 I came ! I saw thee rise ! — the blood 
 Pour'd flushing to thy languid cheek. 
 Lock'd in each other's arms we stood, 
 In tears, with hearts too full to speak. 
 
 Days flew ;— ah, soon I could discern 
 
 A trouble in thine alter'd air ! 
 
 Thy hand lay languidly in mine. 
 
 Thy cheek was grave, thy speech grew rare. 
 
 I blame thee not ! — this heart, I know, 
 To be long loved was never framed ; 
 For something in its depths doth glow 
 Too strange, too restless, too untamed. 
 
 And women — things that live and move 
 Mined by the fever of the soul — 
 They seek to find in those they love 
 Stern strength, and promise of control. 
 
 They ask not kindness, gentle ways — 
 
 These they themselves have tried and known ; 
 
 They ask a soul which never sways 
 
 With the blind gusts that shake their own. 
 
 I too have felt the load I bore 
 In a too strong emotion's sway ; 
 I too have wish'd, no woman more, 
 This starting, feverish heart away. ' 
 
 I too have long'd for trenchant force. 
 And will like a dividing spear ; 
 o 
 
 193 
 
194 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Have praised the keen, unscrupulous course, 
 Which knows no doubt, which feels no fear. 
 
 But in the world I learnt, what there 
 Thou too wilt surely one day prove, 
 That will, that energy, though rare, 
 Are yet far, far less rare than love. 
 
 Go, then ! — till time and fate impress 
 This truth on thee, be mine no more ! 
 They will ! — for thou, I feel, not less 
 Than I, wast destined to this lore. 
 
 We school our manners, act our parts — ■ 
 But He, w^ho sees us through and through, 
 Knows that the bent of both our hearts 
 Was to be gentle, tranquil, true. 
 
 And though w^e wear out life, alas ! 
 Distracted as a homeless wind, 
 In beating where we must not pass, 
 In seeking what we shall not find ; 
 
 Yet we shall one day gain, life past, 
 Clear prospect o'er our being's whole ; 
 Shall see ourselves, and learn at last 
 Our true affinities of soul. 
 
 AVe shall not then deny a course 
 To every thought the mass ignore ; 
 We shall not then call hardness force. 
 Nor lightness wisdom any more. 
 
 Then, in the eternal Father's smile, 
 Our soothed, encouraged souls will dare 
 To seem as free from pride and guile. 
 As good, as generous, as they are. 
 
\^ 
 
 SWITZERLAND 195 
 
 Then we shall know our friends ! — though much 
 Will have been lost — the help in strife, ' 
 The thousand sweet, still joys of such 
 As hand in hand face earthly life — ' 
 
 Though these be lost, there will be yet 
 A sympathy august and pure ; 
 Ennobled by a vast regret, 
 And by contrition seal'd thrice sure. 
 
 And we, whose ways were unlike here. 
 May then more neighbouring courses ply ; 
 May to each other be brought near, 
 And greet across infinity. 
 
 How sweet, unreach'd by earthly jars, 
 My sister ! to maintain with thee 
 The hush among the shining stars. 
 The calm upon the moonlit sea ! 
 
 How sweet to feel, on the boon air, 
 All our unquiet pulses cease ! 
 To feel that nothing can impair 
 The gentleness, the thirst for peace — 
 
 The gentleness too rudely hurl'd 
 On this wild earth of hate and fear ; 
 The thirst for peace a raving world 
 Would never let us satiate here. 
 
 4. ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE ^ 
 
 We were apart ; yet, day by day, 
 I bade my heart more constant be. 
 I bade it keep the world away, 
 And grow a home for only thee ; . 
 
196 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew, 
 Like mine, each day, more tried, more true. 
 
 The fault was grave ! I might have known, 
 What far too soon, alas ! I learn'd — 
 The heart can bind itself alone, 
 And faith may oft be unreturn'd. 
 Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell — 
 Thou lov'st no more ; — Farewell ! Farewell ! 
 
 Farewell ! — and thou, thou lonely heart, 
 
 Which never yet without remorse 
 
 Even for a moment didst depart 
 
 From thy remote and sphered course 
 
 To haunt the place where passions reign — 
 
 Back to thy solitude again ! 
 
 Back ! with the conscious thrill of shame 
 Which Luna felt, that summer-night. 
 Flash through her pure immortal frame, 
 AVhen she forsook the starry height 
 To hang over Endymion's sleep 
 Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep. 
 
 Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved 
 How vain a thing is mortal love, 
 Wandering in Heaven, far removed. 
 But thou hast long had place to prove 
 This truth — to prove, and make thine own : 
 " Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone." 
 
 Or, if not quite alone, yet they 
 Which touch thee are unmating things — 
 Ocean and clouds and night and day ; 
 Lorn autumns and triumphant springs ; 
 
SWITZERLAND 197 
 
 And life, and others' joy and pain, 
 And love, if love, of happier men. 
 
 Of happier men — for they, at least^^ ; .*,6^*^ 
 
 Have drea/H^d two human hearts might blencj/ . JiV^' 
 
 In one, and were through faith released 
 
 From isolation without end 
 
 Prolong'd ; nor knew, although not less / 
 
 Alone than thou, their loneliness. 
 
 5. TO MARGUERITE— CONTINUED 
 
 Yes !• in the sea of life enisled, 
 
 With echoing straits between us thrown, b 
 
 Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 
 
 We mortal millions live a/one. 
 
 The islands feel the enclasping flowj^-- d 
 
 And then their endless bounds they know-Cj 
 
 But when the moon their hoUow^s lights, 
 And they are swept by balms of spring. 
 And in their glens, on starry nights. 
 The nightingales divinely sing ; 
 And lovely notes, from shore to shore. 
 Across the sounds and channels pour — ' 
 
 Oh ! then a longing like despair uvc«-i'^'-''^ 
 
 Is to their farthest caverns sent; \-^,,. yiv^ 
 
 For surely once, they feel, we were • 
 
 Parts of a single continent ! 
 
 Now^ round us spreads the watery plain — 
 
 Oh might our marges meet again ! 
 
 Who order'd, that their longing's fire ^^^^ CxM^^ 
 Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd ? 
 
 /» 
 
 ') 
 
198 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Who renders vain their deep desire ?- 
 _J^ God, a God their severance ruled 1 
 And bade betwixt their shores to be 
 ,45,5 ^i^f The unplumb'd, salt,_estranging sea. 
 
 6. ABSENCE 
 
 In this fair stranger's eyes of grey 
 Thine eyes, my love ! I see. 
 I shiver ; for the passing day 
 Had borne me far from thee. 
 
 This is the curse of life ! that not 
 A nobler, calmer train 
 Of wiser thoughts and feelings blot 
 Our passions from our brain ; 
 
 But each day brings its petty dust 
 Our soon-choked souls to fill, 
 And we forget because we must , 
 And not because we will. 
 
 I struggle towards the light ; and ye. 
 Once-long' d-for storms of love ! 
 If with the light ye cannot be, 
 I bear that ye remove. 
 
 I struggle towards the light — but oh, 
 While yet the night is chill. 
 Upon time's barren, stormy flow, 
 Stay with me. Marguerite, still ! 
 
SWITZERLAND 199 
 
 7. THE TERRACE AT BERNE 
 
 (COMPOSED TEN YEARS AFTER THE PRECEDING) 
 
 Ten years ! — and to my waking eye 
 Once more the roofs of Berne appear ; 
 The rocky banks, the terrace high, 
 The streani/t — and do I Unger here ? 
 
 The clouds are on the Oberland, 
 The Jungfrau snows look faint and far ; 
 But bright are those green fields at hand, 
 And through those fields comes down the Aar, 
 
 And from the blue twin-lakes it comes, 
 Flows by the town, the churchyard fair ; 
 And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, 
 The house ! — and is my Marguerite there ? 
 
 Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush 
 Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, 
 Quick through the oleanders brush. 
 And clap thy hands, and cry : 'Tis thou ! 
 
 Or hast thou long since wander'd back, 
 Daughter of France ! to France, thy home ; 
 And flitted down the flowery track 
 Where feet like thine too lightly come ? 
 
 Doth riotous laughter now replace 
 Thy smile \ and rouge, with stony glare, 
 Thy cheek's soft hue ; and fluttering lace 
 The kerchief that enwound thy hair ? 
 
200 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Or is it over ? — art thou dead ? — 
 Dead! — and no warning shiver ran 
 Across my heart, to say thy thread 
 Of hfe was cut, and closed thy span ! 
 
 Could from earth's ways that figure slight 
 Be lost, and I not feel 'twas so ? 
 Of that fresh voice the gay delight 
 Fail from earth's air, and I not know ? 
 
 Or shall I find thee still, but changed, 
 But not the Marguerite of thy prime ? 
 With all thy being re-arranged, 
 Pass'd through the crucible of time ; 
 
 With spirit vanish'd, beauty waned, 
 And hardly yet a glance, a tone, 
 A gesture — anything — retain'd 
 Of all that was my Marguerite's own ? 
 
 I will not know ! For wherefore try, 
 To things by mortal course that live, 
 A shadowy durability, 
 For which they were not meant, to give ? 
 
 Like driftwood spars, which meet and pass 
 
 Upon the boundless ocean-plain, 
 
 So on the sea of life, alas ! 
 
 Man meets man — meets, and quits again. 
 
 I knew it when my life was young ; 
 I feel it still, now youth is o'er. 
 ^ .^ecr~ — "^^^^ mists are on the mountain hung, 
 / And Marguerite I shall see no more. 
 
THE STRAYED REVELLER 201 
 
 THE STRAYED REVELLER 
 
 THE PORTICO OF CIRCE's PALACE. EVENING 
 
 A Youth. Circe 
 
 The Youth 
 Faster, faster, 
 
 Circe, Goddess, 
 
 Let the wild, thronging train, 
 The bright procession 
 Of eddying forms. 
 Sweep through my soul ! 
 
 Thou standest, smiling 
 
 Down on me ! thy right arm, 
 
 Lean'd up against the column there, 
 
 Props thy soft cheek ; 
 
 Thy left holds, hanging loosely. 
 
 The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, 
 
 1 held but now. 
 
 Is it, then, evening 
 So soon ? I see, the night-dews, 
 Cluster'd in thick beads, dim 
 The agate brooch-stones 
 On thy white shoulder ; 
 The cool night-wind, too, 
 Blows through the portico, 
 Stirs thy hair. Goddess, 
 Waves thy white robe ! 
 
 Circe 
 AVhence art thou, sleeper? 
 
202 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Tlie Youf/i 
 When the white dawn first 
 
 Through the rough fir-planks 
 
 Of my hut, by the chestnuts, 
 
 Up at the valley-head, 
 
 Came breaking, Goddess ! 
 
 I sprang up, I threw round me 
 
 My dappled fawn-skin ; 
 
 Passing out, from the wet turf. 
 
 Where they lay, by the hut door, 
 
 I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff. 
 
 All drench'd in dew — 
 
 Came swift down to join 
 
 The rout early gather'd 
 
 In the town, round the temple, 
 
 lacchus' white fane 
 
 On yonder hill. 
 
 Quick I pass'd, following 
 The wood-cutters' cart-track 
 Down the dark valley ; — I saw 
 On my left, through the beeches, 
 Thy palace, Goddess, 
 vSmokeless, empty ! 
 Trembling, I enter'd ; beheld 
 The court all silent. 
 The lions sleeping, 
 On the altar this bowl. 
 I drank, Goddess ! 
 And sank down here, sleeping, 
 On the steps of thy portico. 
 
THE STRAYED REVELLER 203 
 
 Circe 
 
 Foolish boy ! Why tremblest thou ? 
 
 Thou lovest it, then, my wine ? 
 
 Wouldst more of it ? See, how glows, 
 
 Through the delicate, flush'd marble, 
 
 The red, creaming liquor, 
 
 Strown with dark seeds ! 
 
 Drink, then ! I chide thee not, 
 
 Deny thee not my bowl. 
 
 Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — so ! 
 
 Drink — drink again ! 
 
 The Youth 
 
 Thanks, gracious one ! 
 Ah, the sweet fumes again ! 
 More soft, ah me. 
 More subtle-winding 
 That Pan's flute-music ! 
 Faint — faint ! Ah me. 
 Again the sweet sleep ! 
 
 Circe 
 
 Hist ! Thou — within there ! 
 Come forth, Ulysses ! 
 Art tired with hunting ? 
 While we range the woodland, 
 See what the day brings. 
 
 Ulysses 
 
 Ever new magic ! 
 Hast thou then lured hither. 
 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, 
 The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 
 
204 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 lacchus' darling — 
 
 Or some youth beloved of Pan, 
 
 Of Pan and the Nymphs ? 
 
 That he sits, bending downward 
 
 His white, delicate neck 
 
 To the ivy-wreathed marge 
 
 Of thy cup ; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 
 
 That crown his hair. 
 
 Falling forward, mingling 
 
 With the dark ivy-plants — 
 
 His fawn-skin, half untied, 
 
 Smear'd with red wine-stains ? Who is he. 
 
 That he sits, overweigh'd 
 
 By fumes of wine and sleep, 
 
 So late, in thy portico ? 
 
 What youth, Goddess, — what guest 
 
 Of Gods or mortals ? 
 
 Circe 
 
 Hist ! he wakes ! 
 
 I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 
 
 Nay, ask him ! 
 
 The Youth 
 
 Who speaks ? Ah, who comes forth 
 
 To thy side. Goddess, from within ? 
 
 How shall I name him ? 
 
 This spare, dark-featured, 
 
 Quick-eyed stranger? 
 
 Ah, and I see too 
 
 His sailor's bonnet, 
 
 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd. 
 
 With one arm bare ! — 
 
THE STRAYED REVELLER 205 
 
 Art thou not he, whom fame 
 
 This long time rumours 
 
 The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves ? 
 
 Art thou he, stranger? 
 
 The wise Ulysses, 
 
 Laertes' son ? 
 
 Ulysses 
 I am Ulysses. 
 And thou, too, sleeper ? 
 Thy voice is sweet. 
 It may be thou hast foUow'd 
 Through the islands some divine bard, 
 By age taught many things, 
 Age and the Muses ; 
 And heard him delighting 
 The chiefs and people 
 In the banquet, and learn'd his songs. 
 Of Gods and Heroes, 
 Of war and arts, 
 And peopled cities, 
 Inland, or built 
 
 By the grey sea. — If so, then hail ! 
 I honour and welcome thee. 
 
 The Youth 
 
 The Gods are happy, l/' 
 They turn on all sides 
 Their shining eyes. 
 And see below them 
 The earth and men. 
 
 They see Tiresias : 
 Sitting, staff in hand, 
 
2o6 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 On the warm, grassy 
 
 Asopus ])ank, 
 
 His robe drawn over 
 
 His old, sightless head, 
 
 Revolving inly 
 
 The doom of Thebes. 
 
 They see the Centaurs 
 In the upper glens 
 Of Pelion, in the streams, 
 Where red-berried ashes fringe 
 The clear-brown shallow pools, 
 With streaming flanks, and heads 
 Rear'd proudly, snuffing 
 The mountain wind. 
 
 They see the Indian 
 
 Drifting, knife in hand, 
 
 His frail boat moor'd to 
 
 A floating isle thick-matted 
 
 With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants, 
 
 And the dark cucumber. 
 
 He reaps, and stows them. 
 
 Drifting — drifting ; — round him, 
 
 Round his green harvest-plot. 
 
 Flow the cool lake-waves, 
 
 The mountains ring them. 
 
 They see the Scythian 
 
 On the wide stepp, unharnessing 
 
 His wheel'd house at noon. 
 
 He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal — 
 
 Mares' milk, and bread 
 
 Baked on the embers ; — all around 
 
 The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd 
 
THE STRAYED REVELLER 207 
 
 With saffron and the yellow hollyhock 
 
 And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 
 
 Sitting in his cart 
 
 He makes his meal ; before him, for long miles, 
 
 Alive with bright green lizards, 
 
 And the springing bustard-fowl. 
 
 The track, a straight black line, 
 
 Furrows the rich soil ; here and there 
 
 Clusters of lonely mounds 
 
 Topp'd with rough-hewn, 
 
 Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 
 
 The sunny waste. 
 
 They see the ferry 
 
 On the broad, clay-laden 
 
 Lone Chorasmian stream ; — thereon, 
 
 With snort and strain, 
 
 Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 
 
 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 
 
 To either bow 
 
 Firm harness'd by the mane ; a chief, 
 
 With shout and shaken spear, 
 
 Stands at the prow, and guides them ; but astern 
 
 The cowering merchants, in long robes, 
 
 Sit pale beside their wealth 
 
 Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops. 
 
 Of gold and ivory. 
 
 Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 
 
 Jasper and chalcedony. 
 
 And milk-barr'd onyx-stones. 
 
 The loaded boat swings groaning 
 
 In the yellow eddies ; 
 
 The Gods behold them. 
 
2o8 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 They see the Heroes 
 
 Sitting in the dark ship 
 
 On the foamless, long-heaving 
 
 \'iolet sea, 
 
 At sunset nearing 
 
 The Happy Islands. 
 
 These things, Ulysses, 
 The wise bards also 
 Behold and sing. 
 But oh, what labour ! 
 O prince, what pain ! 
 
 They too can see 
 
 Tiresias ; — but the Gods, 
 
 Who give them vision, 
 I Added this law : 
 
 That they should bear too 
 
 His groping blindness, 
 
 His dark foreboding, 
 
 His scorn'd white hairs ; 
 ' Bear Hera's anger 
 I Through a life lengthen'd 
 
 To seven ages. 
 
 They see the Centaurs 
 
 On Pelion ; — then they feel, 
 
 They too, the maddening wine 
 
 Swell their large veins to bursting ; in wild pain 
 
 They feel the biting spears 
 
 Of the grim Lapithae, and Theseus, drive. 
 
 Drive crashing through their bones ; they feel 
 
 High on a jutting rock in the red stream 
 
 Alcmena's dreadful son 
 
 Ply his bow ; — such a price 
 
THE STRAYED REVELLER 209 
 
 The Gods exact for song : 
 To become what we sing. 
 
 They see the Indian 
 
 On his mountain lake ; but squalls 
 
 Make their skiff reel, and worms 
 
 In the unkind spring have gnawn 
 
 Their melon-harvest to the heart. — They see 
 
 The Scythian ; but long frosts 
 
 Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, 
 
 Till they too fade like grass ; they crawl 
 
 Like shadows forth in spring. 
 
 They see the merchants 
 
 On the Oxus stream ; — but care 
 
 Must visit first them too, and make them pale. 
 
 Whether, through whirling sand, 
 
 A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst 
 
 Upon their caravan ; or greedy kings, 
 
 In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 
 
 Crush'd them with tolls ; or fever-airs. 
 
 On some great river's marge, 
 
 Mown them down, far from home. 
 
 They see the Heroes 
 
 Near harbour ; — but they share 
 
 Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, 
 
 Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy ; - 
 
 Or where the echoing oars 
 
 Of Argo first 
 
 Startled the unknown sea. 
 
 The old Silenus 
 Came, lolling in the sunshine, 
 From the dewy forest-coverts, 
 
 p 
 
2IO LYRIC POEMS 
 
 This way, at noon. 
 
 Sitting by me, while his Fauns 
 
 Down at the water-side 
 
 Sprinkled and smoothed 
 
 His drooping garland, 
 
 He told me these things. 
 
 But I, Ulysses, 
 Sitting on the warm steps. 
 Looking over the valley, 
 All day long, have seen, 
 Without pain, without labour, 
 Sometimes a wild-hair'd Maenad — 
 Sometimes a Faun with torches — 
 And sometimes, for a moment, 
 Passing through the dark stems 
 Flowing-robed, the beloved, 
 The desired, the divine, 
 Beloved lacchus. 
 
 Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars ! 
 
 Ah, glimmering water, 
 
 Fitful earth-murmur, 
 
 Dreaming woods ! 
 
 Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess, 
 
 And thou, proved, much enduring, 
 
 Wave-toss'd Wanderer ! 
 
 Who can stand still ? 
 
 Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me — 
 
 The cup again ! 
 
 Faster, faster, 
 
 O Circe, Goddess, 
 
 Let the wild, thronging train. 
 
FRAGMENT OF AN "ANTIGONE" 211 
 
 The bright procession 
 Of eddying forms, 
 Sweep through my soul ! 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN "ANTIGONE" 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Well hath he done who hath seized happiness ! 
 For little do the all-containing hours, 
 
 Though opulent, freely give. 
 
 Who, weighing that life well 
 
 Fortune presents unpray'd, 
 Declines her ministry, and carves his own \ 
 
 And, justice not infringed. 
 Makes his own welfare his unswerved-from law. 
 
 He does well too, who keeps that clue the mild 
 Birth-Goddess and the austere Fates first gave. 
 
 For from the day when these 
 
 Bring him, a weeping child. 
 
 First to the light, and mark 
 A country for him, kinsfolk, and a home, 
 
 Unguided he remains, 
 Till the Fates come again, this time with death. 
 
 In little companies. 
 
 And, our own place once left. 
 Ignorant where to stand, or whom to avoid, 
 By city and household group'd, we live ; and many shocks 
 
 Our order heaven-ordain'd 
 
 Must every day endure : 
 Voyages, exiles, hates, dissensions, wars. 
 
212 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Besides what waste Jie makes, 
 The all-hated, order-breaking. 
 Without friend, city, or home, 
 Death, who dissevers all. 
 
 Him then I praise, who dares 
 
 To self-selected good 
 Prefer obedience to the primal law. 
 Which consecrates the ties of blood ; for these, indeed, 
 
 Are to the Gods a care ; 
 
 That touches but himself. 
 For every day man may be link'd and loosed 
 
 With strangers ; but the bond 
 
 Original, deep-inwound, 
 
 Of blood, can he not bind. 
 
 Nor, if Fate binds, not bear. 
 
 But hush ! Hsemon, whom Antigone, 
 Robbing herself of life in burying. 
 Against Creon's law, Polynices, 
 Robs of a loved bride — pale, imploring, 
 
 Waiting her passage. 
 Forth from the palace hitherward comes. 
 
 II(Bmon 
 
 No, no, old men, Creon, I curse not ! 
 I weep, Thebans, 
 One than Creon crueller far ! 
 For he, he, at least, by slaying her, 
 August laws doth mightily vindicate ; 
 But thou, too-bold, headstrong, pitiless ! 
 Ah me ! — honourest more than thy lover, 
 
 O Antigone ! 
 A dead, ignorant, thankless corpse. 
 
FRAGMENT OF AN "ANTIGONE" 213 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Nor was the love untrue 
 
 Which the Dawn-Goddess bore 
 
 To that fair youth she erst, 
 
 Leaving the salt sea-beds 
 And coming flush'd over the stormy frith 
 
 Of loud Euripus, saw — 
 
 Saw and snatch'd, wild with love, 
 
 From the pine-dotted spurs 
 
 Of Parnes, where thy waves, 
 
 Asopus ! gleam rock-hemm'd — 
 The Hunter of the Tanagraean Field. ^"^ 
 
 But him, in his sweet prime, 
 
 By severance immature. 
 
 By Artemis' soft shafts. 
 
 She, though a Goddess born. 
 Saw in the rocky isle of Delos die. 
 
 Such end o'ertook that love. 
 
 For she desired to make 
 
 Immortal mortal man, 
 
 And blend his happy life. 
 
 Far from the Gods, with hers ; 
 To him postponing an eternal law. 
 
 HcBinon 
 But like me, she, wroth, complaining, 
 Succumb'd to the envy of unkind Gods ; 
 And, her beautiful arms unclasping. 
 Her fair youth unwillingly gave. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Nor, though enthroned too high 
 To fear assault of envious Gods, 
 
214 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 His beloved Argive seer would Zeus retain 
 From his appointed end 
 
 In this our Thebes; but when 
 His flying steeds came near 
 To cross the steep Ismenian glen, 
 The broad earth open'd, and whelm'd them and him ; 
 And through the void air sang 
 At large his enemy's spear. 
 
 And fain would Zeus have saved his tired son 
 
 Beholding him where the Two Pillars stand 
 O'er the sun-redden'd western straits/^ 
 
 Or at his work in that dim lower world. 
 Fain would he have recall'd 
 The fraudulent oath which bound 
 
 To a much feebler wight the heroic man. 
 
 But he preferr'd Fate to his strong desire. 
 Nor did there need less than the burning pile 
 
 Under the towering Trachis crags, 
 And the Spercheios vale, shaken with groans, 
 
 And the roused Maliac gulph, 
 
 And scared CEtaean snows, 
 To achieve his son's deliverance, O my child ! 
 
 FRAGMENT OF CHORUS OF A "DEJANEIRA" 
 
 O FRIVOLOUS mind of man. 
 
 Light ignorance, and hurrying, unsure thoughts ! 
 
 Though man bewails you not, 
 
 How / bewail you ! 
 
 Little in your prosperity 
 
 Do you seek counsel of the Gods. 
 
EARLY DEATH AND FAME 215 
 
 Proud, ignorant, self-adored, you live alone. 
 
 In profound silence stern, 
 
 Among their savage gorges and cold springs, 
 
 Unvisited remain 
 
 The great oracular shrines. 
 
 Thither in your adversity 
 
 Do you betake yourselves for light. 
 
 But strangely misinterpret all you hear. 
 
 For you will not put on 
 
 New hearts with the enquirer's holy robe, 
 
 And purged, considerate minds. 
 
 And him on whom, at the end 
 
 Of toil and dolour untold. 
 
 The Gods have said that repose 
 
 At last shall descend undisturb'd — 
 
 Him you expect to behold 
 
 In an easy old age, in a happy home ; 
 
 No end but this you praise. 
 
 But him, on whom, in the prime 
 
 Of life, with vigour undimm'd, 
 
 With unspent mind, and a soul 
 
 Unworn, undebased, undecay'd. 
 
 Mournfully grating, the gates 
 
 Of the city of death have for ever closed — 
 
 Him^ I count him^ well-starr'd. 
 
 EARLY DEATH AND FAME 
 
 For him who must see many years, 
 
 I praise the life which slips away 
 
 Out of the light and mutely ; which avoids 
 
216 LYRIC l^OEMS 
 
 Fame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife, 
 Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal, 
 Insincere praises ; which descends 
 The quiet mossy track to age 
 
 But, when immature death 
 
 Beckons too early the guest 
 
 From the half-tried banquet of life, 
 
 Young, in the bloom of his days ; 
 
 Leaves no leisure to press, 
 
 Slow and surely, the sweets 
 
 Of a tranquil life in the shade — 
 
 Fuller for him be the hours ! 
 
 Give him emotion, though pain ! 
 
 Let him live, let him feel : / have Hved. 
 
 Heap up his moments with life ! 
 
 Triple his pulses with fame ! 
 
 PHILOMELA 
 
 Hark ! ah, the nightingale — 
 
 The tawny-throated ! 
 
 Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 
 
 What triumph ! hark ! — what pain ! 
 
 O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
 Still, after many years, in distant lands. 
 Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain 
 That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain- 
 Say, will it never heal ? 
 And can this fragrant lawn 
 With its cool trees, and night. 
 And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
 
URANIA 217 
 
 And moonshine, and the dew, 
 To thy rack'd heart and brain 
 Afford no bahii ? 
 
 Dost thou to-night behold, 
 
 Here, through the moonhght on this EngHsh grass, 
 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 
 
 Dost thou again peruse 
 
 With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 
 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame ? 
 
 Dost thou once more assay 
 
 Thy flight, and feel come over thee. 
 
 Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
 
 Opce more, and once more seem to make resound 
 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony. 
 
 Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ? 
 
 Listen, Eugenia — 
 
 How thick the bursts cc^fte crowding through the leaves ! 
 
 Again — thou hearest ? 
 
 Eternal passion ! 
 
 Eternal pain ! ' ^ 
 
 URANIA 
 
 I TOO have suffer'd ; yet I know 
 She is not cold, though she seems so. 
 She is not cold, she is not light ; 
 But our ignoble souls lack might. 
 
 She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 
 While we for hopeless passion die ; 
 Yet she could love, those eyes declare. 
 Were but men nobler than they are. 
 
2i8 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Eagerly once her gracious ken 
 
 Was turn'd upon the sons of men ; 
 
 But Hght the serious visage grew — 
 
 She look'd, and smiled, and saw them through. 
 
 Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
 Our labour'd, puny passion-fits — 
 Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
 Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 
 
 Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers, 
 One of some worthier race than ours ! 
 One for whose sake she once might prove 
 How deeply she who scorns can love. 
 
 His eyes be like the starry lights — 
 His voice like sounds of summer nights — 
 In all his lovely mien let pierce 
 The magic of the universe ! 
 
 And she to him will reach her hand. 
 And gazing in his eyes will stand, 
 And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
 \J And cry : Long^ long Fve looked for thee. 
 
 Then will she weep ; with smiles, till then, 
 Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
 Till then, her lovely eyes maintain 
 Their pure, unwavering, deep disdain. 
 
 EUPHROSYNE ^^ 
 
 I MUST not say that thou wast true. 
 Yet let me say that thou wast fair; 
 And they, that lovely face who view, 
 Why should they ask if truth be there ? 
 
 ^ 
 
CALAIS SANDS 219 
 
 Truth— what is truth? Two bleeding hearts, 
 Wounded by men, by fortune tried, 
 Outwearied with their lonely parts, r 
 
 Vow to beat henceforth side by side. 1 r ^■ 
 
 The world to them was stern and drear 
 Their lot was but to weep and moan. 
 Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, 
 For neither could subsist alone ! 
 
 But souls whom some benignant breath 
 Hath charm'd at birth from gloom and care. 
 These ask no love, these plight no faith, 
 For they are happy as they are. 
 
 The world to them may homage make. 
 And garlands for their forehead weave ; 
 And what the world can give, they take — 
 But they bring more than they receive. 
 
 They shine upon the world ! Their ears 
 To one demand alone are coy ; 
 They will not give us love and tears, 
 They bring us light and warmth and joy. 
 
 It was not love which heaved thy breast, 
 Fair child ! — it was the bliss within. 
 Adieu ! and say that one, at least. 
 Was just to what he did not win. 
 
 CALAIS SANDS 
 
 A THOUSAND knights have rein'd their steeds 
 To watch this line of sand-hills run, 
 Along the never-silent Strait, 
 To Calais glittering in the sun ; 
 
220 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 To look tow'rd Ardres' (iolden Field 
 Across this wide aerial plain, 
 Which glows as if the Middle Age 
 Were gorgeous upon earth again. 
 
 Oh, that to share this famous scene, 
 
 I saw, upon the open sand, 
 
 Thy lovely presence at my side. 
 
 Thy shawl, thy look, thy smile, thy hand ! 
 
 How exquisite thy voice would come. 
 My darling, on this lonely air ! 
 How sweetly would the fresh sea-breeze 
 Shake loose some band of soft brown hair ' 
 
 Yet now my glance but once hath roved 
 O'er Calais and its famous plain ; 
 To England's cliffs my gaze is turn'd, 
 On the blue strait mine eyes I strain. 
 
 Thou comest ! Yes ! the vessel's cloud 
 Hangs dark upon the rolling sea. 
 Oh, that yon sea-bird's wings were mine. 
 To win one instant's glimpse of thee ! . 
 
 I must not spring to grasp thy hand. 
 To woo thy smile, to seek thine eye ; 
 But I may stand far off, and gaze. 
 And watch thee pass unconscious by, 
 
 And spell thy looks, and guess thy thoughts, 
 Mixt with the idlers on the pier. — 
 Ah, might I always rest unseen, 
 So I might have thee always near ! 
 
FADED LEAVES 221 
 
 To-morrow hurry through the fields 
 Of Flanders to the storied Rhine ! 
 To-night those soft-fringed eyes shall close 
 Beneath one roof, my queen ! with mine. 
 
 FADED LEAVES 
 
 I. THE RIVER 
 
 Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat 
 
 Under the rustUng poplars' shade ; 
 
 Silent the swans beside us float — 
 
 None speaks, none heeds ; ah, turn thy head ! 
 
 Let those arch eyes now softly shine, 
 That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland ; 
 Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine ! 
 On mine let rest that lovely hand ! 
 
 My pent-up tears oppress my brain, 
 My heart is swoln with love unsaid. 
 Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain. 
 And on thy shoulder rest my head ! 
 
 Before I die — before the soul. 
 Which now is mine, must re-attain 
 Immunity from my control, 
 And wander round the world again; 
 
 Before this teased o'erlabour'd heart 
 For ever leaves its vain employ, 
 Dead to its deep habitual smart, 
 And dead to hopes of future joy. 
 
222 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 2. TOO LATE 
 
 Each on his own strict line we move, 
 And some find death ere they find love ; 
 So far apart their lives are thrown 
 From the twin soul which halves their own. 
 
 And sometimes, by still harder fate. 
 
 The lovers meet, but meet too late. 
 
 — Thy heart is mine ! — Trtte, true ! ah, true f 
 
 — Then, love, thy hand ! — Ah ?io I adieu ! 
 
 3. SEPARATION 
 
 Stop ! — not to me, at this bitter departing. 
 Speak of the sure consolations of time ! 
 
 Fresh be the wound, still-renew'd be its smarting, 
 So but thy image endure in its prime. 
 
 But, if the stedfast commandment of Nature 
 Wills that remembrance should always decay — 
 
 If the loved form and the deep-cherish'd feature 
 Must, when unseen, from the soul fade away — 
 
 Me let no half-effaced memories cumber ! 
 
 Fled, fled at once, be all vestige of thee ! 
 Deep be the darkness and still be the slumber — 
 
 Dead be the past and its phantoms to me ! 
 
 Then, when we meet, and thy look strays toward me, 
 Scanning my face and the changes wrought there : 
 
 Who, let me say, is this stranger regards me. 
 With the grey eyes, and the lovely brown hair ? 
 
FADED LEAVES 
 
 4. ON THE RHINE 
 
 Vain is the effort to forget. 
 Some day I shall be cold, I know, 
 As is the eternal moonlit snow 
 Of the high Alps, to which I go — 
 But ah, not yet, not yet ! 
 
 Vain is the agony of grief. 
 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot 
 Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, 
 And were it snapt — thou lov'st me not ! 
 But is despair relief? 
 
 Awhile let me with thought have done. 
 And as this brimm'd unwrinkled Rhine, 
 And that far purple mountain-line. 
 Lie sweetly in the look divine 
 Of the slow-sinking sun ; 
 
 So let me lie, and, calm as they, 
 Let beam upon my inward view 
 Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue — 
 Eyes too expressive to be blue, 
 Too lovely to be grey. 
 
 Ah, Quiet, all things feel thy balm ! 
 Those blue hills too, this river's flow, 
 Were restless once, but long ago. 
 Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow; 
 Their joy is in their calm. 
 
 223 
 
224 LYRIC rOEMS 
 
 5. LONGING 
 
 Come to me in my dreams, and then 
 By day I shall be well again ! 
 For then the night will more than pay 
 The hopeless longing of the day. 
 
 Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, 
 A messenger from radiant climes, 
 And smile on thy new world, and be 
 As kind to others as to me ! 
 
 Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, 
 Come now, and let me dream it truth ; 
 And part my hair, and kiss my brow. 
 And say : My love I ivhy sufferest thou ? 
 
 Come to me in my dreams, and then 
 By day I shall be well again ! 
 For then the night will more than pay 
 The hopeless longing of the day. 
 
 DESPONDENCY 
 
 The thoughts that rain their steady glow 
 Like stars on life's cold sea, 
 Which others know, or say they know — 
 They never shone for me. 
 
 ^' Thoughts light, like gleams, my spirit's sky 
 
 But they will not remain. 
 They light me once, they hurry by ; 
 And never come again. 
 
SELF-DECEPTION 225 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION 
 
 Say, what blinds us, that we claim the glory 
 Of possessing powers not our share ? 
 — Since man woke on earth, he knows his story, ^ 
 But, before we woke on earth, we were. 
 
 Long, long since, undower'd yet, our spirit 
 Roam'd, ere birth, the treasuries of God ; 
 Saw the gifts, the powers it might inherit, 
 Ask'd an outfit for its earthly road. 
 
 Then, as now, this tremulous, eager being 
 Strain'd and long'd and grasp'd each gift it sa^ 
 Then, as now, a Power beyond our seeing 
 Staved us back, and gave our choice the law. 
 
 Ah, whose hand that day through Heaven guided 
 Man's new spirit, since it was not we ? 
 Ah, who sway'd our choice, and who decided 
 What our gifts, and what our wants should be ? 
 
 For, alas ! he left us each retaining 
 
 Shreds of gifts which he refused in full. 
 
 Still these waste us with their hopeless straining, 
 
 Still the attempt to use them proves them null. 
 
 And on earth we wander, groping, reeling ; 
 Powers stir in us, stir and disappear. 
 Ah ! and he, who placed our master-feeling) 
 Fail'd to place that master-feeling clear. / 
 
 We but dream we have our wish'd-for powers. 
 Ends we seek we never shall attain. 
 Ah ! some power exists there, which is ours ? 
 So7ne end is there, we indeed may gain ? 
 
 Q 
 
226 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 DOVER BEACH 
 
 The sea is calm to-night. ^ 
 
 The tide is full, the moon lies fair 
 
 Upon the straits ; — on the French coast the light 
 
 Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of England stand, 
 
 Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 
 
 Come to the window, sweet is the night-air ! 
 
 Only, from the long line of spray 
 
 Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, — 
 
 Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
 
 Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 
 
 At their return, up the high strand, 
 
 Begin, and cease, and then again begin. 
 
 With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
 
 The eternal note of sadness in. 
 
 Sophocles long ago 
 
 Heard it on the ^gaean, and it brought 
 
 Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
 
 Of human misery ; we 
 
 Find also in the sound a thought, 
 
 Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 
 
 The Sea of Faith 
 
 Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore 
 
 Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. 
 
 But now I only hear 
 
 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing joar. 
 
 Retreating, to the breath 
 
 Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 
 
 And naked shingles of the world. 
 
GROWING OLD 227 
 
 Ah, love, let us be true 
 
 To one another ! for the world, which seems 
 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams, 
 
 So various, so beautiful, so new. 
 
 Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 
 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ; 
 
 And we are here as on a darkling plain 
 
 Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, 
 
 Where ignorant armies clash by night. 
 
 GROWING OLD 
 
 What is it to grow old ? 
 
 Is it to lose the glory of the form, 
 
 The lustre of the eye ? 
 
 Is it for beauty to forego her wreath ? 
 
 — Yes, but not this alone. 
 
 Is it to feel our strength — 
 
 Not our bloom only, but our strength — decay ? 
 
 Is it to feel each limb 
 
 Grow stiffer, every function less exact, 
 
 Each nerve more loosely strung ? 
 
 Yes, this, and more ; but not 
 
 Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be 
 
 'Tis not to have our life 
 
 Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset-glow, 
 
 A golden day's decline. 
 
 'Tis not to see the world 
 
 As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, 
 
 And heart profoundly stirr'd ; 
 
228 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, 
 The years that are no more. 
 
 It is to spend long days 
 
 And not once feel that we were ever young ; 
 
 It is to add, immured 
 
 In the hot prison of the present, month 
 
 To month with weary pain. 
 
 It is to suffer this, 
 
 And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. 
 
 Deep in our hidden heart 
 
 Festers the dull remembrance of a change, 
 
 But no emotion — none. 
 
 It is — last stage of all — 
 
 When we are frozen up within, and quite 
 
 The phantom of ourselves, 
 
 To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost 
 
 Which blamed the living man. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF POESY 
 
 A VARIATION 
 
 Youth rambles on life's arid mount, 
 And strikes the rock, and finds the vein, 
 And brings the water from the fount. 
 The fount which shall not flow again. 
 
 The man mature with labour chops 
 For the bright stream a channel grand, 
 And sees not that the sacred drops 
 Ran off and vanish'd out of hand. 
 
NEW ROME 229 
 
 And then the old man totters nigh, 
 And feebly rakes among the stones. 
 The mount is mute, the channel dry ; 
 And down he lays his weary bones. 
 
 NEW ROME 
 
 LINES WRITTEN FOR MISS STORY's ALBUM 
 
 The armless Vatican Cupid 
 
 Hangs down his beautiful head ; 
 
 For the priests have got him in prison, 
 And Psyche long has been dead. 
 
 But see, his shaven oppressors 
 
 Begin to quake and disband ! 
 And The Twies, that bright Apollo, 
 
 Proclaims salvation at hand. 
 
 "And what," cries Cupid, "will save us?" 
 Says Apollo : " Modernise Rome ! 
 
 What inns ! Your streets, too, how narrow ! 
 Too much of palace and dome ! 
 
 " O learn of London, whose paupers 
 Are not pushed out by the swells ! 
 
 Wide streets with fine double trottoirs ; 
 And then — the London hotels ! " 
 
 The armless Vatican Cupid 
 
 Hangs down his head as before. 
 
 Through centuries past it has hung so, 
 And will through centuries more. 
 
230 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 PIS-ALLER 
 
 " Man is blind because of sin, 
 Revelation makes him sure ; 
 Without that, who looks within, 
 Looks in vain, for all's obscure." 
 
 Nay, look closer into man ! 
 Tell me, can you find indeed 
 Nothing sure, no moral plan 
 Clear prescribed, without your creed ? 
 
 " No, I nothing can perceive ! 
 Without that, all's dark for men. 
 That, or nothing, I believe." — 
 For God's sake, believe it then ! 
 
 THE LAST WORD 
 
 Creep into thy narrow bed, 
 Creep, and let no more be said ! 
 Vain thy onset ! all stands fast 
 Thou thyself must break at last. 
 
 Let the long contention cease ! 
 Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
 Let them have it how they will ! 
 Thou art tired ; best be still. 
 
 They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee ? 
 Better men fared thus before thee ; 
 Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, 
 Hotly charged — and sank at last. 
 
THE LORD'S MESSENGERS 231 
 
 Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
 Let the victors, when they come, 
 When the forts of folly fall. 
 Find thy body by the wall ! 
 
 THE LORD'S MESSENGERS 
 
 Thus saith the Lord to his own : — 
 " See ye the trouble below ? 
 
 Warfare of man from his birth ! 
 Too long let we them groan ; 
 Haste, arise ye, and go, 
 
 Carry my peace upon earth ! " 
 
 Gladly they rise at his call, 
 Gladly obey his command. 
 Gladly descend to the plain, 
 — Ah ! How few of them all, 
 
 Those willing servants, shall stand 
 In the Master's presence again ! 
 
 Some in the tumult are lost ; 
 Baffled, bewilder'd, they stray. 
 Some, as prisoners, draw breath. 
 Some, unconquer'd, are cross'd 
 (Not yet half through the day) 
 By a pitiless arrow of Death. 
 
 Hardly, hardly shall one 
 
 Come, with countenance bright, 
 
 At the close of day, from the plain ; 
 His Master's errand well done, 
 
 Safe through the smoke of the fight, 
 Back to his Master again. 
 
232 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 A NAMELESS EPITAPH 
 
 Ask not my name, O friend ! 
 
 That Being only, which hath known each man 
 
 From the beginning, can 
 
 Remember each unto the end. 
 
 BACCHANALIA ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE NEW AGE 
 
 I 
 
 The evening comes, the fields are still. 
 The tinkle of the thirsty rill, 
 Unheard all day, ascends again ; 
 Deserted is the half-mown plain. 
 Silent the swaths ! the ringing wain, 
 The mower's cry, the dog's alarms, 
 All housed within the sleeping farms ! 
 The business of the day is done, 
 The last-left haymaker is gone. 
 And from the thyme upon the height, 
 And from the elder-blossom white 
 And pale dog-roses in the hedge, 
 And from the mint-plant in the sedge, 
 In puffs of balm the night-air blows 
 The perfume which the day forgoes. 
 And on the pure horizon far, 
 See, pulsing with the first-born star, 
 The liquid sky above the hill ! 
 The evening comes, the fields are still. 
 
BACCHANALIA ; OR, THE NEW AGE 233 
 
 Loitering and leaping, 
 
 With saunter, with bounds — - 
 
 Flickering and circling 
 
 In files and in rounds — 
 
 Gaily their pine-staff green 
 
 Tossing in air. 
 
 Loose o'er their shoulders white 
 
 Showering their hair — 
 
 See ! the wild Maenads 
 
 Break from the wood, 
 
 Youth and lacchus 
 
 Maddening their blood. 
 
 See ! through the quiet land 
 
 Rioting they pass — 
 
 Fling the fresh heaps about, 
 
 Trample the grass. 
 
 Tear from the rifled hedge 
 
 Garlands, their prize ; 
 
 Fill with their sports the field, 
 
 Fill with their cries. 
 
 Shepherd, what ails thee, then ? 
 Shepherd, why mute? 
 Forth with thy joyous song ! 
 Forth with thy flute ! 
 Tempts not the revel blithe ? 
 Lure not their cries ? 
 Glow not their shoulders smooth ? 
 Melt not their eyes ? 
 Is not, on cheeks like those, 
 Lovely the flush ? 
 — Ah, so the quiet 7vas I 
 So was the hush I 
 
234 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 II 
 
 The epoch ends, the world is still. 
 
 The age has talk'd and work'd its fill — 
 
 The famous orators have shone, 
 
 The famous poets sung and gone, 
 
 The famous men of war have fought, 
 
 The famous speculators thought, 
 
 The famous players, sculptors, wrought, 
 
 The famous painters fill'd their wall. 
 
 The famous critics judged it all. 
 
 The combatants are parted now — 
 
 Uphung the spear, unbent the bow, 
 
 The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low. 
 
 And in the after-silence sweet, 
 
 Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet, 
 
 Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 
 
 Of this or that down-trodden name 
 
 Delicate spirits, push'd away 
 
 In the hot press of the noon-day. 
 
 And o'er the plain, where the dead age 
 
 Did its now silent warfare wage — 
 
 O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, 
 
 Where many a splendour finds its tomb, 
 
 Many spent fames and fallen mights — 
 
 The one or two immortal lights 
 
 Rise slowly up into the sky 
 
 To shine there everlastingly. 
 
 Like stars over the bounding hill. 
 
 The epoch ends, the world is still. 
 
 Thundering and bursting 
 In torrents, in waves — 
 
BACCHANALIA ; OR, THE NEW AGE 235 
 
 Carolling and shouting 
 
 Over tombs, amid graves — 
 
 See ! on the cumber'd plain 
 
 Clearing a stage, 
 
 Scattering the past about, 
 
 Comes the new age. 
 
 Bards make new poems, 
 
 Thinkers new schools, 
 
 Statesmen new systems, 
 
 Critics new rules. 
 
 All things begin again ; 
 
 Life is their prize ; 
 
 Earth with their deeds they fill. 
 
 Fill with their cries. 
 
 Poet, what ails thee, then ? 
 
 Say, why so mute ? 
 
 Forth with thy praising voice ! 
 
 Forth with thy flute ! 
 
 Loiterer ! why sittest thou 
 
 Sunk in thy dream? 
 
 Tempts not the bright new age ? 
 
 Shines not its stream? 
 
 Look, ah, what genius, 
 
 Art, science, wit ! 
 
 Soldiers Hke Caesar, 
 
 Statesmen like Pitt ! 
 
 Sculptors like Phidias, 
 
 Raphaels in shoals, 
 
 Poets like Shakespeare — 
 
 Beautiful souls ! 
 
 See, on their glowing cheeks 
 
 Heavenly the flush ! 
 
236 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 — A/i, so the sile?ice 7vas ! 
 So was the hush ! 
 
 The world but feels the present's spell, 
 The poet feels the past as well ; 
 Whatever men have done, might do, 
 Whatever thought, might think it too. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 
 
 One morn as through Hyde Park we walk'd, 
 
 My friend and I, by chance we talk'd 
 
 Of Lessing's famed Laocoon ; 
 
 And after we awhile had gone 
 
 In Lessing's track, and tried to see 
 
 What painting is, what poetry — 
 
 Diverging to another thought, 
 
 " Ah," cries my friend, " but who hath taught 
 
 Why music and the other arts 
 
 Often er perform aright their parts 
 
 Than poetry ? why she, than they, 
 
 Fewer fine successes can display? 
 
 " For 'tis so, surely ! Even in Greece, 
 Where best the poet framed his piece, 
 Even in that Phoebus-guarded ground 
 Pausanias on his travels found 
 Good poems, if he look'd, more rare 
 (Though many) than good statues were — 
 For these, in truth, were everywhere. 
 Of bards full many a stroke divine 
 
EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 237 
 
 In Dante's, Petrarch's, Tasso's line, 
 The land of Ariosto show'd ; 
 And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'd 
 With triumphs, a yet ampler brood, 
 Of Raphael and his brotherhood. 
 And nobly perfect, in our day 
 Of haste, half-work, and disarray. 
 Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong, 
 Hath risen Goethe's, Wordsworth's song ; 
 Yet even I (and none will bow 
 Deeper to these) must needs allow. 
 They yield us not, to soothe our pains, 
 Such multitude of heavenly strains 
 As from the kings of sound are blown, 
 Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn." 
 
 While thus my friend discoursed, we pass 
 
 Out of the path, and take the grass. 
 
 The grass had still the green of May, 
 
 And still the unblacken'd elms were gay ; 
 
 The kine were resting in the shade, 
 
 The flies a summer-murmur made. 
 
 Bright was the morn and south the air ; 
 
 The soft-couch'd cattle were as fair 
 
 As those which pastured by the sea. 
 
 That old-world morn, in Sicily, 
 
 When on the beach the Cyclops lay. 
 
 And Galatea from the bay 
 
 Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay. 
 
 "Behold," I said, "the painter's sphere ! 
 
 The limits of his art appear. 
 
 The passing group, the summer-morn, 
 
 The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn — 
 
238 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise, 
 Their shining flanks, their Hquid eyes — 
 These, or much greater things, but caught 
 Like these, and in one aspect brought ! 
 In outward semblance he must give 
 A moment's life of things that live ; 
 Then let him choose his moment well. 
 With power divine its story tell." 
 
 Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood. 
 
 And now upon the bridge we stood. 
 
 Full of sweet breathings was the air, 
 
 Of sudden stirs and pauses fair. 
 
 Down o'er the stately bridge the breeze 
 
 Came rustling from the garden-trees 
 
 And on the sparkling waters play'd ; 
 
 Light-plashing waves an answer made. 
 
 And mimic boats their haven near'd. 
 
 Beyond, the Abbey-towers appear'd, 
 
 By mist and chimneys unconfined. 
 
 Free to the sweep of light and wind ; 
 
 While through their earth-moor'd nave below 
 
 Another breath of wind' doth blow, 
 
 Sound as of wandering breeze — but sound 
 
 In laws by human artists bound. 
 
 " The world of music !" I exclaim'd : — 
 
 "This breeze that rustles by, that famed 
 
 Abbey recall it ! what a sphere 
 
 Large and profound, hath genius here ! 
 
 The inspired musician what a range. 
 
 What power of passion, wealth of change ! 
 
 Some source of feeling he must choose 
 
 And its lock'd fount of beauty use, 
 
EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 239 
 
 And through the stream of music tell 
 Its else unutterable spell ; 
 To choose it rightly is his part, 
 And press into its inmost heart. 
 
 " Miserere^ Do mine ! 
 
 The words are utter'd, and they flee. 
 
 Deep is their penitential moan, 
 
 Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone. 
 
 They have declared the spirit's sore 
 
 Sore load, and words can do no more. 
 
 Beethoven takes them then — those two 
 
 Poor, bounded words — and makes them new ; 
 
 Infinite makes them, makes them young ; 
 
 Transplants them to another tongue. 
 
 Where they can now, without constraint. 
 
 Pour all the soul of their complaint. 
 
 And roll adown a channel large 
 
 The wealth divine they have in charge. 
 
 Page after page of music turn. 
 
 And still they live and still they burn, 
 
 Eternal, passion-fraught, and free — 
 
 Miserere^ Domine P^ 
 
 Onward we moved, and reach'd the Ride 
 
 Where gaily flows the human tide. 
 
 Afar, in rest the cattle lay ; 
 
 We heard, afar, faint music play ; 
 
 But agitated, brisk, and near, 
 
 Men, with their stream of life, were here. 
 
 Some hang upon the rails, and some 
 
 On foot behind them go and come. 
 
 This through the Ride upon his steed 
 
 Goes slowly by, and this at speed. 
 
240 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 The young, the happy, and the fair. 
 The old, the sad, the worn, were there ; 
 Some vacant, and some musing went, 
 And some in talk and merriment. 
 Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells ! 
 And now and then, perhaps, there swells 
 A sigh, a tear — but in the throng 
 All changes fast, and hies along. 
 Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground ? 
 And to what goal, what ending, bound ? 
 * " Behold, at last the poet's sphere ! 
 
 But who," I said, "suffices here? 
 
 " For, ah ! so much he has to do ; 
 Be painter and musician too ! 
 The aspect of the moment show, 
 The feeling of the moment know ! 
 The aspect not, I grant, express 
 Clear as the painter's art can dress ; 
 The feeling not, I grant, explore 
 So deep as the musician's lore — 
 But clear as words can make revealing. 
 And deep as words can follow feeling. 
 But, ah ! then comes his sorest spell 
 Of toil — he must life's movement tell ! 
 The thread which binds it all in one, 
 And not its separate parts alone. 
 The movement he must tell of life. 
 Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife ; 
 His eye must travel down, at full. 
 The long, unpausing spectacle; 
 With faithful unrelaxing force 
 Attend it from its primal source, 
 
EPILOGUE TO LESSING'S LAOCOON 241 
 
 From change to change and year to year 
 Attend it of its mid career, 
 Attend it to the last repose 
 And solemn silence of its close. 
 
 "The cattle rising from the grass 
 
 His thought must follow where they pass ; 
 
 The penitent with anguish bow'd 
 
 His thought must follow through the crowd. 
 
 Yes ! all this eddying, motley throng 
 
 That sparkles in the sun along, 
 
 Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold, 
 
 Master and servant, young and old. 
 
 Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife, 
 
 He follows home, and lives their life. 
 
 " And many, many are the souls 
 Life's movement fascinates, controls ; 
 It draws them on, they cannot save 
 Their feet from its alluring wave ; 
 They cannot leave it, they must go 
 With its unconquerable flow. 
 But ah ! how few, of all that try 
 This mighty march, do aught but die ! 
 For ill-endow'd for such a way. 
 Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they. 
 They faint, they stagger to and fro, 
 And wandering from the stream they go ; 
 In pain, in terror, in distress, 
 They see, all round, a wilderness. 
 Sometimes a momentary gleam 
 They catch of the mysterious stream ; 
 Sometimes, a second's space, their ear 
 The murmur of its waves doth hear. 
 
 R 
 
242 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 That transient glimpse in song they say. 
 But not as painter can pourtray — 
 That transient sound in song they tell. 
 But not, as the musician, well. 
 And when at last their snatches cease, 
 And they are silent and at peace, 
 The stream of life's majestic whole 
 Hath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul. 
 
 " Only a few the life-stream's shore 
 AVith safe unwandering feet explore; 
 Untired its movement bright attend, 
 Follow its windings to the end. 
 Then from its brimming waves their eye 
 Drinks up delighted ecstasy. 
 And its deep-toned, melodious voice 
 For ever makes their ear rejoice. 
 They speak ! the happiness divine 
 They feel, runs o'er in every line ; 
 Its spell is round them like a shower — 
 It gives them pathos, gives them power. 
 No painter yet hath such a way. 
 Nor no musician made, as they, 
 And gather'd on immortal knolls 
 Such lovely flowers for cheering souls. 
 Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach 
 The charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teach- 
 To these, to these, their thankful race 
 Gives, then, the first, the fairest place ; 
 And brightest is their glory's sheen, 
 For greatest hath their labour been," 
 
THE YOUTH OF NATURE 245 
 
 PERSISTENCY OF POETRY 
 
 Though the Muse be gone away, 
 Though she move not earth to-day, 
 Souls, erewhile who caught her word, 
 Ah ! still harp on what they heard. 
 
 A CAUTION TO POETS 
 
 What poets feel not, when they make, 
 
 A pleasure in creating, 
 The world, in its turn, will not take 
 
 Pleasure in contemplating. 
 
 THE YOUTH OF NATURE 
 
 Raised are the dripping oars, 
 
 Silent the boat ! the lake, 
 
 Lovely and soft as a dream. 
 
 Swims in the sheen of the moon. 
 
 The mountains stand at its head 
 
 Clear in the pure June-night, 
 
 But the valleys are flooded with haze. 
 
 Rydal and Fairfield are there ; 
 
 In the shadow Wordsworth lies dead. 
 
 So it is, so it will be for aye. 
 
 Nature is fresh as of old, 
 
 Is lovely ; a mortal is dead. 
 
 The spots which recall him survive, 
 For he lent a new life to these hills. 
 The Pillar still broods o'er the fields 
 
244 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Which border Ennerdale Lake, 
 And Egremont sleeps by the sea. 
 The gleam of The Evening Star 
 Twinkles on Grasmere no more, 
 But ruin'd and solemn and grey 
 The sheepfold of Michael survives ; 
 And, far to the south, the heath 
 Still blows in the Quantock coombs, 
 By the favourite waters of Ruth. 
 These survive ! — yet not without pain, 
 Pain and dejection to-night, 
 Can I feel that their poet is gone. 
 
 He grew old in an age he condemn'd. 
 
 He look'd on the rushing decay 
 
 Of the times which had shelter'd his youth 
 
 Felt the dissolving throes 
 
 Of a social order he loved ; 
 
 Outlived his brethren, his peers ; 
 
 And, like the Theban seer, 
 
 Died in his enemies' day. 
 
 Cold bubbled the spring of Tilphusa, 
 Copais lay bright in the moon, 
 Helicon glass'd in the lake 
 Its firs, and afar rose the peaks 
 Of Parnassus, snowily clear ; 
 Thebes was behind him in flames. 
 And the clang of arms in his ear, 
 When his awe-struck captors led 
 The Theban seer to the spring. 
 Tiresias drank and died. 
 Nor did reviving Thebes 
 See such a prophet again. 
 
THE YOUTH OF NATURE 245 
 
 Well may we mourn, when the head 
 
 Of a sacred poet lies low 
 
 In an age which can rear them no more ! 
 
 The complaining millions of men 
 
 Darken in labour and pain ; 
 
 But he was a priest to us all 
 
 Of the wonder and bloom of the world, 
 
 Which we saw with his eyes, and were glad. 
 
 He is dead, and the fruit-bearing day 
 
 Of his race is past on the earth ; 
 
 And darkness returns to our eyes. 
 
 For, oh ! is it you, is it you. 
 
 Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, 
 
 And mountains, that fill us with joy. 
 
 Or the poet who sings you so well ? 
 
 Is it you, O beauty, O grace, 
 
 O charm, O romance, that we feel. 
 
 Or the voice which reveals what you are ? 
 
 Are ye, like daylight and sun, 
 
 Shared and rejoiced in by all ? 
 
 Or are ye immersed in the mass 
 
 Of matter, and hard to extract, 
 
 Or sunk at the core of the world 
 
 Too deep for the most to discern ? 
 
 Like stars in the deep of the sky, 
 
 Which arise on the glass of the sage, 
 
 But are lost when their watcher is gone. 
 
 "They are here " — I heard, as men heard 
 
 In Mysian Ida the voice 
 
 Of the Mighty Mother, or Crete, 
 
 The murmur of Nature reply — 
 
246 ■ LYRIC POEMS 
 
 " Loveliness, magic, and grace, 
 They are here ! they are set in the world, 
 They abide ; and the finest of souls 
 Hath not been thrill'd by them all, 
 Nor the dullest been dead to them quite. 
 The poet who sings them may die, 
 But they are immortal and live. 
 For they are the life of the world. 
 Will ye not learn it, and know, 
 When ye mourn that a poet is dead, 
 That the singer was less than his themes, 
 Life, and emotion, and I ? 
 
 " More than the singer are these. 
 
 Weak is the tremor of pain 
 
 That thrills in his mournfuUest chord 
 
 To that which once ran through his soul. 
 
 Cold the elation of joy 
 
 In his gladdest, airiest song. 
 
 To that which of old in his youth 
 
 Fiird him and made him divine. 
 
 Hardly his voice at its best 
 
 Gives us a sense of the awe, 
 
 The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom 
 
 Of the unlit gulph of himself. 
 
 " Ye know not yourselves ; and your bards- 
 The clearest, the best, who have read 
 Most in themselves — have beheld 
 Less than they left unreveal'd. 
 Ye express not yourselves ; — can you make 
 With marble, with colour, with word, 
 What charm'd you in others re-live ? 
 Can thy pencil, O artist ! restore 
 
THE YOUTH OF MAN 247 
 
 The figure, the bloom of thy love, 
 As she was in her morning of spring ? 
 Canst thou paint the ineffable smile 
 Of her eyes as they rested on thine ? 
 Can the image of life have the glow, 
 The motion of life itself? 
 
 " Yourselves and your fellows ye know not ; and me, 
 
 The mateless, the one, will ye know ? 
 
 Will ye scan me, and read me, and tell 
 
 Of the thoughts that ferment in my breast. 
 
 My longing, my sadness, my joy ? 
 
 Will ye claim for your great ones the gift 
 
 To have render'd the gleam of my skies, 
 
 To have echoed the moan of my seas, 
 
 Utter'd the voice of my hills ? 
 
 When your great ones depart, will ye say : 
 
 All things have suffered a loss, 
 
 Nature is hid in their grave ? 
 
 " Race after race, man after man, 
 
 Have thought that my secret was theirs, 
 
 Have dream 'd that I lived but for them, 
 
 That they were my glory and joy. 
 
 — They are dust, they are changed, they are gone ! 
 
 I remain." 
 
 THE YOUTH OF MAN 
 
 We, O Nature, depart. 
 Thou survivest us ! this, 
 This, I know, is the law. 
 Yes ! but more than this, 
 Thou who seest us die 
 
248 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Seest us change while we live ; 
 Seest our dreams, one by one, 
 Seest our errors depart ; 
 Watchest us. Nature ! throughout, 
 Mild and inscrutably calm. 
 
 Well for us that we change ! 
 Well for us that the power 
 Which in our morning-prime 
 Saw the mistakes of our youth, 
 Sweet, and forgiving, and good, 
 Sees the contrition of age ! 
 
 Behold, O Nature, this pair ! 
 See them to-night where they stand, 
 Not with the halo of youth 
 Crowning their brows with its light, 
 Not with the sunshine of hope. 
 Not with the rapture of spring, 
 Which they had of old, when they stood 
 Years ago at my side 
 In this self-same garden, and said : 
 " We are young, and the world is ours ; 
 Man, man is the king of the world ! 
 Fools that these mystics are 
 Who prate of Nature ! for she 
 Hath neither beauty, nor warmth. 
 Nor life, nor emotion, nor power. 
 But man has a thousand gifts. 
 And the generous dreamer invests 
 The senseless world with them all. 
 Nature is nothing ; her charm 
 Lives in our eyes which can paint. 
 Lives in our hearts which can feel." 
 
THE YOUTH OF MAN 249 
 
 Thou, O Nature, wast mute. 
 
 Mute as of old ! days flew, 
 
 Days and years ; and Time 
 
 With the ceaseless stroke of his wings 
 
 Brush'd off the bloom from their soul. 
 
 Clouded and dim grew their eye, 
 
 Languid their heart — for youth 
 
 Quicken'd its pulses no more. 
 
 Slowly, within the walls 
 
 Of an ever-narrowing world, 
 
 They droop'd, they grew blind, they grew old. 
 
 Thee and their youth in thee. 
 
 Nature ! they saw no more. 
 
 Murmur of living, 
 
 Stir of existence. 
 
 Soul of the world ! 
 
 Make, oh, make yourselves felt 
 
 To the dying spirit of youth ! 
 
 Come, like the breath of the spring ! 
 
 Leave not a human soul 
 
 To grow old in darkness and pain ! 
 
 Only the living can feel you. 
 
 But leave us not while we live ! 
 
 Here they stand to-night — 
 
 Here, where this grey balustrade 
 
 Crowns the still valley ; behind 
 
 Is the castled house, with its woods. 
 
 Which shelter'd their childhood — the sun 
 
 On its ivied windows ; a scent 
 
 From the grey-wall'd gardens, a breath 
 
 Of the fragrant stock and the pink. 
 
250 LYRIC rOEMS 
 
 Perfumes the evening air. 
 
 Their children play on the lawns. 
 
 They stand and listen ; they hear 
 
 The children's shouts, and at times, 
 
 Faintly, the bark of a dog 
 
 From a distant farm in the hills. 
 
 Nothing besides ! in front 
 
 The wide, wide valley outspreads 
 
 To the dim horizon, reposed 
 
 In the twilight, and bathed in dew, 
 
 Corn-field and hamlet and copse 
 
 Darkening fast ; but a light, 
 
 Far off, a glory of day, 
 
 Still plays on the city spires ; 
 
 And there in the dusk by the walls. 
 
 With the grey mist marking its course 
 
 Through the silent, flowery land. 
 
 On, to the plains, to the sea, 
 
 Floats the imperial stream. 
 
 Well I know what they feel ! 
 They gaze, and the evening wind 
 Plays on their faces ; they gaze — 
 Airs from the Eden of youth 
 Awake and stir in their soul ; 
 The past returns — they feel 
 What they are, alas ! what they were. 
 They, not Nature, are changed. 
 Well I know what they feel ! 
 
 Hush, for tears 
 
 Begin to steal to their eyes ! 
 
 Hush, for fruit 
 
 Grows from such sorrow as theirs ! 
 
PALLADIUM 251 
 
 And they remember, 
 With piercing, untold anguish, 
 The proud boasting of their youth. 
 And they feel how Nature was fair. 
 And the mists of delusion, 
 And the scales of habit, 
 Fall away from their eyes ; 
 And they see, for a moment, 
 Stretching out, like the desert 
 In its weary, unprofitable length. 
 Their faded, ignoble lives. 
 
 While the locks are yet brown on thy head, 
 
 While the soul still looks through thine eyes, 
 
 While the heart still pours 
 
 The mantUng blood to thy cheek, . ,-, 
 
 Sink, O youth, in thy soul ! Cy^^^ \^ 
 
 Yearn to the greatness of Nature ; 
 
 Rally the good in the depths of thyself ! 
 
 />V 
 
 PALLADIUM 
 
 Set where the upper streams of Simois flow 
 Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood ; 
 And Hector was in Ilium, far below, 
 And fought, and saw it not — but there it stood ! 
 
 It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light 
 On the pure columns of its glen-built hall. 
 Backward and forward roll'd the waves of fight 
 Round Troy — but while this stood, Troy could not fall. 
 
 So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul. 
 Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; 
 
252 LYRIC rOEMS 
 
 Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll ; 
 We visit it by moments, ah, too rare ! 
 
 We shall renew the battle in the plain 
 To-morrow ; — red with blood will Xanthus be ; 
 Hector and Ajax will be there again, 
 Helen will come upon the wall to see. 
 
 Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife, 
 And fluctuate 'twixt bHnd hopes and blind despairs. 
 And fancy that we put forth all our life. 
 And never know how with the soul it fares. 
 
 Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high. 
 Upon our life a ruling effluence send. 
 And when it fails, fight as we will, we die ; 
 And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end. 
 
 PROGRESS 
 
 The Master stood upon the mount, and taught. 
 He saw a fire in his disciples' eyes ; 
 " The old law," they cried, " is wholly come to nought. 
 Behold the new world rise ! " 
 
 " Was it," the Lord then said, " with scorn ye saw 
 The old law observed by Scribes and Pharisees ? 
 I say unto you, see ye keep that law 
 More faithfully than these ! 
 
 " Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas ! 
 Think not that I to annul the law have will'd ; 
 No jot, no tittle from the law shall pass, 
 Till all have been fulfill'd." 
 
PROGRESS 
 
 253 
 
 So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago. 
 And what then shall be said to those to-day, 
 Who cry aloud to lay the old world low 
 To clear the new world's way ? 
 
 " Religious fervours ! ardour misapplied ! 
 Hence, hence," they cry, "ye do but keep man blind! 
 But keep him self-immersed, preoccupied. 
 And lame the active mind ! " 
 
 Ah ! from the old world let some one answer give : 
 " Scorn ye this w^orld, their tears, their inward cares ? 
 I say unto you, see that your souls live 
 A deeper life than theirs ! 
 
 " Say ye : ' The spirit of man has found new roads. 
 And we must leave the old faiths, and walk therein 7 — 
 Leave then the Cross as ye have left carved gods, 
 But guard the fire within ! 
 
 "Bright else and fast the stream of Hfe may roll, 
 And no man may the other's hurt behold ; 
 Yet each will have one anguish — his own soul 
 Which perishes of cold." 
 
 Here let that voice make end ; then, let a strain. 
 From a far lonelier distance, like the wind 
 Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill again 
 These men's profoundest mind : 
 
 " Children of men ! the unseen Power, whose eye 
 For ever doth accompany mankind, 
 Hath look'd on no religion scornfully 
 That men did ever find. 
 
 "Which has not taught weak wills how much they can? 
 Which has not fall'n on the dry heart like rain ? 
 
254 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man : 
 Thoii viust be born agaifi ! 
 
 " Children of men ! not that your age excel 
 In pride of life the ages of your sires, 
 But that ye think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well, 
 The Friend of man desires." 
 
 REVOLUTIONS 
 
 Before man parted for this earthly strand, 
 AMiile yet upon the verge of heaven he stood, 
 God put a heap of letters in his hand, 
 And bade him make with them what word he could. 
 
 And man has turn'd them many times ; made Greece, 
 Rome, England, France ; — yes, nor in vain essay'd 
 Way after way, changes that never cease ! 
 The letters have combined, something was made. 
 
 But ah ! an inextinguishable sense 
 Haunts him that he has not made what he should ; 
 That he has still, though old, to recommence, 
 Since he has not yet found the word God would. 
 
 And empire after empire, at their height 
 Of sway, have felt this boding sense come on ; 
 Have felt their huge frames not constructed right. 
 And droop'd, and slowly died upon their throne. 
 
 One day, thou say'st, there will at last appear 
 The word, the order, which God meant should be. 
 — Ah ! we shall know that well when it comes near ; 
 The band will quit man's heart, he will breathe free. 
 
SELF-DEPENDENCE 255 
 
 V 
 
 SELF-DEPENDENCE ^ 
 
 Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
 What I am, and what I ought to be, 
 At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
 Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 
 
 And a look of passionate desire •L-o'^^ 
 
 O'er the sea and to the stars I send : vj ^ 
 
 " Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, 
 
 Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! ~ M^cruUij' ^-^^ J^ 
 
 "Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, ^""^^jr. 
 On my heart your mighty charm renew ; '^i/W-^^ 
 Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, , ^i'^''; 
 
 Feel my soul becoming vast like you !" a>-^'-^-' 
 
 From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 
 
 Over the lit sea's unquiet way. 
 
 In the rustling night-air came the answer : A.'<u^ tJ^^-^ , " " ^"^ 
 
 " Wouldst thou be as these are ? Live as they, '^'* 
 
 " Unaffrighted by the silence round them, 
 Undistracted by the sights they see, '^^l"^ j^lJ.^ 
 
 These demand not that the things without them iwiJUtjii^ 
 Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 
 
 " And with joy the stars perform their shining, 
 And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll ; 
 For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
 All the fever of some differing soul. 
 
 " Bounde d-bv themselves, and unregardful 
 In what state God's other works may be, 
 In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
 These attain the mighty life you see." 
 
256 LYRIC rOEMS 
 
 O air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
 A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : 
 "Resolve to be thyself; and know that_he^ 
 Who finds Jhimself, loses his misery !" 
 
 MORALITY 
 
 We cannot kindle when we will 
 
 The fire which in the heart resides ; 
 
 The spirit bloweth and is still, 
 
 In mystery our soul abides. 
 
 But tasks in hours of insight will'd 
 Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd. 
 
 With aching hands and bleeding feet 
 We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; 
 We bear the burden and the heat 
 Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. 
 Not till the hours of light return, 
 All we have built do w^e discern. 
 
 Then, when the clouds are off the soul, 
 When thou dost bask in Nature's eye. 
 Ask, how she view'd thy self-control. 
 Thy struggling, task'd morality — 
 
 Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air. 
 Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. 
 
 And she, whose censure thou dost dread. 
 
 Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 
 
 See, on her face a glow is spread, 
 
 A strong emotion on her cheek ! 
 
 " Ah, child !" she cries, " that strife divine, 
 Whence was it, for it is not mine ? 
 
A SUMMER NIGHT 257 
 
 " There is no effort on piy brow — 
 I do not strive, I do not weep ; 
 I rush with the swift spheres and glow 
 In joy, and when I will, I sleep. 
 
 Yet that severe, that earnest air, 
 
 I saw, I felt it once — but where ? 
 
 " I knew not yet the gauge of time, 
 Nor wore the manacles of space ; 
 I felt it in some other clime, 
 I saw it in some other place. 
 
 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod. 
 
 And lay upon the breast of God." 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 In the deserted, moon-blanch'd street, 
 
 How lonely rings the echo of my feet ! 
 
 Those windows, which I gaze at, frown. 
 
 Silent and white, unopening down, 
 
 Repellent as the world ; — but see, 
 
 A break between the housetops shows 
 
 The moon ! and, lost behind her, fading dim 
 
 Into the dewy dark obscurity 
 
 Down at the far horizon's rim, 
 
 Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose I 
 
 And to my mind the thought 
 
 Is on a sudden brought 
 
 Of a past night, and a far different scene. 
 
 Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep 
 
 As clearly as at noon ; 
 
 The spring-tide's brimming flow 
 
 Heaved dazzlingly between ; 
 
258 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Houses, with long white sweep, 
 Girdled the glistening bay ; 
 Behind, through the soft air, 
 The blue haze-cradled mountains spread away, 
 ^ The night was far more fair — 
 
 But the same restless pacings to and fro, 
 
 And the same vainly throbbing heart was there, 
 
 And the same bright, calm moon. 
 
 J- And the calm moonhght seems to say : 
 Hast thou ihe?i still the old unquiet breast^ 
 Which neither deadens into rest, 
 Nor ever feels the fiery gloiv 
 That whirls the spirit from itself away ^ 
 But fluctuates to andfro^ 
 Never by passion quite possess' d 
 And never quite beniwiFd by the world's sway ? — 
 And I, I know not if to pray 
 Still to be what I am, or yield and be 
 Like all the other men I see. 
 
 For most men in a brazen prison live, 
 Where, in the sun's hot eye. 
 With heads bent o'er their toil, they languidly 
 Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork give, 
 Dreaming of nought beyond their prison-wall. 
 And as, year after year. 
 Fresh products of their barren labour fall 
 From their tired hands, and rest 
 Never yet comes more near, 
 Gloom settles slowly down over their breast ; 
 And while they try to stem 
 The waves of mournful thought by which they 
 are prest, 
 
A SUMMER NIGHT 259 
 
 Death in their prison reaches them, 
 Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest. 
 
 And the rest, a few, 
 
 Escape their prison and depart 
 
 On the wide ocean of life anew. 
 
 There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart 
 
 Listeth, will sail ; 
 
 Nor doth he know how there prevail, 
 
 Despotic on that sea, 
 
 Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. 
 
 Awhile he holds some false way, undebarr'd 
 
 By thwarting signs, and braves 
 
 The freshening wind and blackening waves. 
 
 And then the tempest strikes him ; and between 
 
 The lightning-bursts is seen 
 
 Only a driving wreck, 
 
 And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck 
 
 With anguish'd face and flying hair 
 
 Grasping the rudder hard, 
 
 Still bent to make some port he knows not where, 
 
 Still standing for some false, impossible shore. 
 
 And sterner comes the roar 
 
 Of sea and wind, and through the deepening gloom 
 
 Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman loom, 
 
 And he too disappears, and comes no more. 
 
 Is there no life, but these alone ? 
 Madman or slave, must man be one ? 
 
 Plainness and clearness without shadow of stain ! 
 Clearness divine ! 
 
 Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign 
 Of languor, though so calm, and, though so great, 
 
26o LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Are yet untroubled and unpassionate ; 
 
 Who, though so noble, share in the world's toil, 
 
 And, though so task'd, keep free from dust and soil ! 
 
 I will not say that your mild deeps retain 
 
 A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain 
 
 Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd in vain — 
 
 But I will rather say that you remain 
 
 A world above man's head, to let him see 
 
 How boundless might his soul's horizons be, 
 
 How vast, yet of what clear transparency ! 
 
 How it were good to abide there, and breathe free ; 
 
 How fair a lot to fill 
 
 Is left to each man still ! 
 
 THE BURIED LIFE 
 
 Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet. 
 
 Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet ! . 
 
 I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 
 
 Yes, yes, we know that we can jest. 
 
 We know, we know that we can smile ! 
 
 But there's a something in this breast, ^^ 
 
 To which thy light words bring no rest, ^-^^ oj.^ 
 
 And thy gay smiles no anodyne. ^ 
 
 Give me thy hand, and hush awhile. 
 
 And turn those limpid eyes on mine. 
 
 And let me read there, love ! thy inmost soul. 
 
 Alas ! is even love too weak 
 To unlock the heart, and let it speak ? 
 Are even lovers powerless to reveal 
 To one another what indeed they feel ? 
 
THE BURIED LIFE 261 
 
 ' I knew the mass of men conceal'd 
 
 Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd 
 
 They would by other men be met 
 
 With blank indifference, or with blame reproved ; 
 ^ I knew they lived and moved *^ 
 
 Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest 
 
 Of men, and alien to themselves — and yet 
 
 The same heart beats in every human breast ! - 
 
 Eut we, my love ! — doth a like spell benumb 
 Our hearts, our voices ? — must we too be dumb ? 
 
 Ah ! well for us, if even we. 
 
 Even for a moment, can get free 
 
 Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd ; 
 
 For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd ! 
 
 Fate^. which foresaw 
 
 How frivolous a baby man would be — 
 
 By what distractions he would be possess'd, 
 
 How he would pour himself in every strife, 
 
 And well-nigh change his own identity — 
 
 That iF might keep from his capricious play 
 
 His genuine self, and force him to obey 
 
 Ev£n in his own despite his being's law. 
 
 Bade through the deep recesses of our breast ^ 
 
 The unregarded river of our life 
 
 Pursue with indiscernible flow its way ; 
 
 And that we should not see ^^^~-^\^ujS^ 
 
 The buried stream, and seem to be ^..sae 
 
 Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, 
 
 Though driving on with it eternally. 
 
 But often, in the world's most crowded streets, * 
 But often, in the din of strife, 
 
v; 
 
 C 
 
 262 ' LYRIC POEMS 
 
 There rises an unspeakable desire 
 I After the knowledge of our buried life ; 
 I A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 
 I In tracking out our true, original course ; 
 A longing to inquire 
 
 Into the mystery of this heart which beats 
 So wild, so deep in us — to know 
 Whence our lives come and where they go. 
 \ And many a man in his own breast then delves, ~^ 
 But deep enough, alas ! none ever mines. , 
 And we have been on many thousand lines, 
 And we have shown, on each, spirit and power ; 
 But hardly have we, for one little hour, 
 Been on our own line, have we been ourselves — 
 
 L Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
 The nameless feelings that course through our breast. 
 But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 
 And long w^e try in vain to speak and act 
 Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
 ^- Is eloquent, is well — but 'tis not truej_ 
 And then we will no more be rack'd 
 With inward striving, and demand 
 Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
 Their stupefying power ; 
 Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call ! 
 Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, 
 From the soul's subterranean depth upborne 
 As from an infinitely distant land. 
 Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey 
 A melancholy into all our day. 
 
 Only — but this is rare — 
 
 When a beloved hand is laid in ours. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS 263 
 
 When, jaded with the rush and glare 
 
 Of the interminable hours, 
 
 Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 
 
 When our world-deafen'd ear 
 
 Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd — 
 
 A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, ^ 
 
 And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. 
 
 The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, 
 
 And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. 
 
 A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 
 
 And hears its winding murmur ; and he sees 
 
 The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 
 
 And there arrives a lull in the hot race 
 Wherein he doth for ever chase 
 That flying and elusive shadow, rest. 
 An air of coolness plays upon hip face, 
 And an unwonted calm pervades his breast- 
 And then he thinks he knows 
 The hills where his life rose, 
 And the sea where it goes. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS 
 
 In this lone, open glade I lie, 
 
 Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand ; 
 
 And at its end, to stay the eye. 
 
 Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand ! 
 
 Birds here make song, each bird has his, 
 Across the girdling city's hum. 
 
264 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 How green under the boughs it is ! 
 
 How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come ! 
 
 Sometimes a child will cross the glade 
 To take his nurse his broken toy ; 
 Sometimes a thrush flit overhead 
 Deep in her unknown day's employ. 
 
 Here at my feet what wonders pass, 
 What endless, active life is here ! 
 What blowing daisies, fragrant grass .' 
 An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear 
 
 Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod 
 Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out, 
 And, eased of basket and of rod, 
 Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. 
 
 In the huge world, which roars hard by, 
 i Be others happy if they can ! 
 But in my helpless cradle I 
 Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 
 
 I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 
 Think often, as I hear them rave. 
 That peace has left the upper world 
 And now keeps qnly in the grave. 
 
 Yet here is peace for ever new ! 
 When I who watch them am away, 
 Still all things in this glade go through 
 The changes of their quiet day. 
 
 Then to their happy rest they pass ! 
 The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, 
 The night comes down upon the grass, 
 The child sleeps warmly in his bed. 
 
f.i' 
 
 A WISH 265 
 
 Calm soul of all things ! make it mine 
 To feel, amid the city's jar, 
 That there abides a peace of thine, 
 Man did not make, and cannot mar. 
 
 The will to neither strive nor cry, 
 -The power to feel with others give ! - -^'M- 
 
 Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die 
 Before I have begun to live. 
 
 A WISH 
 
 I ASK not that my bed of death 
 From bands of greedy heirs be free : 
 For these besiege the latest breath 
 Of fortune's favour'd sons, not me. 
 
 I ask not each kind soul to keep 
 Tearless, when of my death he hears. 
 Let those who will, if any, weep ! 
 There are worse plagues on earth than tears. 
 
 I ask but that my death may find 
 The freedom to my life denied ; 
 Ask but the folly of mankind 
 Then, then at last, to quit my side. 
 
 Spare me the whispering, crowded room. 
 The friends who come, and gape, and go ; 
 The ceremonious air of gloom — 
 All, which makes death a hideous show ! 
 
 Nor bring, to see me cease to live, 
 Some doctor full of phrase and fame. 
 To shake his sapient head, and give 
 The ill he cannot cure a name. 
 
266 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 Nor fetch, to take the accustom'd toll 
 Of the poor sinner bound for death, 
 His brother-doctor of the soul, 
 To canvass with official breath 
 
 The future and its viewless things — 
 
 That undiscover'd mystery 
 
 Which one who feels death's winnowing wings 
 
 Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 
 
 Bring none of these ; but let me be, 
 While all around in silence lies,' 
 Moved to the window near, and see 
 Once more, before my dying eyes. 
 
 Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
 The wide aerial landscape spread — 
 The world which was ere I was born. 
 The world which lasts when I am dead ; 
 
 Which never was the friend of one^ 
 Nor promised love it could not give. 
 But lit for all its generous sun. 
 And lived itself, and made us live. 
 
 There let me gaze, till I become 
 In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! 
 To feel the universe my home ; 
 To have before my mind — instead 
 
 Of the sick room, the mortal strife. 
 The turmoil for a little breath — 
 The pure eternal course of life. 
 Not human combatings with death ! 
 
THE FUTURE 267 
 
 Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow 
 Composed, refresh'd, ennobled, clear; 
 Then willing let my spirit go 
 To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 
 
 THE FUTURE 
 
 .•"V>- 
 
 ^ 
 
 y 
 
 'V 
 
 A WANDERER is man from his birth. 
 
 He was born in a ship I [; /-. 
 
 On the breast of the river of Time ; 
 
 Brimming with wonder and joy 
 
 He spreads out his arms to the light. 
 
 Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. 
 
 As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. 
 Whether he wakes, ^y> 
 
 Where the snowy mountainous pass, I y. 
 
 Echoing the screams of the eagles, ^ ^ 
 
 Hems in its gorges the bed r 
 
 Of the new-born clear-flowing stream ; 
 Whether he first sees light 
 Where the river in gleaming rings 
 Sluggishly winds through the plain ; 
 Whether in sound of the swallowing sea — 
 As is the world on the banks, 
 
 So is the mind of the man. 
 
 / 
 Vainly does each, as he glides, 'A- J- ' *' 
 
 Fable and dream /^ 
 
 Of the lands which the river of Time 
 
 Had left ere he w^oke on its breast, p 
 
 Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. 
 
268 LYRIC rOEMS 
 
 Only the tract where he sails 
 
 He wots of; only the thoughts, 
 
 Raised by the objects he passes, are his. 
 
 Who can see the green earth any more 
 
 As she was by the sources of Time ? 
 
 Who imagines her fields as they lay 
 
 In the sunshine, unworn by the plough ? 
 
 Who thinks as they thought, 
 
 The tribes who then roam'd on her breast. 
 
 Her vigorous, primitive sons ? 
 
 What girl 
 
 Now reads in her bosom as clear 
 
 As Rebekah read, when she sate 
 
 At eve by the palm-shaded well ? 
 
 Who guards in her breast 
 
 As deep, as pellucid a spring 
 
 Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ? 
 
 What bard, 
 At the height of his vision, can deem 
 Of God, of the world, of the soul. 
 With a plainness as near, 
 As flashing as Moses felt 
 When he lay in the night by his flock 
 On the starlit Arabian waste ? 
 Can rise and obey 
 The beck of the Spirit like him ? 
 
 This tract which the river of Time 
 Now flows through with us, is the plain. 
 Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. 
 Border'd by cities and hoarse 
 
THE FUTURE 269 
 
 With a thousand cries is its stream. 
 
 And we on its breast, our minds 
 
 Are confused as the cries which we hear, 
 
 Changing and shot as the sights which we see. 
 
 And we say that repose has fled 
 
 For ever the course of the river of Time. 
 
 That cities will crowd to its edge 
 
 In a blacker, incessanter line ; 
 
 That the din will be more on its banks, 
 
 Denser the trade on its stream, 
 
 Flatter the plain where it flows. 
 
 Fiercer the sun overhead. 
 
 That never will those on its breast 
 
 See an ennobling sight. 
 
 Drink of the feeling of quiet again. 
 
 But what was before us we know not. 
 And we know not what shall succeed. 
 
 Haply, the river of Time — 
 
 As it grows, as the towns on its marge 
 
 Fling their wavering lights 
 
 On a wider, statelier stream — 
 
 May acquire, if not the calm 
 
 Of its early mountainous shore. 
 
 Yet a solemn peace of its own. 
 
 And the width of the waters, the hush 
 Of the grey expanse where he floats, 
 Freshening its current and spotted with foam 
 As it draws to the Ocean, may strike 
 Peace to the soul of the man on its breast — 
 As the pale waste widens around him. 
 
270 LYRIC POEMS 
 
 As the banks fade dimmer away, 
 
 As the stars come out, and the night-wind 
 
 Brings up the stream 
 
 Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. 
 
ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 16 
 
 Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill ; 
 Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes ! 
 
 No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, 
 Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, ^ ^i<i(h»J^ 
 
 Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another head. 
 But when the fields are still. 
 And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, '^ 
 
 And only the white sheep are sometimes seen - 
 
 Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green, ^ 
 Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest ! n^ 
 
 Here, where the reaper was at work of late — 
 In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves 
 
 His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse, 
 And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, 
 
 Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use — 
 Here will I sit and wait. 
 While to my ear from uplands far away 
 
 The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, 
 
 With distant cries of reapers in the corn — - 
 All the live murmur of a summer's day. /^W^ 
 
 Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, 
 And here till sun-down, shepherd ! will I be. 
 
 Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, 
 
 T 
 
 .0 
 
274 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see 
 Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep ; 
 And air-swept lindens yield 
 
 Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers 
 Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, 
 And bower me from the August sun with shade ; 
 
 And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. 
 
 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — 
 ^ Come, let me read the oft-read tale again ! 
 
 The story of the Oxford scholar poor, 
 Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain. 
 Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door, 
 One summer-morn forsook ^v^oKvo^ 
 His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore. 
 
 And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, 
 And came, as most men deem'd, to Uttle good, 
 But came to Oxford and his friends no more. 
 
 But once, years after, in the country-lanes, 
 Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, 
 
 Met him, and of his way of life enquired ; 
 Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew, 
 
 His mates, had arts to rule as they desired 
 The workings of men's brains. 
 And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. 
 
 " And I," he said, " the secret of their art, . <l^^ / 4 
 
 When fully learn'd, will to the world impart ; ^**^; 
 But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill." 
 
 This said, he left them, and return'd no more. — 
 But rumours hung about the country-side, 
 
 That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, 
 Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, 
 
THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 275 
 
 In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, 
 The same the gipsies wore. 
 
 Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring ; 
 At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, 
 On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors 
 
 Had found him seated at their entering, 
 
 But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly. 
 And I myself seem half to know thy looks. 
 
 And put the shepherds, wanderer ! on thy trace ; 
 And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks 
 
 I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place ; 
 Or in my boat I lie 
 Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer-heats, 
 
 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, 
 
 And watch the warm, green-muflled Cumner hills, 
 And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. 
 
 For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground ! ¥ 
 Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe. 
 
 Returning home on summer-nights, have met 
 Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, 
 
 Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, 
 As the punt's rope chops round ; 
 And leaning backward in a pensive dream, 
 
 And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers 
 
 Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, 
 And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream. 
 
 And then they land, and thou art seen no more ! — 
 Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come 
 
 To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, 
 Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, 
 
 Or cross a stile into the public way. 
 
276 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Ofl thou hast given them store 
 Of flowers — the frail-leaf d, white anemony, 
 
 Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, 
 And purple orchises with spotted leaves — 
 But none hath words she can report of thee. 
 
 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here 
 In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, 
 
 Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass 
 Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the ghttering Thames, 
 To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, 
 Have often pass'd thee near 
 Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; 
 
 Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, 
 '' Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air — 
 
 - But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone 1 
 
 At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills. 
 Where at her open door the housewife darns, 
 
 Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate 
 To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. 
 
 Children, who early range these slopes and late 
 For cresses from the rills, 
 Have known thee eying, all an April-day, 
 
 The springing pastures and the feeding kine ; 
 
 And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, 
 Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 
 
 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood — 
 Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way 
 
 Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see 
 With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey, 
 Above the forest-ground called Thessaly — - 
 The blackbird, picking food, 
 
THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 277 
 
 Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all ; 
 
 "So often has he known thee past him stray, 
 
 Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, 
 
 And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. 
 
 sv\ 
 
 And once, in winter, on the causeway chill / ^' 
 
 Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, x/'K 
 
 Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge, 
 Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, " "^ 
 
 Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge ? 
 And thou hast climb'd the hill, 
 And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range ; 
 
 Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall. 
 
 The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall — 
 Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. 
 
 But what — I dream ! Two hundred years are flown 
 Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls. 
 
 And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe 
 That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls 
 
 To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe ; 
 
 And thou from earth art gone 4r^ i-y^o 
 
 Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid — 
 
 Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave 
 
 Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave, 
 Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 
 
 — No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours ! 
 For what wears out the life of mortal men ? 
 
 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls ; 
 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, 
 Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 
 And numb the elastic powers. 
 
2 78 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, 
 And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, 
 To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
 
 Our worn-out life, and are — what we have been. 
 
 Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so ? 
 Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire ; 
 
 Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead ! 
 Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire ! 
 
 The generations of thy peers are fled, 
 And we ourselves shall go ; 
 But thou possessest an immortal lot. 
 
 And we imagine thee exempt from age 
 
 And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, 
 Because thou hadst^^what^we^ alas ! have not. 
 
 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers 
 Fresh, undiverted to the world without. 
 
 Firm to their mark, not spent on other things ; 
 Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt. 
 
 Which much to have tried, in much been bafiled, brings. 
 O life unlike to ours ! 
 Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, 
 
 Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, 
 
 And each half lives a hundred different lives ; 
 Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. 
 
 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven ! and we, 
 Light half-believers of our casual creeds. 
 
 Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd. 
 Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds. 
 Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd ; 
 For whom each year we see 
 
THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 279 
 
 Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new \ 
 Who hesitate and falter life away, 
 And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — 
 
 Ah ! do not we, wanderer ! await it too ? 
 
 Yes, we await it ! — but it still delays, -^ 
 
 And then we suffer ! and amongst us one, 
 
 Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly k\{he^'llai 
 
 His seat upon the intellectual throne ; Sd - 
 
 And all his store of sad experience he 
 Lays bare of wretched days ; 
 Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, 
 
 And how the dying spark of hope was fed. 
 
 And how the breast was soothed, and how the head. 
 And all his hourly varied anodynes. 
 
 This for our wisest I and -we -others pine. 
 
 And wish the long unhappy dream would end^ 
 
 And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear ; 
 With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend, 
 
 Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair — 
 But none has hope like thine ! 
 Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray. 
 
 Roaming the country-side, a truant boy. 
 
 Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, ■ « ^^^' " 
 
 And every doubt long blown by time away. 
 
 O born in days when wits were fresh and clear. 
 And Hfe ran gaily as the sparkling Thames ; 
 Before this s^a,nge disease of modern life, 
 With its sick hurry, its divided aims. 
 
 Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife — 
 Fly hence, our contact fear ! 
 
28o ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Still fly, plunge deeper in tlie bowering wood I 
 Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
 From her false friend's approach in Hades turn. 
 
 Wave us away, and keep thy solitude ! 
 
 Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 
 Still clutching the inviolable shade, 
 
 AVith a free, onward impulse brushing through, 
 By night, the silver'd branches of the glade — 
 
 Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue. 
 On some mild pastoral slope 
 Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 
 
 Freshen thy flowers as in former years 
 
 With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, 
 From the dark dingles, to the nightingales ! 
 
 But fly our paths, ouA feverish)contact fly ! 
 For strong the infection of oui^ mental strife. 
 
 Which, though it gives no bliss', yet spoils for rest ; 
 And we should win thee from thy own fair life. 
 Like us distracted, and like us unblest. 
 Soon, soon thy cheer would die. 
 Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers. 
 And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made ; 
 , p And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, 
 ^ ' Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. 
 
 Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles ! 
 — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, 
 
 Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
 Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, 
 The fringes of a southward-facing brow 
 Among the yEgsean isles ; 
 
THYRSIS 281 
 
 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, 
 
 Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, 
 Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine — 
 
 And knew the intruders on his ancient home. 
 
 The young light-hearted masters of the waves — 
 And snat-ch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail ; 
 
 And day and night held on indignantly 
 O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, 
 
 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 
 To where the Atlantic raves 
 Outside the western straits ; and unbent sails 
 
 There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, 
 
 Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come ; 
 And on the beach undid his corded bales. 
 
 THYRSIS 17 
 
 A Monody, to commemorate the author's frie7id^ 
 Arthur Hugh Clough, ivho died at Florence^ 1861. 
 
 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills ! 
 In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same ; 
 
 The village street its haunted mansion lacks. 
 And from the sign is gone Sibylla's name. 
 
 And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks — 
 Are ye too changed, ye hills ? 
 See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 
 
 To-night from Oxford up your pathway strays ! 
 
 Here came I often, often, in old days — 
 Thyrsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis then. 
 
282 ELEGJAC POEMS 
 
 Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm, 
 Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns 
 
 The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames ? 
 The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs, 
 
 The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames ?- 
 This winter-eve is warm. 
 Humid the air ! leafless, yet soft as spring, 
 
 The tender purple spray on copse and briers ! 
 
 And that sweet city with her dreaming spires. 
 She needs not June for beauty's heightening. 
 
 Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night ! — 
 Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power 
 
 Befalls me w^andering through this upland dim. 
 Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour ; 
 Now seldom come I, since I came with him. 
 That single elm-tree bright 
 Against the w^est — I miss it ! is it gone ? 
 \ We prized it dearly ; w^hile it stood, we said. 
 
 Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead ; 
 While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on. 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, 
 
 But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick ; 
 
 And with the country-folk acquaintance made 
 By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. 
 
 Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay'd. 
 Ah me ! this many a year 
 My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday ! 
 
 Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart 
 
 Into the world and wave of men depart ; 
 But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 
 
 It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. 
 He loved each simple joy the country yields. 
 
THYRSIS 283 
 
 He loved his mates ; but yet he could not keep, 
 ^^ For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, 
 
 Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. 
 Some life of men unblest 
 He knew, which made him droop, and fill'd his head. 
 He went ; his piping took a troubled sound 
 Of storms that rage outside our happy ground ; 
 He could not wait their passing, he is dead. 
 
 So, some tempestuous morn in early June, 
 
 When the year's primal burst of bloom is o'er. 
 
 Before the roses and the longest day^ 
 When garden-walks and all the grassy floor 
 With blossoms red and white of fallen May 
 And chestnut-flowers are strewn — 
 /So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry, 
 / From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, 
 ' Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze : 
 The bloom is gone^ and with the bloom go I f ,1 
 
 Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go ? 
 Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, 
 
 Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, 
 Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, 
 
 Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell, 
 And stocks in fragrant blow ; 
 Roses that down the alleys shine afar, 
 
 And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, 
 
 And groups under the dreaming garden-trees, 
 And the full moon, and the white evening-star. 
 
 He hearkens not ! light comer, he is flown ! 
 What matters it? next year he will return. 
 
 And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days. 
 
284 ELEGIAC I'OEMS 
 
 With whitening hedges, and uncrumpUng fern, 
 And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways, 
 And scent of hay new-mown. 
 But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see ; 
 \ See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, 
 And blow a strain the world at last shall heed— 
 For Time, not Corydon, hath con^uer'd thee! 
 
 Alack, for Corydon no rival now ! — 
 
 But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate. 
 
 Some good survivor with his flute would go, 
 Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate ; 
 
 And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow. 
 And relax Pluto's brow, 
 And make leap up with joy the beauteous head 
 
 Of Proserpine, among whose crowned hair 
 
 Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air, 
 And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. 
 
 \/ O easy access to the hearer's grace 
 
 When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine ! 
 
 For she herself had trod Sicilian fields, 
 She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, 
 She knew each lily white which Enna yields. 
 Each rose with blushing face ; 
 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. 
 ■"* But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard ! 
 
 Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd ; 
 And we should tease her with our plaint in vain ! 
 
 Well ! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, 
 Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour 
 
 In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill ! 
 Who, if not I, for questing here hath power ? 
 
\ 
 
 THYRSIS 28s 
 
 I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 
 I know the Fyfield tree, 
 
 I know what white, what purple fritillaries 
 The grassy harvest of the river-fields, 
 Above by Ensham, down by Sandford, yields, 
 
 And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries ; 
 
 I know these slopes ; who knows them if not I ? — 
 But many a dingle on the loved hill-side, 
 
 With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees, 
 Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried 
 
 High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, 
 Hath since our day put by 
 The coronals of that forgotten time ; 
 
 Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team. 
 
 And only in the hidden brookside gleam 
 Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 
 
 '^ Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door, 
 Above the locks, above the boating throng, 
 
 Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats, 
 Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among 
 
 And darting swallows and light water-gnats, 
 We track'd the shy Thames shore ? 
 Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell 
 
 Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass, 
 
 Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass ? — 
 They all are gone, and thou art gone as well ! 
 
 Yes, thou art gone ! and round me too the night 
 In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. 
 
 I see her veil draw soft across the day, 
 I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 
 
 The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey ; 
 
2 86 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 I feel her finger light 
 
 Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train ; — 
 The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, 
 The heart less bounding at emotion new, 
 
 And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. 
 
 And long the way appears, which seem'd so short 
 To the less practised eye of sanguine youth ; 
 
 And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air. 
 The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth, 
 
 Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and bare ! 
 Unbreachable the fort 
 Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall ; 
 
 And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, 
 
 And near and real the charm of thy repose. 
 And night as welcome as a friend would fall. 
 
 But hush ! the upland hath a sudden loss 
 Of quiet ! — Look, adown the dusk hill-side, 
 
 A troop of Oxford hunters going home. 
 As in old days, jovial and talking, ride ! 
 
 From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come. 
 Quick ! let me fly, and cross 
 Into yon farther field ! — 'Tis done ; and see, 
 
 Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify 
 
 The orange and pale violet evening-sky. 
 Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree ! the Tree ! 
 
 I take the omen ! Eve lets down her veil. 
 
 The white fog creeps from bush to bush about, 
 
 The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright. 
 And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out. 
 I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night, 
 Yet, happy omen, hail ! 
 
THYRSIS 287 
 
 Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale 
 
 (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep 
 The morningless and unawakening sleep 
 
 Under the flowery oleanders pale), 
 
 Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there ! — 
 
 Ah, vain ! These English fields, this upland dim, 
 
 These brambles pale with mist engarlanded. 
 That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him ; 
 
 To a boon southern country he is fled, 
 And now in happier air, 
 Wandering with the great Mother's train divine 
 
 (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, 
 
 I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) 
 Within a folding of the Apennine, 
 
 Thou hearest the immortal chants of old ! — 
 Putting his sickle to the perilous grain 
 
 In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, 
 For thee the Lityerses-song again 
 
 Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing ; ^^ 
 Sings his Sicilian fold. 
 His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes — 
 
 And how a call celestial round him rang. 
 
 And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang. 
 And all the marvel of the golden skies. 
 
 There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here 
 Sole in these fields ! yet will I not despair. 
 
 Despair I will not, while I yet descry 
 'Neath the mild canopy of English air 
 That lonely tree against the western sky. 
 Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. 
 Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee ! 
 
288 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Plelds where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, 
 Woods with anemonies in flower till May, 
 Know him a wanderer still ; then why not me ? 
 
 A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, 
 Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. 
 
 This does not come with houses or with gold, 
 With place, with honour, and a flattering crew ; 
 
 'Tis not in the world's market bought and sold — 
 But the smooth-slipping weeks 
 Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired ; 
 
 Out of the heed of mortals he is gone. 
 
 He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone ; 
 Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired. 
 
 Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound ; 
 Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour ! 
 
 Men gave thee nothing ; but this happy quest, 
 If men esteem'd thee feeble, gave thee power, 
 
 If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. 
 And this rude Cumner ground, 
 Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, 
 
 Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, 
 
 Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime ! 
 And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. 
 
 What though the music of thy rustic flute 
 Kept not for long its happy, country tone ; 
 
 Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note 
 Of men contention-tost, of men who groan. 
 
 Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat- 
 It fail'd, and thou wast mute ! 
 Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, 
 
 And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, 
 
MEMORIAL VERSES 289 
 
 And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, 
 Left human haunt, and on alone till night. 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here ! 
 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, 
 
 Thyrsis ! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. 
 — Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar. 
 
 Let in thy voice a whisper often come, 
 To chase fatigue and fear : 
 Why faintest thou ? I wander' d till I died. "^ 
 
 Roam on I The light we sought is shining still. 
 
 Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet croivns the hill, 
 Our Scholar travels yet the lo7>ed hill-side. - J 
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES 
 April, 1850 
 
 Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
 Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
 But one such death remain'd to come ; 
 The last poetic voice is dumb — 
 We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb. 
 
 When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
 We bow'd our head and held our breath 
 He taught us litde ; but our soul 
 H3.d felt him like the thunder's roll. 
 With shivering heart the strife we saw 
 Of passion with eternal law ; 
 And yet with reverential awe 
 We watch'd the fount of fiery life 
 Which served for that Titanic strife. 
 u 
 
290 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 When Goethe's death was told, wc said ; 
 Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head. 
 Physician of the iron age, 
 Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
 He took the suffering human race, 
 He read each wound, each weakness clear; 
 And struck his finger on the place, 
 And said : Thou ailest hej'e, and here ! 
 He look'd on Europe's dying hour 
 Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 
 His eye plunged down the weltering strife, 
 The turmoil of expiring life — 
 He said : The end is everywhere^ 
 Art still has truth, take refuge there ! 
 And he was happy, if to know 
 Causes of things, and far below 
 His feet to see the lurid flow 
 Of terror, and insane distress, 
 And headlong fate, be happiness. 
 
 And Wordsworth ! — Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice ! 
 For never has such soothing voice 
 Been to your shadowy world convey'd. 
 Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade 
 Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
 Through Hades, and the mournful gloom. 
 ^Vordsworth has gone from us — and ye, 
 Ah, may ye feel his voice as we ! 
 He too upon a wintry clime 
 Had fallen — on this iron time 
 Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
 He found us when the age had bound 
 Our souls in its benumbing round ; 
 
MEMORIAL VERSES 291 
 
 He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 
 He laid us as we lay at birth 
 On the cool flowery lap of earth, 
 Smiles broke from us and we had ease ; 
 The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 Went o'er the sun-lit fields again ; 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
 Our youth return'd ; for there was shed 
 On spirits that had long been dead. 
 Spirits dried up and closely furl'd. 
 The freshness of the early world. 
 
 Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 
 Man's prudence and man's fiery might, 
 Time may restore us in his course 
 Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ; 
 But where will Europe's latter hour 
 Again find Wordsworth's healing power ? 
 Others will teach us how to dare, 
 And against fear our breast to steel ; 
 Others will strengthen us to bear — 
 But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ? 
 The cloud of mortal destiny, 
 Others will front it fearlessly — 
 But who, like him, will put it by ? 
 
 Keep fresh the grass upon his grave 
 O Rotha, with thy living wave ! 
 Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 
 
292 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 IN MEMORY OF EDWARD QUILLINAN 
 
 I SAW him sensitive in frame, 
 
 I knew his spirits low ; 
 And wish'd him health, success, and fame- 
 
 I do not wish it now. 
 
 For these are all their own reward, 
 And leave no good behind ; 
 
 They try us, oftenest make us hard, 
 Less modest, pure, and kind. 
 
 Alas ! yet to the suffering man, 
 
 In this his mortal state. 
 Friends could not give what fortune can — 
 
 Health, ease, a heart elate. 
 
 But he is now by fortune foil'd 
 
 No more ; and we retain 
 The memory of a man unspoil'd. 
 
 Sweet, generous, and humane — 
 
 With all the fortunate have not, 
 With gentle voice and brow. 
 
 — Alive, we would have changed his lot, 
 We would not change it now. 
 
 STANZAS FROM CARNAC 
 
 Far on its rocky knoll descried 
 Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky. 
 I climb'd ; — beneath me, bright and wide. 
 Lay the lone coast of Brittany. 
 
STANZAS FROM CARNAC 293 
 
 Bright in the sunset, weird and still, 
 It lay beside the Atlantic wave, 
 As though the wizard Merlin's will 
 Yet charm'd it from his forest-grave. 
 
 Behind me on their grassy sweep, 
 Bearded with lichen, scrawl'd and grey. 
 The giant stones of Carnac sleep, 
 In the mild evening of the May. 
 
 No priestly stern procession now 
 Moves through their rows of pillars old ; 
 No victims bleed, no Druids bow — 
 Sheep make the daisied aisles their fold. 
 
 From bush to bush the cuckoo flies, 
 The orchis red gleams everywhere ; 
 Gold furze with broom in blossom vies, 
 The blue-bells perfume all the air. 
 
 And o'er the glistening, lonely land, 
 Rise up, all round, the Christian spires ; 
 The church of Carnac, by the strand, 
 Catches the westering sun's last fires. 
 
 And there, across the watery way, 
 See, low above the tide at flood. 
 The sickle-sweep of Quiberon Bay, 
 Whose beach once ran with loyal blood ! 
 
 And beyond that, the Atlantic wide ! — 
 All round, no soul, no boat, no hail ; 
 But, on the horizon's verge descried, 
 Hangs, touch'd with light, one snowy sail ! 
 
294 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Ah ! where is he, who should have come ^^ 
 Where that far sail is passing now, 
 Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foam 
 Of Finistere's unquiet brow, 
 
 Home, round into the English wave ? 
 — He tarries where the Rock of Spain 
 Mediterranean waters lave ; 
 He enters not the Atlantic main. 
 
 Oh, could he once have reach'd this air 
 P>eshen'd by plunging tides, by showers ! 
 Have felt this breath he loved, of fair 
 Cool northern fields, and grass, and flowers ! 
 
 He long'd for it — press'd on. — In vain ! 
 At the Straits fail'd that spirit brave. 
 The south was parent of his pain. 
 The south is mistress of his grave. 
 
 A SOUTHERN NIGHT 
 
 The sandy spits, the shore-lock'd lakes, 
 
 Melt into open, moonlit sea ; 
 The soft Mediterranean breaks 
 At my feet, free. 
 
 Dotting the fields of corn and vine. 
 
 Like ghosts the huge, gnarl'd olives stand 
 Behind, that lovely mountain-line ! 
 While, by the strand, 
 
 Cette, with its glistening houses white. 
 Curves with the curving beach away 
 
A SOUTHERN NIGHT 295 
 
 To where the lighthouse beacons bright 
 Far in the bay. 
 
 Ah ! such a night, so soft, so lone, 
 
 So moonlit, saw me once of yore "^ 
 Wander unquiet, and my own 
 Vext heart deplore. 
 
 But now that trouble is forgot ; 
 
 Thy memory, thy pain, to-night, 
 My brother ! and thine early lot,'^^ 
 
 Possess me quite. /■'' ' /2>^ 
 
 The murmur of this Midland deep 
 
 Is heard to-night around thy grave. 
 There, where Gibraltar's cannon'd steep 
 O'erfrowns the wave. 
 
 For there, with bodily anguish keen. 
 With Indian heats at last fordone, 
 With public toil and private teen — 1 
 
 Thou sank'st, alone. 
 
 Slow to a stop, at morning grey, 
 
 I see the smoke-crown'd vessel come ; 
 Slow round her paddles dies away 
 The seething foam. 
 
 A boat is lower'd from her side : 
 
 Ah, gently place him on the bench ! 
 That spirit — if all have not yet died — 
 A breath might quench. 
 
 Is this the eye, the footstep fast. 
 
 The mien of youth we used to see, 
 Poor, gallant boy ! — for such thou wast, 
 Still art, to me. 
 
296 ELEGIAC TOEMS 
 
 The limbs their wonted tasks refuse ; 
 
 The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak ; 
 And whiter than thy white burnous 
 That wasted cheek ! 
 
 Enough ! The boat, with quiet shock, 
 
 Unto its haven coming nigh, 
 
 Touches, and on Gibraltar's rock 
 
 Lands thee to die. 
 
 Ah me ! Gibraltar's strand is far, 
 
 But farther yet across the brine 
 Thy dear wife's ashes buried are, 
 Remote from thine. 
 
 For there, where morning's sacred fount 
 
 Its golden rain on earth confers, 
 The snowy Himalayan Mount 
 O'ershadows hers. 
 
 Strange irony of fate, alas, 
 
 Which, for two jaded English, saves, 
 A\'hen from their dusty life they pass, 
 Such peaceful graves 1 
 
 In cities should we English lie. 
 
 Where cries are rising ever new. 
 And men's incessant stream goes by — 
 We who pursue 
 
 Our business with unslackening stride, 
 
 Traverse in troops, with care-fill'd breast. 
 The soft Mediterranean side, 
 The Nile, the East, 
 
A SOUTHERN NIGHT 297 
 
 And see all sights from pole to pole, 
 
 And glance, and nod, and bustle by, 
 And never once possess our soul 
 Before we die. 
 
 Not by those hoary Indian hills, 
 
 Not by this gracious Midland sea 
 Whose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills, 
 Should our graves be. 
 
 Some sage, to whom the world was dead, 
 And men were specks, and life a play ; 
 Who made the roots of trees his bed. 
 And once a day 
 
 With staff and gourd his way did bend 
 
 To villages -and homes of man, 
 For food to keep him till he end 
 His mortal span 
 
 And the pure goal of being reach ; 
 
 Hoar-headed, wrinkled, clad in white. 
 Without companion, without speech. 
 By day and night 
 
 Pondering God's mysteries untold. 
 
 And tranquil as the glacier-snows 
 He by those Indian mountains old 
 Might well repose. 
 
 Some grey crusading knight austere, 
 
 Who bore Saint Louis company. 
 And came home hurt to death, and here 
 Landed to die ; 
 
298 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Some youthful troubadour, whose tongue 
 Fiird Europe once with his love-pain, 
 Who here outworn had sunk, and sung 
 His dying strain ; 
 
 Some girl, who here from castle-bower, 
 With furtive step and cheek of flame, 
 'Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower 
 By moonlight came 
 
 To meet her pirate-lover's ship ; 
 
 And from the wave-kiss'd marble stair 
 Beckon'd him on, with quivering lip 
 And floating hair ; 
 
 And lived some moons in happy trance. 
 
 Then learnt his death and pined away — 
 Such by these waters of romance 
 'Twas meet to lay. 
 
 But you — a grave for knight or sage, 
 Romantic, solitary, still, 
 
 spent ones of a work-day age ! 
 
 Befits you ill. 
 
 So sang I ; but the midnight breeze, 
 
 Down to the brimm'd, moon-charmed main, 
 Comes softly through the olive-trees, 
 And checks my strain. 
 
 1 think of her, whose gentle tongue 
 
 All plaint in her own cause controll'd ; 
 Of thee I think, my brother ! young 
 In heart, high-soul'd — 
 
HAWORTH CHURCHYARD 299 
 
 That comely face, that cluster'd brow, 
 
 That cordial hand, that bearing free, 
 I see them still, I see them now. 
 Shall always see ! 
 
 And what but gentleness untired. 
 
 And what but noble feeling warm, 
 Wherever shown, howe'er inspired. 
 Is grace, is charm ? 
 
 What else is all these waters are. 
 
 What else is steep'd in lucid sheen, 
 What else is bright, what else is fair, 
 What else serene? 
 
 Mild o'er her grave, ye mountains, shine ! 
 , Gently by his, ye waters, glide ! 
 To that in you which is divine 
 They were allied. 
 
 HAWORTH CHURCHYARD 
 
 APRIL, 1855 
 
 Where, under Loughrigg, the stream 
 Of Rotha sparkles through fields 
 Vested for ever with green. 
 Four years since, in the house 
 Of a gentle spirit, now dead — 
 Wordsworth's son-in-law, friend — 
 I saw the meeting of two 
 Gifted women.-' The one. 
 Brilliant with recent renown. 
 
300 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Young, unpractised, had told 
 A\'itli a master's accent her feign'd 
 Story of passionate Hfe ; 
 The other, maturer in fame, 
 Earning, she too, her praise 
 First in fiction, had since 
 Widen'd her sweep, and survey 'd 
 History, politics, mind. 
 
 The two held converse ; they wrote 
 In a book which of world-famous souls 
 Kept the memorial ; — bard. 
 Warrior, statesman, had sign'd 
 Their names ; chief glory of all, 
 Scott had bestow'd there his last 
 Breathings of song, with a pen 
 Tottering, a death-stricken hand. 
 
 Hope at that meeting smiled fair. 
 Years in number, it seem'd. 
 Lay before both, and a fame 
 Heighten'd, and multiplied power. — 
 Behold ! The elder, to-day, 
 Lies expecting from death, 
 In mortal weakness, a last 
 Summons ! the younger is dead ! 
 
 First to the living we pay 
 Mournful homage ; — the Muse 
 Gains not an earth-deafen'd ear. 
 
 Hail to the steadfast soul. 
 Which, unflinching and keen, 
 Wrought to erase from its depth 
 Mist and illusion and fear ! 
 
HAWORTH CHURCHYARD 301 
 
 Hail to the spirit which dared 
 Trust its own thoughts, before yet 
 Echoed her back by the crowd ! 
 Hail to the courage which gave 
 Voice to its creed, ere the creed 
 Won consecration from time ! 
 
 Turn we next to the dead. 
 
 — How shall we honour the young, 
 
 The ardent, the gifted ? how mourn ? 
 
 Console we cannot, her ear 
 
 Is deaf Far northward from here, 
 
 In a churchyard high 'mid the moors 
 
 Of Yorkshire, a little earth 
 
 Stops it for ever to praise. 
 
 Where, behind Keighley, the road 
 
 Up to the heart of the moors 
 
 Between heath-clad showery hills 
 
 Runs, and colliers' carts 
 
 Poach the deep ways coming down. 
 
 And a rough, grimed race have their homes — 
 
 There on its slope is built 
 
 The moorland town. But the church 
 
 Stands on the crest of the hill, 
 
 Lonely and bleak ; — at its side 
 
 The parsonage-house and the graves. 
 
 Strew wdth laurel the grave 
 Of the early-dying ! Alas, 
 Early she goes on the path 
 To the silent country, and leaves 
 Half her laurels unwon. 
 Dying too soon ! — yet green 
 
502 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Laurels she liad, and a course 
 Short, but redoubled by fame. 
 
 And not friendless, and not 
 
 Only with strangers to meet, 
 
 Faces ungreeting and cold, 
 
 Thou, O mourn'd one, to-day 
 
 Enterest the house of the grave ! 
 
 Those of thy blood, whom thou lov'dst. 
 
 Have preceded thee — young. 
 
 Loving, a sisterly band ; 
 
 Some in art, some in gift 
 
 Inferior — all in fame. 
 
 They, like friends, shall receive 
 
 This comer, greet her with joy ; 
 
 AVelcome the sister, the friend ; 
 
 Hear with delight of thy fame I 
 
 Round thee they lie — the grass 
 
 Blows from their graves to thy own ! 
 
 She, whose genius, though not 
 
 Puissant like thine, was yet 
 
 Sweet and graceful ; — and she 
 
 (How shall I sing her ?) whose soul 
 
 Knew no fellow for might, 
 
 Passion, vehemence, grief, 
 
 Daring, since Byron died, 
 
 That world-famed son of fire — she, who sank 
 
 Baffled, unknown, self-consumed ; 
 
 AV' hose too bold dying song -^ 
 
 Stirr'd, like a clarion-blast, my soul. 
 
 Of one, too, I have heard, 
 A brother — sleeps he here ? 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 Of all that gifted race 
 
 Not the least gifted ; young, 
 
 Unhappy, eloquent — the child 
 
 Of many hopes, of many tears. 
 
 O boy, if here thou sleep'st, sleep well I 
 
 On thee too did the Muse 
 
 Bright in thy cradle smile ; 
 
 But some dark shadow came 
 
 (I know not what) and interposed. 
 
 Sleep, O cluster of friends. 
 
 Sleep ! — or only when May, 
 
 Brought by the west-wind, returns 
 
 Back to your native heaths. 
 
 And the plover is heard on the moors. 
 
 Yearly awake to behold 
 
 The opening summer, the sky. 
 
 The shining moorland — to hear 
 
 The drowsy bee, as of old, 
 
 Hum o'er the thyme, the grouse 
 
 Call from the heather in bloom ! 
 
 Sleep, or only for this 
 
 Break your united repose ! 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 So I sang ; but the Muse, 
 Shaking her head, took the harp- 
 Stern interrupted my strain, 
 Angrily smote on the chords. 
 
 April show^ers 
 
 Rush o'er the Yorkshire moors. 
 
 303 
 
304 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Stormy, through driving mist, 
 Loom tlic l)Uirr\l hills; the rain 
 Lashes the newly-made grave. 
 
 Unquiet souls ! 
 
 — In the dark fermentation of earth, 
 
 In the never idle workshop of nature, 
 
 In the eternal movement, 
 
 Ye shall find yourselves again ! 
 
 RUGBY CHAPEL 
 
 November 1857 
 
 Coldly, sadly descends 
 
 The autumn-evening. The field 
 
 Strewn with its dank yellow drifts 
 
 Of withered leaves, and the elms, 
 
 Fade into dimness apace. 
 
 Silent ; — hardly a shout 
 
 From a few boys late at their play ! 
 
 The lights come out in the street, 
 
 In the school-room windows ; — but cold, 
 
 Solemn, unlighted, austere, 
 
 Through the gathering darkness, arise 
 
 The chapel-walls, in whose bound 
 
 Thou, my father ! art laid. 
 
 There thou dost lie, in the gloom 
 
 Of the autumn evening. But ah ! 
 
 That word, gloom, to my mind 
 
 Brings thee back, in the light 
 
 Of thy radiant vigour, again ; 
 
 In the gloom of November wc pass'd 
 
RUGBY CHAPEL 305 
 
 Days not dark at thy side ; 
 
 Seasons impair'd not the ray 
 
 Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. 
 
 Such thou wast ! and I stand 
 
 In the autumn evening, and think 
 
 Of bygone autumns with thee. 
 
 Fifteen years have gone round 
 
 Since thou arosest to tread, 
 
 In the summer-morning, the road 
 
 Of death, at a call unforeseen, . t t 
 
 Sudden. For fifteen years, 
 
 We who till then in thy shade 
 
 Rested as under the boughs 
 
 Of a mighty oak, have endured 
 
 Sunshine and rain as we might, 
 
 Bare, unshaded, alone, 
 
 Lacking the shelter of thee. J/' ,hji 
 
 O strong soul, by what shore 
 Tarriest thou now ? For that force, 
 Surely, has not been left vain ! 
 Somewhere, surely, afar. 
 In the sounding labour-house vast 
 Of being, is practised that strength, 
 Zealous, beneficent, firm ! 
 
 Yes, in some far-shining sphere, 
 
 Conscious or not of the past. 
 
 Still thou performest the word 
 
 Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live — 
 
 Prompt, unwearied, as here ! 
 
 Still thou upraisest with zeal 
 
 The humble good from the ground, 
 
 X 
 
3o6 ELEGIAC TOEMS 
 
 Sternly repressest the bad ! 
 Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 
 Those who with half-open eyes 
 Tread the border-land dim 
 'Twixt vice and virtue ; reviv'st, 
 Succourest ! — this was thy work, 
 This was thy life upon earth. 
 
 What is the course of the life 
 
 Of mortal men on the earth ? — 
 
 Most men eddy about 
 
 Here and there — eat and drink, 
 
 Chatter and love and hate, 
 
 Gather and squander, are raised 
 
 Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust. 
 
 Striving blindly, achieving 
 
 Nothing ; and then they die — 
 
 Perish ; — and no one asks 
 
 Who or what they have been. 
 
 More than he asks what waves, 
 
 In the moonlit solitudes mild 
 
 Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, 
 
 Foam'd for a moment, and gone. 
 
 And there are some, whom a thirst 
 Ardent, unquenchable, fires. 
 Not with the crowd to be spent. 
 Not without aim to go round 
 In an eddy of purposeless dust, 
 Effort unmeaning and vain. 
 Ah yes ! some of us strive 
 Not without action to die 
 Fruitless, but something to snatch 
 From dull oblivion, nor all 
 
RUGBY CHAPEL 307 
 
 Glut the devouring grave ! - 
 
 We, we have chosen our path — 
 
 Path to a clear-purposed goal, 
 
 Path of advance ! — but it leads 
 
 A long, steep journey, through sunk 
 
 Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. 
 
 Cheerful, with friends, we set forth — 
 
 Then, on the height, comes the storm. 
 
 Thunder crashes from rock 
 
 To rock, the cataracts reply. 
 
 Lightnings dazzle our eyes. 
 
 Roaring torrents have breach'd 
 
 The track, the stream-bed descends 
 
 In the place where the wayfarer once 
 
 Planted his footstep — the spray 
 
 Boils o'er its borders ! aloft 
 
 The unseen snow-beds dislodge 
 
 Their hanging ruin ; alas. 
 
 Havoc is made in our train ! 
 
 Friends, who set forth at our side, 
 
 Falter, are lost in the storm. 
 
 We, we only are left ! 
 
 With frowning foreheads, with lips 
 
 Sternly compress'd, we strain on, 
 
 On — and at nightfall at last 
 
 Come to the end of our way, 
 
 To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks ; 
 
 Where the gaunt and taciturn host 
 
 Stands on the threshold, the wind 
 
 Shaking his thin white hairs — 
 
 Holds his lantern to scan -y ->- ■ 
 
 Our storm-beat figures, and asks : 
 
3o8 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Whom in our party we bring ? 
 Whom we have left in the snow? 
 
 Sadly we answer : We bring 
 Only ourselves ! we lost 
 Sight of the rest in the storm. 
 Hardly ourselves we fought through, 
 Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. 
 Friends, companions, and train, 
 The avalanche swept from our side. 
 
 But thou would'st not alone 
 A Be saved, my father ! alone 
 
 Conquer and come to thy goal, 
 Leaving the rest in the wild. 
 We were weary, and we 
 Fearful, and we in our march 
 Fain to drop down and to die. 
 Still thou turnedst, and still 
 Beckonedst the trembler, and still 
 Gavest the weary thy hand. 
 
 If, in the paths of the world, 
 Stones might have wounded thy feet, 
 Toil or dejection have tried 
 Thy spirit, of that we saw 
 Nothing — to us thou wast still 
 Cheerful, and helpful, and firm ! 
 Therefore to thee it was given 
 Many to save with thyself; 
 And, at the end of thy day, 
 O faithful shepherd ! to come, 
 ^ Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 
 
RUGBY CHAPEL 309 
 
 And through thee I beheve 
 
 In the noble and great who are gone ; 
 
 Pure souls honour'd and blest 
 
 By former ages, who else — 
 
 Such, so soulless, so poor, 
 
 Is the race of men whom I see — 
 
 Seem'd but a dream of the heart, 
 \ Seem'd but a cry of desire. 
 
 Yes ! I believe that there lived 
 
 Others like thee in the past, 
 ^ Not like the men of the crowd 
 
 Who all round me to-day 
 
 Bluster or cringe, and make life 
 
 Hideous, and arid, and vile ; 
 / But souls temper'd with fire, ; *jf 
 
 ^ Fervent, heroic, and good, 
 
 Helpers and friends of mankind. 
 
 Servants of God ! — or sons 
 Shall I not call you ? because 
 Not as servants ye knew 
 Your Father's innermost mind, 
 His, who unwillingly sees 
 \ One of his little ones lost — 
 Yours is the praise, if mankind 
 Hath not as yet in its march 
 Fainted, and fallen, and died ! 
 
 See ! In the rocks of the world 
 
 Marches the host of mankind, 
 
 A feeble, wavering line. 
 
 Where are they tending? — A God 
 
 Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. 
 
 Ah, but the way is so long ! 
 
3IO 
 
 V 
 
 ELEGIAC rOEMS 
 
 Years they have been in the wild ! 
 Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, 
 Rising all round, overawe ; 
 Factions divide them, their host 
 Threatens to break, to dissolve. 
 — Ah, keep, keep them combined ! 
 Else, of the myriads who fill 
 That army, not one shall arrive ; 
 Sole they shall stray ; in the rocks 
 Stagger for ever in vain. 
 Die one by one in the waste. 
 
 Then, in such hour of need 
 Of your fainting, dispirited race, 
 Ye, like angels, appear, 
 Radiant with ardour divine ! 
 Beacons of hope, ye appear ! 
 Languor is not in your heart. 
 Weakness is not in your word, 
 Weariness not on your brow. 
 Ye alight in our van ! at your voice. 
 Panic, despair, flee away. 
 Ye move through the ranks, recall 
 The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 
 Praise, re-inspire the brave ! '^ ' 
 
 Order, courage, return. 
 Eyes rekindling, and prayers, 
 Follow your steps as ye go. 
 Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 
 Strengthen the wavering line, 
 Stablish, continue our march. 
 On, to the bound of the waste, 
 On, to the City of God. 
 
HEINE'S GRAVE 311 
 
 HEINE'S GRAVE 
 
 " Henri Heine " 'tis here ! 
 
 That black tombstone, the name 
 
 Carved there — no more ! and the smooth, 
 
 Swarded alleys, the limes 
 
 Touch'd with yellow by hot 
 
 Summer, but under them still, 
 
 In September's bright afternoon, 
 
 Shadow, and verdure, and cool. 
 
 Trim Montmartre ! the faint 
 
 Murmur of Paris outside ; 
 
 Crisp everlasting-flowers. 
 
 Yellow and black, on the graves. 
 
 Half blind, palsied, in pain, 
 Hither to come, from the streets' 
 Uproar, surely not loath 
 Wast thou, Heine ! — to lie 
 Quiet, to ask for closed 
 Shutters, and darken'd room, 
 And cool drinks, and an eased 
 Posture, and opium, no more ; 
 Hither to come, and to sleep 
 Under the wings of Renown. 
 
 Ah ! not little, when pain 
 Is most quelling, and man 
 Easily quell'd, and the fine 
 Temper of genius so soon 
 Thrills at each smart, is the praise. 
 Not to have yielded to pain J 
 No small boast, for a weak 
 
312 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Son of mankind, to the earth 
 Pinn'd by the thunder, to rear 
 His bolt-scathed front to the stars; 
 And, undaunted, retort 
 'Gainst thick-crashing, insane, 
 Tyrannous tempests of bale, 
 Arrowy lightnings of soul. 
 
 Hark ! through the alley resounds 
 Mocking laughter ! A film 
 Creeps o'er the sunshine ; a breeze 
 Ruffles the warm afternoon, 
 Saddens my soul with its chill. 
 Gibing of spirits in scorn 
 Shakes every leaf of the grove, 
 Mars the benignant repose 
 Of this amiable home of the dead. 
 
 Bitter spirits, ye claim 
 Heine ? — Alas, he is yours ! 
 Only a moment I long'd 
 Here in the quiet to snatch 
 From such mates the outworn 
 Poet, and steep him in calm. 
 Only a moment ! I knew 
 Whose he was who is here 
 Buried — I knew he was yours ! 
 Ah, I knew that I saw 
 Here no sepulchre built 
 In the laurell'd rock, o'er the blue 
 Naples bay, for a sweet 
 Tender Virgil ! no tomb 
 On Ravenna sands, in the shade 
 Of Ravenna pines, for a high 
 
Heine's grave 313 
 
 Austere Dante 1 no grave 
 By the Avon side, in the bright 
 Stratford meadows, for thee, 
 Shakespeare I loveUest of souls, 
 Peerless in radiance, in joy. 
 
 What, then, so harsh and malign, 
 Heine ! distils from thy life ? 
 Poisons the peace of the grave ? 
 
 I chide with thee not, that thy sharp 
 Upbraidings often assail'd 
 England, my country — for we. 
 Heavy and sad, for her sons, 
 Long since, deep in our hearts. 
 Echo the blame of her foes. 
 We, too, sigh that she flags ; 
 We, too, say that she now — 
 Scarce comprehending the voice 
 Of her greatest, golden-mouth'd sons 
 Of a former age any more — 
 Stupidly travels her round 
 Of mechanic business, and lets 
 Slow die out of her life 
 Glory, and genius, and joy. 
 
 So thou arraign'st her, her foe ; 
 So we arraign her, her sons. 
 
 Yes, we arraign her ! but she, 
 The weary Titan, with deaf 
 Ears, and labour-dimm'd eyes. 
 Regarding neither to right 
 Nor left, goes passively by, 
 Staggering on to her goal ; 
 
314 
 
 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Bearing on shoulders immense, 
 Atlanteiin, the load, 
 W'ellnigh not to be borne, 
 Of the too vast orb of her fate. 
 
 But was it thou — I think 
 Surely it was !— that bard 
 Unnamed, who, Goethe said, 
 Had every other gift, but wa7ited love ; 
 Love, without which the tongue 
 Even of angels sounds amiss ? 
 
 Charm is the glory which makes 
 
 Song of the poet divine, 
 
 Love is the fountain of charm. 
 
 How without charm wilt thou draw, 
 
 Poet ! the world to thy way ? 
 
 Not by the lightnings of wit — 
 
 Not by the thunder of scorn ! 
 
 These to the world, too, are given \ 
 
 Wit it possesses, and scorn — 
 
 Charm is the poet's alone. 
 
 Holloiv and dull are the great, 
 
 And artists envious, and the mob profaiie. 
 
 We know all this, we know ! 
 
 Cam'st thou from heaven, O child 
 
 Of light ! but this to declare ? 
 
 Alas, to help us forget 
 
 Such barren knowledge awhile, 
 
 God gave the poet his song ! 
 
 Therefore a secret unrest 
 Tortured thee, brilliant and bold ! 
 Therefore triumph itself 
 
HEINE'S GRAVE 315 
 
 Tasted amiss to thy soul. 
 Therefore, with blood of thy foes, 
 Trickled in silence thine own. 
 Therefore the victor's heart 
 Broke on the field of his fame. 
 
 Ah ! as of old, from the pomp 
 
 Of Italian Milan, the fair 
 
 Flower of marble of white 
 
 Southern palaces — steps 
 
 Border'd by statues, and walks 
 
 Terraced, and orange-bowers 
 
 Heavy with fragrance — the blond 
 
 German Kaiser full oft 
 
 Long'd himself back to the fields, 
 
 Rivers, and high-roof'd towns 
 
 Of his native Germany ; so. 
 
 So, how often ! from hot 
 
 Paris drawing-rooms, and lamps 
 
 Blazing, and brilliant crowds, 
 
 Starr'd and jewell'd, of men 
 
 Famous, of women the queens 
 
 Of dazzling converse — from fumes 
 
 Of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain 
 
 That mount, that madden — how oft 
 
 Heine's spirit outworn 
 
 Long'd itself out of the din. 
 
 Back to the tranquil, the cool 
 
 Far German home of his youth ! 
 
 See ! in the May-afternoon, 
 O'er the fresh, short turf of the Hartz, 
 A youth, with the foot of youth, 
 Heine ! thou climbest again ! 
 
3i6 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Up, through the tall dark firs 
 Warming their heads in the sun, 
 Chequering the grass with their shade- 
 Up, by the stream, with its huge 
 Moss-hung boulders, and thin 
 Musical water half-hid — 
 Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope, 
 With the sinking sun, and the air 
 Chill, and the shadows now 
 Long on the grey hill-side — 
 To the stone-roof'd hut at the top ! 
 
 Or, yet later, in w^atch 
 
 On the roof of the Brocken-tower 
 
 Thou standest, gazing ! — to see 
 
 The broad red sun, over field, 
 
 Forest, and city, and spire. 
 
 And mist-track'd stream of the wide. 
 
 Wide German land, going down 
 
 In a bank of vapours again 
 
 Standest, at nightfall, alone ! 
 
 Or, next morning, with limbs 
 Rested by slumber, and heart 
 Freshen'd and light with the May, 
 O'er the gracious spurs coming down 
 Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks, 
 And beechen coverts, and copse 
 Of hazels green in whose depth 
 Use, the fairy transform'd, 
 In a thousand water-breaks light 
 Pours her petulant youth — 
 Climbing the rock which juts 
 O'er the valley, the dizzily perch'd 
 
HEINE'S GRAVE 317 
 
 Rock — to its iron cross 
 
 Once more thou cling'st ; to the Cross 
 
 Clingest ! with smiles, with a sigh ! 
 
 Goethe, too, had been there. ^* 
 In the long-past winter he came 
 To the frozen Hartz, with his soul 
 Passionate, eager — his youth 
 All in ferment ! — but he 
 Destined to work and to live 
 Left it, and thou, alas ! 
 Only to laugh and to die. 
 
 But something prompts me : Not thus 
 
 Take leave of Heine ! not thus 
 
 Speak the last word at his grave ! 
 
 Not in pity, and not 
 
 With half censure — with awe 
 
 Hail, as it passes from earth 
 
 Scattering lightnings, that soul ! 
 
 The Spirit of the world, 
 
 Beholding the absurdity of men — 
 
 Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic smile. 
 
 For one short moment, wander o'er his lips. 
 
 That smile zvas Heine! — for its earthly hour 
 
 The strange guest sparkled ; now 'tis pass'd away. 
 
 That was Heine ! and we, 
 Myriads who live, who have lived, 
 What are we all, but a mood, 
 A single mood, of the life 
 Of the Spirit in whom we exist. 
 Who alone is all things in one ? 
 
3i8 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Spirit, who fillest us all ! 
 Spirit, who utterest in each 
 New-coming son of mankind 
 Such of thy thoughts as thou wilt ! 
 O thou, one of whose moods. 
 Bitter and strange, was the life 
 Of Heine — his strange, alas. 
 His bitter life ! — may a life 
 Other and milder be mine ! 
 May'st thou a mood more serene. 
 Happier, have utter'd in mine ! 
 May'st thou the rapture of peace 
 Deep have embreathed at its core ; 
 Made it a ray of thy thought, 
 Made it a beat of thy joy ! 
 
 STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE 
 
 Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused 
 With rain, where thick the crocus blows, 
 Past the dark forges long disused. 
 The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. 
 The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride. 
 Through forest, up the mountain-side. 
 
 The autumnal evening darkens round. 
 The wind is up, and drives the rain ; 
 While, hark ! far down, with strangled sound 
 Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain, 
 Where that wet smoke, among the woods. 
 Over his boiling cauldron broods. 
 
STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE 319 
 
 Swift rush the spectral vapours white 
 Past limestone scars with ragged pin^s, 
 Showing — then blotting from our .^light ! — 
 Halt — through the cloud-drift something shines J 
 High in the valley, wet and drear, 
 The huts of Courrerie appear/ 
 
 Strike leftward ! cries our guide ; and higher 
 
 Mounts up the stony fprest-way. 
 
 At last the encircling trees retire ; 
 
 Look .' through the showery twilight grey 
 
 vVhat pointed roofs are these advance ? — 
 
 A palace of the Kings of France? 
 
 Approach, for what we seek is here ! 
 Alight, and sparely sup, and wait 
 For rest in this outbuilding near ; / 
 
 Then cross the sward and reach that gate. 
 Knock ; pass the wicket ! Thou art come 
 To the Carthusians' world-famed home. 1/ 
 
 The silent courts, where night and day 
 Into their stone-carved basins cold 
 The splashing icy fountains play — 
 The humid corridors behold ! 
 Where, ghostlike in the deepening night, 
 Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white. 
 
 The chapel, where no organ's peal 
 Invests the stern and naked prayer — 
 With penitential cries they kneel 
 And wrestle ; rising then, with bare 
 And white uplifted faces stand. 
 Passing the Host from hand to hand ; 
 
320 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Each takes, and then his visage wan 
 Is buritd ^ni his cowl once more. 
 The.ceiUvNJ^^^iie suffering Son of Man 
 Upon ■ the-. vail+— the knee-worn floor — 
 And where tiuay sleep, that wooden bed, 
 Which shall thek coffin be, when dead ! 
 
 The library, where tract and tome 
 
 Not to feed priestly pride are there, 
 
 To hymn the conquering march of Rome, 
 
 Nor yet to amuse, as ours are ! ^o. 
 
 They paint of souls the inner strife, j indu' 
 
 Their drops of blood, their death in life. '^ 
 
 The garden, overgrown — yet mild, 
 See, fragrant herbs are flowering there ! 
 Strong children of the Alpine wild 
 Whose culture is the brethren's care ; 
 Of human tasks their only one, 
 And cheerful works beneath the sun. 
 
 Those halls, too, destined to contain 
 Each its own pilgrim-host of old, 
 From England, Germany, or Spain — 
 All are before me ! I behold 
 The House, the Brotherhood austere ! 
 — And what am I, that I am here ? 
 
 For rigorous teachers seized my youth, 
 And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, 
 Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, 
 There bade me gaze, and there aspire. 
 Even now their whispers pierce the gloom : 
 Whai dost thou in this living tomb i 
 
STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE 321 
 
 Forgive me, masters of tlie mind ! 
 At whose behest I long ago 
 So much unlearnt, so much resign'd — 
 I come not here to be your foe ! 
 I seek these anchorites, not in ruth, 
 To curse and to deny your J;ruth ; 
 
 Not as their friend, or child, I speak ! 
 But as, on some far northern strand, 
 Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek 
 In pity and mournful awe might stand 
 Before some fallen Runic stone — 
 For both were faiths, and both are gone. 
 
 Wandering between two worlds, one dead, 4^ 
 
 The other powerless to be born, / / '' 
 
 With nowhere yet to rest my head, 
 
 Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. j 
 
 Their faith, my tears, the world deride — I 
 
 I come to shed them at their side. 
 
 Oh, hide me in your gloom profound, 
 
 Ye solemn seats of holy pain ! 
 
 Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round, 
 
 Till I possess my soul again ; 
 
 Till free my thoughts before me roll. 
 
 Not chafed by hourly false control ! 
 
 For the world cries your faith is now 
 But a dead time's exploded dream ; 
 My melancholy, sciolists^say^ ^^^0" 
 Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme — 
 As if the world had ever had 
 A faith, or sciolists been sad ! 
 
 Y 
 
522 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Ah, if it be pass'd, take away, 
 At least, the restlessness, the pain ; 
 Be man henceforth no more a prey 
 To these out-dated stings again ! 
 The nobleness of grief is gone — 
 Ah, leave us not the fret alone ! 
 
 But — if you cannot give us ease — 
 Last of the race of them who grieve 
 Here leave us to die out with these 
 Last of the people who believe ! 
 Silent, while years engrave the brow ; 
 Silent — the best are silent now. 
 
 Achilles ponders in his tent, 
 The kings of modern thought are dumb ; 
 Silent they are, though not content, 
 And wait to see the future come. 
 They have the grief men had of yore, 
 But they contend and cry no more. 
 
 Our fathers water'd with their tears 
 This sea of time whereon we sail, 
 Their voices were in all men's ears 
 Who pass'd within their puissant hail. 
 Still the same ocean round us raves, 
 But we stand mute, and watch the waves. 
 
 For what avail'd it, all the noise 
 
 And outcry of the former men ? — 
 
 Say, have their sons achieved more joys, 
 
 Say, is life lighter now than then ? 
 
 The sufferers died, they left their pain — 
 
 The pangs which tortured them remain, 
 
 I- 
 
STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE 323 
 
 What helps it now, that Byron bore, 
 
 With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, 
 
 Xhryu^^^ 5*u:ope to the yEtohan shore 
 
 Xtfe p^g^- of his bleeding he^rt?. 
 
 'jMI^OQs^ends counted every ^roan 
 iMipsfi be;: 1 , . 
 
 ,Ana-iiy^jje made his. woe her own? 
 
 Wtotfejkjfcs it, Shelley ! thatjhfijiiee^e- 
 C¥ft-i^'4t*%y lovely wail away, 
 l^O^WsPlhrough Italian trees_ 
 A^hfe ^inge thy soft blue Spezzian bay ? 
 ^23^£ffihfeftfcifs of thy distress 
 
 SSv^lQfestless hearts one throb the less ? 
 
 @wai^ we easier, to have read, 
 €>^^<>%rmann ! the sad, stern page, 
 Ayhieh tells us how thou hidd'st thy head 
 ^]^<M^ the fierce tempest of thine age 
 IjOL^e lone brakes of Fontainebleauy— 
 Qfj^chalets near the Alpine snow ? 
 
 Ye slumber in your silent grave ! — 
 The world, which for an idle day 
 Gr^ace to your mood of sadness gave, 
 STANgong since hath flung her weeds away. 
 The eternal trifler breaks your spell ; 
 ! Biit we — we learnt your lore too well ! 
 
 Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, 
 23^3More fortunate, alas ! than we. 
 
 Which without hardness will be sage, 
 And gay without frivolity. 
 Sons of the world, oh, speed those years ; 
 But, while we wait, allow our tears ! 
 
324 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Allow them ! We admire with awe 
 The exulting thunder of your race; ..jiW- 
 You give the universe your laJKji 'Yi^uoirlT 
 You triumph over time and sp^fijgfcq grfT 
 Your pride of life, your tirele86ap©i*5eiftfir 
 We laud them, but they are no^^jQ^.bnA, 
 
 We are like children rear'd in sfi^Sej^rlV/ 
 Beneath some old-w^orld abbey i^llfeiTiBD 
 Forgotten in a forest-glade, 'Ft^DiauM 
 And secret from the eyes of all. ' ii rioidV/" 
 Deep, deep the greenwood rounddJi«alrtfaves, 
 Their abbey, and its close of graves bvBH 
 
 But, where the road runs near the- ^je£tt6^ 
 Oft through the trees they catch a gfiOi^i^ 
 Of passing troops in the sun's beamteklV/ 
 Pennon, and plume, and flashing lairaei'5 
 Forth to the world those soldiers fard^^ nl 
 To life, to cities, and to war ! b lO 
 
 And through the wood, another way, i oY 
 Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, HT 
 Where hunters gather, staghounds bay,iO 
 Round some fair forest-lodge at morn. oJ 
 Gay dames are there, in sylvan green ;rfT 
 Laughter and cries — those notes betweeli ! 
 
 The banners flashing through the trees I 
 Make their blood dance and chain theirleyes 
 That bugle-music on the breeze .'' 
 
 Arrests them with a charm'd surprise. 
 Banner by turns and bugle woo : 
 Ye shy recluses^ follow too I 
 
IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF " OBERMANN " 325 
 
 O children, what do ye reply? — 
 "Action and pleasure, will ye roam 
 Through these secluded dells to cry 
 And call us ? — but too late ye come ! 
 Too late for us your call ye blow. 
 Whose bent was taken long ago. 
 
 " Long since we pace this shadow'd nave ; 
 We watch those yellow tapers shine, 
 Emblems of hope over the grave, 
 In the high altar's depth divine ; 
 The organ carries to our ear 
 Its accents of another sphere. 
 
 " Fenced early in this cloistral round 
 
 Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, 
 
 How should we grow in other ground ? 
 
 How can we flower in foreign air ? 
 
 — Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease; 
 
 And leave our desert to its peace ! " 
 
 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF 
 " OBERMANN " 25 
 
 November, 1849 
 
 In front the awful Alpine track 
 Crawls up its rocky stair ; 
 The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, 
 Close o'er it, in the air. 
 
326 ELEGIAC rOEMS 
 
 Behind are the abandon'd baths ^^ 
 Mute in their meadows lone ; 
 The leaves are on the valley-paths, 
 The mists are on the Rhone — 
 
 The white mists rolling like a sea ! 
 I hear the torrents roar. 
 — Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee ; 
 I feel thee near once more ! 
 
 I turn thy leaves ! I feel their breath 
 Once more upon me roll ; 
 That air of languor, cold, and death, 
 Which brooded o'er thy soul. 
 
 Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art, 
 Condemn'd to cast about, 
 All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, 
 For comfort from without ! 
 
 A fever in these pages burns 
 Beneath the calm they feign ; 
 A wounded human spirit turns. 
 Here, on its bed of pain. 
 
 Yes, though the virgin mountain-air 
 Fresh through these pages blows ; 
 Though to these leaves the glaciers spare 
 The soul of their white snows ; 
 
 Though here a mountain-murmur swells 
 Of many a dark-bough'd pine ; 
 Tliough, as you read, you hear the bells 
 Of the high-pasturing kine — 
 
IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF " OBERMANN " 327 
 
 Yet, through the hum of torrent lone, 
 And brooding mountain-bee, 
 There sobs I know not what ground-tone 
 Of human agony. 
 
 Is it for this, because the sound 
 Is fraught too deep with pain, 
 That, Obermann ! the world around 
 So little loves thy strain ? 
 
 Some secrets may the poet tell, 
 For the world loves new ways ; 
 To tell too deep ones is not well — 
 It knows not what he says. 
 
 Yet, of the spirits who have reign'd 
 In this our troubled day, 
 I know but two, who have attain'd, 
 Save thee, to see their way. 
 
 By England's lakes, in grey old age. 
 His quiet home one keeps ; 
 And one, the strong much-toiling sage, 
 In German Weimar sleeps. 
 
 But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken 
 From half of human fate ; 
 And Goethe's course few sons of men 
 May think to emulate. 
 
 For he pursued a lonely road, 
 His eyes on Nature's plan ; 
 Neither made man too much a God, 
 Nor God too much a man. 
 
52S ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Strong was he, with a spirit free 
 From mists, and sane, and clear ; 
 Clearer, how much ! than ours — yet we 
 Have a worse course to steer. 
 
 For though his manhood bore the blast 
 Of a tremendous time. 
 Yet in a tranquil world was pass'd 
 His tenderer youthful prime. 
 
 But we, brought forth and rear'd in hours 
 Of change, alarm, surprise — 
 What shelter to grow ripe is ours ? 
 What leisure to grow wise ? 
 
 Like children bathing on the shore, 
 Buried a wave beneath, 
 The second wave succeeds, before 
 We have had time to breathe. 
 
 Too fast we live, too much are tried, 
 Too harass'd, to attain 
 Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wide 
 And luminous view to gain. 
 
 And then we turn, thou sadder sage, 
 To thee ! we feel thy spell ! 
 — The hopeless tangle of our age, 
 Thou too hast scann'd it well ! 
 
 Immoveable thou sittest, still 
 As death, composed to bear ! 
 Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill, 
 And icy thy despair. 
 
IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF " OBERMANN " 329 
 
 Yes, as the son of Thetis said, 
 I hear thee saying now : 
 Greater by far than thoii art dead ; 
 Strive 7iot I die also thoii I 
 
 Ah ! two desires toss about 
 
 The poet's feverish blood. 
 
 One drives him to the world without, ^ 
 
 And one to sohtude. 
 
 The glow, he cries, the thrill of life, 
 Where, where do these abound ? — 
 Not in the world, not in the strife 
 Of men, shall they be found. 
 
 He who hath watch'd, not shared, the strife, 
 Knows how the day hath gone. 
 He only lives with the world's life, 
 Who hath renounced his own. 
 
 To thee we come, then ! Clouds are roll'd 
 Where thou, O seer ! art set ; 
 Thy realm of thought is drear and cold — 
 The world is colder yet ! 
 
 And thou hast pleasures, too, to share 
 With those who come to thee — 
 Balms floating on thy mountain-air, 
 And healing sights to see. 
 
 How often, where the slopes are green 
 On Jaman, hast thou sate 
 By some high chalet-door, and seen 
 The summer-day grow late ; 
 
 
ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 And darkness steal o'er the wet grass 
 With the pale crocus starr'd, 
 And reach tliat glimmering sheet of glass 
 Beneath the piny sward, 
 
 Lake Leman's waters, far below ! 
 And watch'd the rosy light 
 Fade from the distant peaks of snow ; 
 And on the air of night 
 
 Heard accents of the eternal tongue 
 Through the pine branches play — 
 Listen'd, and felt thyself grow young ! 
 Listen'd and wept Away ! 
 
 Away the dreams that but deceive 
 And thou, sad guide, adieu ! 
 I go, fate drives me ; but I leave 
 Half of my life with you. 
 
 We, in some unknown Power's employ, 
 Move on a rigorous line ; 
 Can neither, when we will, enjoy. 
 Nor, when we will, resign. 
 
 I in the world must live ; but thou. 
 Thou melancholy shade ! 
 Wilt not, if thou canst see me now, 
 Condemn me, nor upbraid. 
 
 For thou art gone away from earth. 
 And place with those dost claim, 
 The Children of the Second Birth, 
 Whom the world could not tame ; 
 
IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR OF " OBERMANN " 331 
 
 And with that small, transfigured band, 
 Whom many a different way 
 Conducted to their common land. 
 Thou learn'st to think as they. 
 
 Christian and pagan, king and slave. 
 Soldier and anchorite, 
 Distinctions we esteem so grave, 
 Are nothing in their sight. 
 
 They do not ask, who pined unseen, 
 Who was on action hurl'd, 
 Whose one bond is, that all have been 
 Unspotted by the world. 
 
 There without anger thou wilt see 
 Him who obeys thy spell 
 No more, so he but rest, like thee, 
 Unsoil'd ! — and so, farewell. 
 
 Farewell ! — Whether thou now liest near 
 That much-loved inland sea. 
 The ripples of whose blue waves cheer 
 Vevey and Meillerie : 
 
 And in that gracious region bland, 
 Where with clear-rustling wave 
 The scented pines of Switzerland 
 Stand dark round thy green grave, 
 
 Between the dusty vineyard-walls 
 Issuing on that green place 
 The early peasant still recalls 
 The pensive stranger's face. 
 
332 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date 
 Ere he plods on again ; — 
 Or wliether, by maligner fate, 
 Among the swarms of men, 
 
 Where between granite terraces 
 The blue Seine rolls her wave, 
 The Capital of Pleasure sees 
 The hardly-heard-of grave ; — 
 
 Farewell ! Under the sky we part, 
 In the stern Alpine dell. 
 O unstrung will ! O broken heart ! 
 A last, a last farewell ! 
 
 OBERMANN ONCE MORE 
 
 (composed many years after the preceding) 
 
 Savez-vous qiielque hien qui console du regret d'un monde f 
 
 Obermann. 
 
 Glion ? Ah, twenty years, it cuts ^'^ 
 
 All meaning from a name ! 
 
 White houses prank where once were huts. 
 
 Glion, but not the same ! 
 
 And yet I know not ! All unchanged 
 The turf, the pines, the sky ! 
 The hills in their old order ranged ; 
 The lake, with Chillon by ! 
 
 And, 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff 
 
 And stony mounts the way, 
 
 The crackling husk-heaps burn, as if 
 
 I left them yesterday ! 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MORE 333 
 
 Across the valley, on that slope, 
 The huts of Avant shine ! 
 Its pines, under their branches, ope 
 Ways for the pasturing kine. 
 
 Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, 
 Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass. 
 Invite to rest the traveller there 
 Before he climb the pass — 
 
 The gentian-flower'd pass, its crown 
 With yellow spires aflame ; ^^ 
 Whence drops the path to Alliere down. 
 And walls where Byron came,-^ 
 
 By their green river, who doth change 
 His birth-name just below ; 
 Orchard, and croft, and full-stored grange 
 Nursed by his pastoral flow. 
 
 But stop ! — to fetch back thoughts that stray 
 
 Beyond this gracious bound, 
 
 The cone of Jaman, pale and grey, 
 
 See, in the blue profound ! 
 
 Ah, Jaman ! delicately tall 
 Above his sun-warm'd firs — 
 What thoughts to me his rocks recall, 
 What memories he stirs ! 
 
 And who but thou must be, in truth, 
 Obermann ! with me here ? 
 Thou master of my wandering youth. 
 But left this many a year ! 
 
334 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, 
 Its warfare waged with pain ; 
 An eremite with thee, in thought 
 Once more I shp my chain, 
 
 And to thy mountain-chalet come, 
 And lie beside its door, 
 And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, 
 And thy sad, tranquil lore ! 
 
 Again I feel the words inspire 
 Their mournful calm ; serene, 
 Yet tinged with infinite desire 
 For all that might have been — 
 
 The harmony from which man swerved 
 Made his life's rule once more ! 
 The universal order served, 
 Earth happier than before ! 
 
 — While thus I mused, night gently ran 
 Down over hill and wood. 
 Then, still and sudden, Obermann 
 On the grass near me stood. 
 
 Those pensive features well I knew, 
 On my mind, years before, 
 Imaged so oft ! imaged so true ! 
 — A shepherd's garb he wore, 
 
 A mountain-flower was in his hand, 
 
 A book was in his breast. 
 
 Bent on my face, with gaze which scann'd 
 
 My soul, his eyes did rest. 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MORE 335 
 
 "And is it thou," he cried, "so long 
 Held by the world which we 
 Loved not, who turnest from the throng 
 Back to thy youth and me ? 
 
 " And from thy world, with heart opprest, 
 Choosest thou noiv to turn ? — 
 Ah me ! we anchorites read things best. 
 Clearest their course discern ! 
 
 " Thou fledst me when the ungenial earth, 
 Man's work-place, lay in gloom. 
 Return'st thou in her hour of birth, 
 Of hopes and hearts in bloom ? 
 
 " Perceiv'st thou not the change of day ? 
 
 Ah ! Carry back thy ken, 
 What, some two thousand years ! Survey 
 The world as it was then ! 
 
 " Like ours it look'd in outward air. 
 Its head was clear and true, 
 Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare. 
 No pause its action knew ; 
 
 " Stout was its arm, each thew and bone 
 Seem'd puissant and alive — 
 But, ah ! its heart, its heart was stone. 
 And so it could not thrive ! 
 
 " On that hard Pagan world disgust 
 And secret loathing fell. 
 Deep weariness and sated lust 
 Made human life a hell. 
 
336 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 '' In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, 
 The Roman noble lay ; 
 He drove abroad, in furious guise, 
 Along the Appian way. 
 
 " He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, 
 And crown'd his hair with flowers — 
 No easier nor no quicker pass'd 
 The impracticable hours. 
 
 " The brooding East with awe beheld 
 Her impious younger world. 
 The Roman tempest swell'd and sw^ell'd. 
 And on her head was hurl'd. 
 
 " The East bow'd low before the blast 
 In patient, deep disdain ; 
 She let the legions thunder past, 
 And plunged in thought again. 
 
 " So well she mused, a morning broke 
 Across her spirit grey ; 
 A conquering, new-born joy aw^oke, 
 And fill'd her life with day. 
 
 " ' Poor world,' she cried, ' so deep accurst, 
 That runn'st from pole to pole 
 To seek a draught to slake thy thirst — 
 Go, seek it in thy soul ! 
 
 " She heard it, the victorious West, 
 In crown and sword array'd ! 
 She felt the void which mined her breast, 
 She shiver'd and obey'd. 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MORE 337 
 
 " She veil'd her eagles, snapp'd her sword, 
 And laid her sceptre down ; 
 Her stately purple she abhorr'd, 
 And her imperial crown. 
 
 "She broke her flutes, she stopp'd her sports, 
 Her artists could not please ; 
 She tore her books, she shut her courts. 
 She fled her palaces ; 
 
 " Lust of the eye and pride of life 
 She left it all behind. 
 And hurried, torn with inward strife, 
 The wilderness to find. 
 
 " Tears wash'd the trouble from her face ! 
 She changed into a child ! 
 'Mid weeds and wrecks she stood — a place 
 Of ruin — but she smiled ! 
 
 " Oh, had I lived in that great day, 
 How had its glory new 
 Fill'd earth and heaven, and caught away 
 My ravish'd spirit too ! 
 
 " No thoughts that to the world belong 
 Had stood against the wave 
 Of love which set so deep and strong 
 From Christ's then open grave. 
 
 " No cloister-floor of humid stone 
 Had been too cold for me. 
 For me no Eastern desert lone 
 Had been too far to flee. 
 z 
 
ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 '' No lonely life had pass'd too slow, 
 ^^'hen I could hourly scan 
 Upon his Cross, with head sunk low, 
 That nail'd, thorn-crowned Man ! 
 
 " Could see the Mother with her Child 
 Whose tender winning arts 
 Have to his little arms beguiled 
 So many wounded hearts ! 
 
 " And centuries came and ran their course, 
 And unspent all that time 
 Still, still went forth that Child's dear force^ 
 And still was at its prime. 
 
 "Ay, ages long endured his span 
 
 Of life — 'tis true received — 
 
 That gracious Child, that thorn-crown'd Man ! 
 
 — He lived while we believed. 
 
 "While we believed, on earth he went, 
 And open stood his grave. 
 Men call'd from chamber, church, and tent ; 
 And Christ was by to save. 
 
 " Now he is dead ! Far hence he lies 
 In the lorn Syrian town ; 
 And on his grave, with shining eyes, 
 The Syrian stars look down. 
 
 " In vain men still, with hoping new, 
 Regard his death-place dumb. 
 And say the stone is not yet to. 
 And wait for words to come. 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MORE 339 
 
 " Ah, o'er that silent sacred land, 
 Of sun, and arid stone, 
 And crumbling wall, and sultry sand, 
 Sounds now one word alone ! 
 
 " Uiiduped of fancy ^ henceforth man 
 
 Must labour I — 77iust resign 
 
 His all too human creeds, and scan 
 
 Simply the way divine I 
 
 " But slow that tide of common thought, 
 Which bathed our life, retired ; 
 Slow, slow the old world wore to nought. 
 And pulse by pulse expired. 
 
 " Its frame yet stood without a breach 
 When blood and warmth were fled ; 
 And still it spake its wonted speech — 
 But every word was dead. 
 
 " And oh, we cried, that on this corse 
 Might fall a freshening storm ! 
 Rive its dry bones, and with new force 
 A new-sprung world inform ! 
 
 " — Down came the storm ! O'er France it pass'd 
 In sheets of scathing fire ; 
 All Europe felt that fiery blast. 
 And shook as it rush'd by her. 
 
 " Down came the storm ! In ruins fell 
 The worn-out world we knew. 
 
 It pass'd, that elemental swell ! 
 Again appear'd the blue ; 
 
340 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 " The sun shone in the new-wash'd sky, 
 And what from heaven saw he ? 
 Blocks of the past, Uke icebergs high, 
 Float on a rolling sea ! 
 
 " Upon them plies the race of man 
 All it before endeavour'd ; 
 ' Ye live/ I cried, ' ye w^ork and plan, 
 And know not ye are sever'd ! 
 
 " ' Poor fragments of a broken world 
 Whereon men pitch their tent ! 
 Why were ye too to death not hurl'd 
 When your world's day was spent ? 
 
 " ' That glow of central fire is done 
 Which with its fusing flame 
 Knit all your parts, and kept you one — 
 But ye, ye are the same ! 
 
 " ' The past, its mask of union on, 
 Had ceased to live and thrive. 
 The past, its mask of union gone. 
 Say, is it more alive? 
 
 " ' Your creeds are dead, your rites are dead, 
 Your social order too ! 
 Where tarries he, the Power who said : 
 See^ I make all things fieiv ? 
 
 " ' The millions suffer still, and grieve, 
 And what can helpers heal 
 With old-world cures men half believe 
 For woes they wholly feel ? 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MORE 341 
 
 " ' And yet men have such need of joy ! 
 But joy whose grounds are true ; 
 And joy that should all hearts employ 
 As when the past was new. 
 
 " ' Ah, not the emotion of that past, 
 Its common hope, were vain ! 
 Some new such hope must dawn at last, 
 Or man must toss in pain. 
 
 " ' But now the old is out of date, 
 The new is not yet born. 
 And who can be alone elate, 
 While the world lies forlorn?' 
 
 " Then to the wilderness I fled. — 
 There among Alpine snows 
 And pastoral huts I hid my head, 
 And sought and found repose. 
 
 " It was not yet the appointed hour. 
 Sad, patient, and resign'd, 
 I watch'd the crocus fade and flower, 
 I felt the sun and wind. 
 
 "The day I lived in was not mine, 
 Man gets no second day. 
 In dreams I saw the future shine — 
 But ah ! I could not stay ! 
 
 " Action I had not, followers, fame ; 
 I pass'd obscure, alone. 
 The after-world forgets my name. 
 Nor do I wish it knowm. 
 
342 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 " Composed to bear, I lived and died, 
 And knew my life was vain, 
 With fate 1 murmur not, nor chide, 
 At Sevres by the Seine 
 
 " (If Paris that brief flight allow) 
 My humble tomb explore ! 
 It bears : Eternity^ be thou 
 My refuge I and no more. 
 
 " But thou, whom fellowship of mood 
 Did make from haunts of strife 
 Come to my mountain-solitude. 
 And learn my frustrate life; 
 
 " O thou, who, ere thy flying span 
 Was past of cheerful youth. 
 Didst find the solitary man 
 And love his cheerless truth — 
 
 " Despair not thou as I despair'd, 
 Nor be cold gloom thy prison ! 
 Forward the gracious hours have fared, 
 And see ! the sun is risen ! 
 
 " He breaks the winter of the past ; 
 A green, new earth appears. 
 Millions, whose life in ice lay fast. 
 Have thoughts, and smiles, and tears. 
 
 " What though there still need effort, strife ? 
 Though much be still unwon ? 
 Yet warm it mounts, the hour of life ! 
 Death's frozen hour is done ! 
 
OBERMANN ONCE MORE 343 
 
 "The world's great order dawns in sheen, 
 After long darkness rude, 
 Divinelier imaged, clearer seen, 
 With happier zeal pursued. 
 
 " With hope extinct and brow composed 
 I mark'd the present die ; 
 Its term of life was nearly closed, 
 Yet it had more than I. 
 
 '' But thou, though to the world's new hour 
 Thou come with aspect marr'd, 
 Shorn of the joy, the bloom, the power 
 Which best befits its bard — 
 
 " Though more than half thy years be past, 
 And spent thy youthful prime ; 
 Though, round thy firmer manhood cast, 
 Hang weeds of our sad time 
 
 " Whereof thy youth felt all the spell. 
 
 And traversed all the shade — 
 
 Though late, though dimm'd, though weak, yet tell 
 
 Hope to a world new-made ! 
 
 " Help it to fill that deep desire, 
 The want which rack'd our brain. 
 Consumed our heart with thirst like fire. 
 Immedicable pain ; 
 
 " Which to the wilderness drove out \ 
 
 Our life, to Alpine snow, 
 
 And palsied all our word with doubt. 
 
 And all our work with woe — 
 
344 ELEGIAC POEMS 
 
 *' What still of strength is left, employ 
 That end to help attain : 
 One connnoji icave of thought and Joy 
 Lifting mankind again ! " 
 
 — The vision ended. I awoke 
 
 As out of sleep, and no 
 
 Voice moved ; — only the torrent broke 
 
 The silence, far below. 
 
 Soft darkness on the turf did lie. 
 Solemn, o'er hut and wood, 
 In the yet star-sown nightly sky, 
 The peak of Jaman stood. 
 
 Still in my soul the voice I heard 
 
 Of Obermann ! away 
 
 I turned ; by some vague impulse stirr'd, 
 Along the rocks of Naye 
 
 Past Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze 
 And the blanch'd summit bare 
 Of Malatrait, to where in haze 
 The Valais opens fair, 
 
 And the domed Velan, with his snows, 
 Behind the upcrowding hills. 
 Doth all the heavenly opening close 
 Which the Rhone's murmur fills ; — 
 
 And glorious there, without a sound. 
 Across the glimmering lake, 
 High in the Valais-depth profound, 
 I saw the morning break. 
 
DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
MEROPE 
 
 A TRAGEDY 
 
 STORY OF THE DRAMA 
 
 Apollodorus says: — " Cresphontes had not reigned long in Messenia 
 when he was murdered, together with two of his sons. And Polyphontes 
 reigned in his stead, he, too, being of the family of Hercules ; and he had 
 for his wife, against her will, Merope, the widow of the murdered king. 
 But Merope had borne to Cresphontes a third son, called yEpytus ; him 
 she gave to her own father to bring up. He, when he came to man's 
 estate, returned secretly to Messenia, and slew Polyphontes and the other 
 murderers of his father." 
 
 Hyginus says: — "Merope sent away and concealed her infant son. 
 Polyphontes sought for him everywhere in vain. He, when he grew up, 
 laid a plan to avenge the murder of his father and brothers. In pursuance 
 of this plan he came to king Polyphontes and reported the death of the son 
 of Cresphontes and Merope. The king ordered him to be hospitably enter- 
 tained, intending to inquire further of him. He, being very tired, went to 
 sleep, and an old man, who was the channel through whom the mother 
 and son used to communicate, arrives at this moment in tears, bringing 
 word to Merope that her son had disappeared from his protector's house, 
 and was slain, Merope, believing that the sleeping stranger is the 
 murderer of her son, comes into the guest-chamber with an axe, not 
 knowing that he whom she would slay was her son ; the old man recog- 
 nised him, and withheld Merope from slaying him. The king, Polyphontes, 
 rejoicing at the supposed death of ^Epytus, celebrated a sacrifice ; his guest, 
 pretending to strike the sacrificial victim, slew the king, and so got back 
 his father's kingdom." 
 
 The events on which the action of the drama turns belong to the period 
 of transition from the heroic and fabulous to the human and historic age of 
 
348 STORY OF THE DRAMA 
 
 Greece. The doings of the hero Hercules, tlie ancestor of the Messenian 
 -c^pytus, belong to fable ; but the invasion of Peloponnesus by the Dorians 
 under chiefs claiming to be descended from Hercules, and their settlement 
 in Argos, Lacedcemon, and Messenia, belong to history. ^pytus is 
 descended on the father's side from Hercules, Perseus, and the kings of 
 Argos ; on the mother's side from Pelasgus, and the aboriginal kings of 
 Arcadia. Callisto, the daughter of the wicked Lycaon, and the mother, 
 by Zeus, of Areas, from whom the Arcadians took their name, was the 
 granddaughter of Pelasgus. The birth of Areas brought upon Callisto the 
 anger of the virgin -goddess Artemis, whose service she followed : she was 
 changed into a she -bear, and in this form was chased by her own son, 
 grown to manhood. Zeus interposed, and the mother and son were 
 removed from the earth, and placed among the stars. Callisto became 
 the famous constellation of the Great Bear ; her son became Arcturus, 
 Arctophylax, or Bootes. From this son of Callisto were descended Cypselus, 
 the maternal grandfather of ^pytus, and the children of Cypselus, Laias 
 and ]\Ierope. 
 
 The story of the life of Hercules, the paternal ancestor of .^pytus, is so 
 well known that there is no need to record it. The reader will remember 
 that, although entitled to the throne of Argos by right of descent from 
 Perseus and Danaus, and to the thrones of Sparta and Messenia by right 
 of conquest, Hercules yet passed his life in labours and wanderings, sub- 
 jected by the decree of fate to the commands of his kinsman, the feeble 
 and malignant Eurystheus. At his death he bequeathed to his offspring, 
 the Heracleidae, his own claims to the kingdoms of Peloponnesus, and to 
 the persecution of Eurystheus, They at first sought shelter with Ceyx, 
 king of Trachis ; he was too weak to protect them, and they then took 
 refuge at Athens. The Athenians refused to deliver them up at the 
 demand of Eurystheus ; he invaded Attica, and a battle was fought near 
 Marathon, in which, after Macaria, a daughter of Hercules, had devoted 
 herself for the preservation of her house, Eurystheus fell, and the Heracleidse 
 and their Athenian protectors were victorious. The memory of Macaria's 
 self-sacrifices was perpetuated by the name of a spring of water on the 
 plain of Marathon, the spring INIacaria. The Heracleidre then endea- 
 voured to effect their return to Peloponnesus. Hyllus, the eldest of them, 
 inquired of the oracle at Delphi respecting their return ; he was told to 
 return by the narrow passage and in the third harvest. Accordingly, in 
 the third year from that time Hyllus led an army to the Isthmus of Corinth ; 
 but there he was encountered by an army of Achaians and Arcadians, and 
 fell in single combat with Echemus, king of Tegea. Upon this defeat the 
 I leracleidoe retired to northern Greece ; there, after much wandering, they 
 finally took refuge with /ligimius, king of the Dorians, who appears to have 
 
STORY OF THE DRAMA 349 
 
 been the fastest friend of their house, and whose Dorian warriors formed the 
 army which at last achieved their return. But, for a hundred years from 
 the date of their first attempt, the Heracleidse were defeated in their succes- 
 sive invasions of Peloponnesus. Cleolaus and Aristomachus, the son and 
 grandson of Hyllus, fell in unsuccessful expeditions. At length the sons 
 of Aristomachus, Temenus, Cresphontes, and Aristodemus, when grown up, 
 repaired to Delphi and taxed the oracle with the non-fulfilment of the 
 promise made to their ancestor Hyllus. But Apollo replied that his oracle 
 had been misunderstood ; for that by the third harvest he had meant the 
 third generation, and by the narrow passage he had meant the straits of the 
 Corinthian Gulf. After this explanation the sons of Aristomachus built a 
 fleet at Naupactus ; and finally, in the hundredth year from the death of 
 Hyllus and the eightieth from the fall of Troy, the invasion was again 
 attempted and was this time successful. The son of Orestes, Tisamenus, 
 who ruled both Argos and Lacedsemon, fell in battle ; many of his van- 
 quished subjects left their homes and took refuge in Achaia. 
 
 The spoil was now to be divided among the conquerors. Aristodemus, 
 the youngest of the sons of Aristomachus, did not survive to enjoy his share. 
 He was slain at Delphi by the sons of Pylades and Electra, the kinsman, 
 through their mother, of the house of Agamemnon, that house which the 
 Heracleidse with their Dorian army had dispossessed. The claims of 
 Aristodemus descended to his two sons, Procles and Eurysthenes, children 
 under the guardianship of their maternal uncle, Theras. Temenus, the 
 eldest of the sons of Aristomachus, took the kingdom of Argos. For the 
 two remaining kingdoms, that of Sparta and that of Messenia, his two 
 nephews, who were to rule jointly, and their uncle Cresphontes, had to 
 cast lots. Cresphontes wished to have the fertile Messenia, and induced 
 his brother to acquiesce in a trick which secured it to him. The lot of 
 Cresphontes and that of his two nephews were to be placed in a water-jar, 
 and thrown out. Messenia was to belong to him whose lot came out first. 
 With the connivance of Temenus, Cresphontes marked as his own lot a 
 pellet composed of baked clay, as the lot of his nephews, a pellet of 
 unbaked clay ; the unbaked pellet was of course dissolved in the water, 
 while the brick pellet fell out alone. Messenia, therefore, was assigned to 
 Cresphontes. 
 
 Messenia was at this time ruled by Melanthus, a descendant of Neleus. 
 This ancestor, a prince of the great house of ^olus, had come from 
 Thessaly and succeeded to the Messenian throne on the failure of the 
 previous dynasty. Melanthus and his race were thus foreigners in Messenia 
 and were unpopular. His subjects offered little or no opposition to the 
 invading Dorians ; Melanthus abandoned his kingdom to Cresphontes, and 
 retired to Athens, 
 
350 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA 
 
 Cresphontes married Merope, whose native country, Arcadia, was not 
 affected by the Dorian invasion. This marriage, the issue of which was 
 three sons, connected him with the native population of Peloponnesus. He 
 built a new capital of Messenia, Stenyclaros, and transferred thither, from 
 Pylos, the seat of government ; he proposed, moreover, says Pausanias, to 
 divide Messenia into five states, and to confer on the native Messenians 
 equal privileges with their Dorian conquerors. The Dorians complained 
 that his administration unduly favoured the vanquished people ; his chief 
 magnates, headed by Polyphontes, himself a descendant of Hercules, 
 formed a cabal against him, and he was slain with his two eldest sons. 
 The youngest son of Cresphontes, i'Epytus, then an infant, was saved by his 
 mother, who sent him to her father, Cypselus, the king of Arcadia, under 
 whose protection he was brought up. 
 
 The drama begins at the moment when yEpytus, grown to manhood, 
 returns secretly to Messenia to take vengeance on his father's murderers. 
 At this period Temenus was no longer reigning at Argos ; he had been 
 murdered by his sons, jealous of their brother-in-law, Deiphontes. The 
 sons of Aristodemus, Procles and Eurysthenes, at variance with their uncle 
 and ex-guardian, Theras, were reigning at Sparta. 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DRAMA 
 
 Laias, tinck 0/ /Efytus, hvi/ier 0/ Merofe. 
 
 iEPYTUS, son ^Merope a;/^ Cresphontes. 
 
 Polyphontes, y^m^r ^Messenia. 
 
 Merope, widow ^Cresphontes, ^/le fui/ rdered /et'n^- o/Messe'SIA. 
 
 The Chorus, ^Messenian wazdens. 
 
 Arcas, an old man ^Merope's honsehold. 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Guards, Attendants, etc. 
 
 The Scene is before the royal palace in Stenyclaros, the capital of 
 Messenia. /;/ the foreground is the tomb of Cresphontes. The 
 action commences at day-break. 
 
MEROPE 
 
 LAIAS. .^PYTUS 
 
 Laias 
 
 Son of Cresphontes, we have reach'd the goal 
 
 Of our night-journey, and thou see'st thy home. 
 
 Behold thy heritage, thy father's realm ! 
 
 This is that fruitful, famed Messenian land, 
 
 Wealthy in corn and flocks, which, when at last 
 
 The late-relenting Gods with victory brought 
 
 The Heracleidse back to Pelops' isle, 
 
 Fell to thy father's lot, the second prize. 
 
 Before thy feet this recent city spreads 
 
 Of Stenyclaros, which he built, and made 
 
 Of his fresh-conquer'd realm the royal seat, 
 
 Degrading Pylos from its ancient rule. 
 
 There stands the temple of thine ancestor, 
 
 Great Heracles ; and, in that public place, 
 
 Zeus hath his altar, where thy father fell. 
 
 Southward and west, behold those snowy peaks, 
 
 Taygetus, Laconia's border-wall ; 
 
 And, on this side, those confluent streams which make 
 
 Pamisus watering the Messenian plain ; 
 
 Then to the north, Lycseus and the hills 
 
352 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Of pastoral Arcadia, where, a babe 
 Snatch'd from the slaughter of thy father's house, 
 Thy mother's kin received thee, and rear'd up. — 
 Our journey is well made, the work remains 
 Which to perform we made it ; means for that 
 Let us consult, before this palace sends 
 Its inmates on their daily tasks abroad. 
 Haste and advise, for day comes on apace. 
 
 ^pytus 
 
 O brother of my mother, guardian true. 
 
 And second father from that hour when first 
 
 My mother's faithful servant laid me down. 
 
 An infant, at the hearth of Cypselus, 
 
 My grandfather, the good Arcadian king — 
 
 Thy part it were to advise, and mine to obey. 
 
 But let us keep that purpose, which, at home, 
 
 We judged the best ; chance finds no better way. 
 
 Go thou into the city, and seek out 
 
 Whate'er in the Messenian people stirs 
 
 Of faithful fondness for their former king 
 
 Or hatred to their present ; in this last 
 
 Will lie, my grandsire said, our fairest chance. 
 
 For tyrants make man good beyond himself; 
 
 Hate to their rule, which else would die away. 
 
 Their daily-practised chafings keep alive. 
 
 Seek this ! revive, unite it, give it hope ; 
 
 Bid it rise boldly at the signal given. 
 
 Meanwhile within my father's palace I, 
 
 An unknown guest, will enter, bringing word 
 
 Of my own death — but, Laias, well I hope 
 
 Through that pretended death to live and reign. 
 
 [The Chorus conies for tJi. 
 
MEROPE 353 
 
 Softly, stand back ! — see, to these palace gates 
 What black procession slowly makes approach? — 
 Sad-chanting maidens clad in mourning robes, 
 With pitchers in their hands, and fresh-pull'd flowers — 
 Doubtless, they bear them to my father's tomb. 
 
 [ M EROPE C07nes forth. 
 
 And look, to meet them, that one, grief-plunged Form, 
 Severer, paler, statelier than they all, 
 A golden circlet on her queenly brow ! 
 O Laias, Laias, let the heart speak here — 
 Shall I not greet her ? shall I not leap forth ? 
 
 [PoLYPHONTES comes fortli^ following Merope. 
 
 Laias 
 Not so ! thy heart would pay its moment's speech 
 By silence ever after, for, behold ! 
 The King (I know him, even through many years) 
 Follows the approaching Queen, who stops, as call'd. 
 No lingering now ! straight to the city I ; 
 Do thou, till for thine entrance to this house 
 The happy moment comes, lurk here unseen 
 Behind the shelter of thy father's tomb ; 
 Remove yet further off, if aught comes near. 
 But, here while harbouring, on its margin lay. 
 Sole offering that thou hast, locks from thy head ; 
 And fill thy leisure with an earnest prayer 
 To his avenging Shade, and to the Gods 
 Who under earth watch guilty deeds of men, 
 To guide our vengeance to a prosperous close. 
 
 [Laias goes out. Polyphontes, Merope, and The 
 Chorus come forward. As they advance., ^pytus, 
 tvho at first conceals hifnself behind the tomb., 
 7noves ofl^ the stage, 
 
 2 A 
 
354 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 J\->lyphontes {To The Chorus) 
 
 Set down your pitchers, maidens, and fall back ! 
 
 Suspend your melancholy rites awhile ; 
 
 Shortly ye shall resume them with your Queen. - 
 
 {To Merope) 
 
 I sought thee, Merope ; I find thee thus, 
 As I have ever found thee ; bent to keep. 
 By sad observances and public grief, 
 A mournful feud alive, which else would die. 
 I blame thee not, I do thy heart no wrong ! 
 Thy deep seclusion, thine unyielding gloom. 
 Thine attitude of cold, estranged reproach, 
 These punctual funeral honours, year by year 
 Repeated, are in thee, I well believe, 
 Courageous, faithful actions, nobly dared. 
 But, Merope, the eyes of other men 
 Read in these actions, innocent in thee, 
 Perpetual promptings to rebellious hope. 
 War-cries to faction, year by year renew'd. 
 Beacons of vengeance, not to be let die. 
 And me, believe it, wise men gravely blame, 
 And ignorant men despise me, that I stand 
 Passive, permitting thee what course thou wilt. 
 Yes, the crowd mutters that remorseful fear 
 And paralysing conscience stop my arm, 
 When it should pluck thee from thy hostile way. 
 All this I bear, for, what I seek, I know : 
 Peace, peace is what I seek, and public calm ; 
 Endless extinction of unhappy hates, 
 Union cemented for this nation's weal. 
 And even now, if to behold me here, 
 
MEROPE 
 
 This day, amid these rites, this black-robed train, 
 Wakens, O Queen ! remembrance in thy heart 
 Too wide at variance with the peace I seek — 
 I will not violate thy noble grief, 
 The prayer I came to urge I will defer. 
 
 Merope 
 
 This day, to-morrow, yesterday, alike 
 I am, I shall be, have been, in my mind 
 Tow'rd thee ; toward thy silence as thy speech. 
 Speak, therefore, or keep silence, which thou wilt. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 
 Hear me, then, speak ; and let this mournful day. 
 
 The twentieth anniversary of strife. 
 
 Henceforth be honour'd as the date of peace. 
 
 Yes, twenty years ago this day beheld 
 
 The king Cresphontes, thy great husband, fall ; 
 
 It needs no yearly offerings at his tomb 
 
 To keep alive that memory in my heart — 
 
 It lives, and, while I see the light, will live. 
 
 For we were kinsmen — more than kinsmen — friends ; 
 
 Together we had grown, together lived ; 
 
 Together to this isle of Pelops came 
 
 To take the inheritance of Heracles, 
 
 Together won this fair Messenian land — 
 
 Alas, that, how to rule it, was our broil ! 
 
 He had his counsel, party, friends — I mine ; 
 
 He stood by what he wish'd for — I the same ; 
 
 I smote him, when our wishes clash'd in arms — 
 
 He had smit me, had he been swift as I. 
 
 But while I smote him, Queen, I honour'd him ; 
 
 355 
 
356 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Me, too, had he prevail'd, he had not scorn'd. 
 
 Enough of this ! Since that, I have maintain'd 
 
 The sceptre — not remissly let it fall — 
 
 And I am seated on a prosperous throne ; 
 
 Yet still, for I conceal it not, ferments 
 
 In the Messenian people what remains 
 
 Of thy dead husband's faction — vigorous once. 
 
 Now crush'd but not quite lifeless by his fall. 
 
 And these men look to thee, and from thy grief — 
 
 Something too studiously, forgive me, shown — 
 
 Infer thee their accomplice ; and they say 
 
 That thou in secret nurturest up thy son, 
 
 Him whom thou hiddest when thy husband fell. 
 
 To avenge that fall, and bring them back to power. 
 
 Such are their hopes — I ask not if by thee 
 
 Willingly fed or no — their most vain hopes ; 
 
 For I have kept conspiracy fast-chain'd 
 
 Till now, and I have strength to chain it still. 
 
 But, Merope, the years advance ; — I stand 
 
 Upon the threshold of old age, alone, 
 
 Always in arms, always in face of foes. 
 
 The long repressive attitude of rule 
 
 Leaves me austerer, sterner, than I would ; 
 
 Old age is more suspicious than the free 
 
 And valiant heart of youth, or manhood's firm 
 
 Unclouded reason ; I would not decline 
 
 Into a jealous tyrant, scourged with fears. 
 
 Closing in blood and gloom his sullen reign. 
 
 The cares which might in me with time, I feel. 
 
 Beget a cruel temper, help me quell ! 
 
 The breach between our parties help me close ! 
 
 Assist me to rule mildly ; let us join 
 
 Our hands in solemn union, making friends 
 
MEROPE 357 
 
 Our factions with the friendship of their chiefs. 
 
 Let us in marriage, King and Queen, unite 
 
 Claims ever hostile else, and set thy son — 
 
 No more an exile fed on empty hopes, 
 
 And to an unsubstantial title heir. 
 
 But prince adopted by the will of power, 
 
 And future king — before this people's eyes. 
 
 Consider him ! consider not old hates ! 
 
 Consider, too, this people, who were dear 
 
 To their dead king, thy husband — yea, too dear, 
 
 For that destroy'd him. Give them peace ! thou can'st. 
 
 O Merope, how many noble thoughts, 
 
 How many precious feelings of man's heart, 
 
 How many loves, how many gratitudes. 
 
 Do twenty years w^ear out, and see expire ! 
 
 Shall they not w^ear one hatred out as well ? 
 
 Merope 
 
 Thou hast forgot, then, who I am who hear. 
 
 And who thou art who speakest to me ? I 
 
 Am Merope, thy murder'd master's wife ; 
 
 And thou art Polyphontes, first his friend. 
 
 And then ... his murderer. These offending tears 
 
 That murder moves ; this breach that thou would'st close 
 
 Was by that murder open'd ; that one child 
 
 (If still, indeed, he lives) whom thou would'st seat 
 
 Upon a throne not thine to give, is heir, 
 
 Because thou slew'st his brothers wath their father. 
 
 Who can patch union here ? What can there be 
 
 But everlasting horror 'twixt us two, 
 
 Gulfs of estranging blood ? Across that chasm 
 
 Who can extend their hands ? . . . Maidens, take back 
 
 These offerings home ! our rites are spoil'd to-day. 
 
;58 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Polyphofites 
 
 Not so ; let these Messenian maidens mark 
 
 The fear'd and blacken'd ruler of their race, 
 
 Albeit with lips unapt to self-excuse, 
 
 Blow off the spot of murder from his name. — 
 
 Murder ! — but what is murder ? When a wretch 
 
 For private gain or hatred takes a life, 
 
 We call it murder, crush him, brand his name. 
 
 But when, for some great public cause, an arm 
 
 Is, without love or hate, austerely raised 
 
 Against a power exempt from common checks. 
 
 Dangerous to all, to be but thus annull'd — 
 
 Ranks any man with murder such an act ? 
 
 AVith grievous deeds, perhaps ; with murder, no 1 
 
 Find then such cause, the charge of murder falls — 
 
 Be judge thyself if it abound not here. 
 
 All know how weak the eagle, Heracles, 
 
 Soaring from his death-pile on QEta, left 
 
 His puny, callow eaglets ; and what trials — 
 
 Infirm protectors, dubious oracles 
 
 Construed awry, misplann'd invasions — wore 
 
 Three generations of his offspring out ,• 
 
 Hardly the fourth, with grievous loss, regain'd 
 
 Their fathers' realm, this isle, from Pelops named. 
 
 '\^'ho made that triumph, though deferred, secure ? 
 
 Who, but the kinsmen of the royal brood 
 
 Of Heracles, scarce Heracleidse less 
 
 Than they? these, and the Dorian lords, whose king 
 
 yEgimius gave our outcast house a home 
 
 When Thebes, when Athens dared not ; who in arms 
 
 'ilirice issued with us from their pastoral vales, 
 
 And shed their blood like water in our cause ? 
 
MEROPE 359 
 
 Such were the dispossessors ; of what stamp 
 
 Were they we dispossessed ? — of us I speak, 
 
 Who to Messenia with thy husband came ; 
 
 I speak not now of Argos, where his brother, 
 
 Not now of Sparta, where his nephews reign'd. — 
 
 What we found here were tribes of fame obscure, 
 
 Much turbulence, and Httle constancy, 
 
 Precariously ruled by foreign lords 
 
 From the ^olian stock of Neleus sprung, 
 
 A house once great, now dwindling in its sons. 
 
 Such were the conquer'd, such the conquerors ; who 
 
 Had most thy husband's confidence ? Consult 
 
 His acts ! the wife he chose was — full of virtues — 
 
 But an Arcadian princess, more akin 
 
 To his new subjects than to us ; his friends 
 
 Were the Messenian chiefs ; the laws he framed 
 
 Were aim'd at their promotion, our decline. 
 
 And, finally, this land, then half-subdued, 
 
 Which from one central city's guarded seat 
 
 As from a fastness in the rocks our scant 
 
 Handful of Dorian conquerors might have curb'd, 
 
 He parcell'd out in five confederate states. 
 
 Sowing his victors thinly through them all, 
 
 Mere prisoners, meant or not, among our foes. 
 
 If this was fear of them, it shamed the king ; 
 
 If jealousy of us, it shamed the man. 
 
 Long we refrain'd ourselves, submitted long, 
 
 Construed his acts indulgently, revered. 
 
 Though found perverse, the blood of Heracles ; 
 
 Reluctantly the rest — but, against all. 
 
 One voice preach'd patience, and that voice was mine ! 
 
 At last it reach'd us, that he, still mistrustful, 
 
 Deeming, as tyrants deem, our silence hate, 
 
36o DRAMATIC I'OKMS 
 
 Unndulating grief conspiracy, 
 
 Had to this city, Stenyclaros, call'd 
 
 A general assemblage of the realm, 
 
 AVith compact in that concourse to deliver, 
 
 For death, his ancient to his new-made friends. 
 
 Patience was thenceforth self destruction. 1, 
 
 I his chief kinsman, I his pioneer 
 
 And champion to the throne, I honouring most 
 
 Of men the line of Heracles, preferr'd 
 
 The many of that lineage to the one ; 
 
 AV^hat his foes dared not, 1, his lover, dared ; 
 
 I at that altar, where mid shouting crowds 
 
 He sacrificed, our ruin in his heart. 
 
 To Zeus, before he struck his blow, struck mine — 
 
 Struck once, and awed his mob, and saved this realm. 
 
 Murder let others call this, if they will ; 
 
 I, self-defence and righteous execution. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Alas, how fair a colour can his tongue. 
 
 Who self- exculpates, lend to foulest deeds ! 
 
 Thy trusting lord didst thou, his servant, slay ; 
 
 Kinsman, thou slew'st thy kinsman ; friend, thy friend- 
 
 This were enough ; but let me tell thee, too, 
 
 Thou hadst no cause, as feign'd, in his misrule. 
 
 For ask at Argos, asked in Lacedaemon, 
 
 Whose people, when the Heracleidae came. 
 
 Were hunted out, and to Achaia fled, 
 
 Whether is better, to abide alone, 
 
 A wolfish band, in a dispeopled realm, 
 
 Or conquerors with conquer'd to unite 
 
 into one puissant folk, as he design'd ? 
 
 'I'iiese sturdy and unworn Messenian tribes, 
 
MEROPE 361 
 
 Who shook the fierce Neleidae on their throne, 
 
 Who to the invading Dorians stretch'd a hand, 
 
 And half bestow'd, half yielded up their soil — 
 
 He would not let his savage chiefs alight, 
 
 A cloud of vultures, on this vigorous race, 
 
 Ravin a little while in spoil and blood, 
 
 Then, gorged and helpless, be assail'd and slain. 
 
 He would have saved you from your furious selves. 
 
 Not in abhorr'd estrangement let you stand ; 
 
 He would have mix'd you with your friendly foes, 
 
 Foes dazzled with your prowess, well inclined 
 
 To reverence your lineage, more, to obey ; 
 
 So would have built you, in a (ew short years, 
 
 A just, therefore a safe, supremacy. 
 
 For well he knew, what you, his chiefs, did not— 
 
 How of all human rules the over -tense 
 
 Are apt to snap; the easy -stretch'd endure 
 
 O gentle wisdom, little understood ! 
 
 O arts above the vulgar tyrant's reach ! 
 
 O policy too subtle far for sense 
 
 Of heady, masterful, injurious men ! 
 
 This good he meant you, and for this he died ! 
 
 Yet not for this — else might thy crime in part 
 
 Be error deem'd — but that pretence is vain. 
 
 For, if ye slew him for supposed misrule, 
 
 Injustice to his kin and Dorian friends. 
 
 Why with the offending father did ye slay 
 
 Two unoffending babes, his innocent sons ? 
 
 Why not on them have placed the forfeit crown. 
 
 Ruled in their name, and train'd them to your will ? 
 
 Had fkey misruled ? had fkey forgot their friends. 
 
 Forsworn their blood ? ungratefully had f/iey 
 
 Preferr'd Messenian serfs to Dorian lords ? 
 
362 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 No ! but to thy ambition their poor lives 
 
 Were bar — and this, too, was their father's crime. 
 
 That thou might'st reign he died, not for his fault 
 
 Even fancied; and his death thou wroughtest chief! 
 
 For, if the other lords desired his fall 
 
 Hotlier than thou, and were by thee kept back. 
 
 Why dost thou only profit by his death ? 
 
 Thy crown condemns thee, while thy tongue absolves. 
 
 And now to me thou tenderest friendly league, 
 
 And to my son reversion to thy throne ! 
 
 Short answer is sufficient ; league with thee. 
 
 For me I deem such impious ; and for him 
 
 Exile abroad more safe than heirship here. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 
 I ask thee not to approve thy husband's death, 
 No, nor expect thee to admit the grounds, 
 In reason good, which justified my deed. 
 \Vith women the heart argues, not the mind. 
 But, for thy children's death, I stand assoil'd — 
 I saved them, meant them honour ; but thy friends 
 Rose, and with fire and sword assailed my house 
 By night ; in that blind tumult they were slain. 
 To chance impute their deaths, then, not to me. 
 
 Merope 
 Such chance as kill'd the father, kill'd the sons. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 One son at least I spared, for still he lives. 
 
 Merope 
 Tyrants think him they murder not they spare. 
 
MEROPE 
 
 Polyphofites 
 Not much a tyrant thy free speech displays me. 
 
 Merope 
 Thy shame secures my freedom, not thy will. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 Shame rarely checks the genuine tyrant's will. 
 
 Merope 
 One merit, then, thou hast ; exult in that. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 Thou standest out, I see, repellest peace. 
 
 Merope 
 Thy sword repell'd it long ago, not I. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 Doubtless thou reckonest on the help of friends. 
 
 Merope 
 Not help of men, although, perhaps, of Gods. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 What Gods ? the Gods of concord, civil weal .? 
 
 Merope 
 No ! the avenging Gods, who punish crime. 
 
 363 
 
364 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 PoIyp]io)itcs 
 
 Beware ! from thee upbraidings J receive 
 \\\\\\ pity, nay, with reve'rence ; yet, beware 1 
 1 know, I know how hard it is to think 
 That right, that conscience pointed to a deed. 
 Where interest seems to have enjoin'd it too. 
 Most men are led by interest ; and the few 
 \\'ho are not, expiate the general sin, 
 Involved in one suspicion with the base. 
 Dizzy the path and perilous the way 
 Which in a deed like mine a just man treads. 
 But it is sometimes trodden, oh ! believe it. 
 Yet how canst thou believe it ? therefore thou 
 Hast all impunity. Yet, lest thy friends, 
 Embolden'd by my lenience, think it fear, 
 And count on like impunity, and rise, 
 And have to thank thee for a fall, beware ! 
 To rule this kingdom I intend ; with sway 
 Clement, if may be, but to rule it — there 
 Expect no wavering, no retreat, no change. 
 And now I leave thee to these rites, esteem'd 
 Pious, but impious, surely, if their scope 
 Be to foment old memories of wrath. 
 Pray, as thou pour'st libations on this tomb, 
 To be deliver'd from thy foster'd hate, 
 Unjust suspicion, and erroneous fear. 
 
 [PoLYPHONTES goes tuto the palace. The Chorus 
 
 a7td Merope approach the tomb with their 
 
 offerings. 
 
 The Chorus 
 iJraw, draw near to the tomb ! strophe. 
 
MEROPE 365 
 
 Lay honey-cakes on its marge, 
 Pour the Ubation of milk, 
 Deck it with garlands of flowers. 
 Tears fall thickly the while ! 
 Behold, O King from the dark 
 House of the grave, what we do ! 
 
 O Arcadian hills, antistrophe. 
 
 Send us the Youth whom ye hide. 
 
 Girt with his coat for the chase, 
 
 With the low broad hat of the tann'd 
 
 Hunter o'ershadowing his brow ; 
 
 Grasping firm, in his hand 
 
 Advanced, two javelins, not now 
 
 Dangerous alone to the deer ! 
 
 Merope 
 
 What shall I bear, O lost str. i. 
 
 Husband and King, to thy grave ? — 
 
 Pure libations, and fresh 
 
 Flowers ? But thou, in the gloom, 
 
 Discontented, perhaps, 
 
 Demandest vengeance, not grief? 
 
 Sternly requirest a man, 
 
 Light to spring up to thy house ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Vengeance, O Queen, is his due, str. 2. 
 
 His most just prayer ; yet his house — 
 
 If that might soothe him below — 
 
 Prosperous, mighty, came back 
 
 In the third generation, the way 
 
 Order'd by Fate, to their home ; 
 
366 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 And now, glorious, secure. 
 Fill the wealth-giving thrones 
 Of their heritage, Pelops' isle. 
 
 Alerope 
 
 Suffering sent them, Death ant. i. 
 
 March'd with them, Hatred and Strife 
 
 Met them entering their halls. 
 
 For from the day when the first 
 
 Heracleidce received 
 
 That Delphic hest to return, 
 
 What hath involved them, but blind 
 
 Error on error, and blood ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Truly I hear of a Maid ant. 2. 
 
 Of that stock born, who bestow'd 
 
 Her blood that so she might make 
 
 Victory sure to her race, 
 
 When the fight hung in doubt ! but she now, 
 
 Honour'd and sung of by all, 
 
 Far on Marathon plain, 
 
 Gives her name to the spring 
 
 Macaria, blessed Child. 
 
 Merope 
 
 She led the way of death. str. 3. 
 
 And the plain of Tegea, 
 
 And the grave of Orestes — 
 
 Where, in secret seclusion 
 
 Of his unreveal'd tomb, 
 
 Sleeps Agamemnon's unhappy. 
 
MEROPE 367 
 
 Matricidal, world-famed, 
 
 Seven-cubit-statured son — 
 
 Sent forth Echemus, the victor, the king. 
 
 By whose hand, at the Isthmus, 
 
 At the fate-denied straits. 
 
 Fell the eldest of the sons of Heracles, 
 
 Hylliis, the chief of his house. 
 
 Brother follow'd sister 
 
 The all-wept way. 
 
 The Chonis 
 
 Yes ; but his seed still, wiser-counsell'd, 
 Sail'd by the fate-meant Gulf to their conquest — 
 Slew their enemies' king, Tisamenus. 
 Wherefore accept that happier omen ! 
 Yet shall restorer appear to the race. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Three brothers won the field, mt. 3 
 
 And to two did Destiny 
 
 Give the thrones that they conquer'd. 
 
 But the third, what delays him 
 
 From his unattain'd crown ? . . . 
 
 Ah Pylades and Electra, 
 
 Ever faithful, untired. 
 
 Jealous, blood-exacting friends ! 
 
 Your sons leap upon the foe of your kin, 
 
 In the passes of Delphi, 
 
 In the temple-built gorge ! 
 
 There the youngest of the band of conquerors 
 
 Perish'd, in sight of the goal. 
 
 Thrice son follow'd sire 
 
 The all-wept way. 
 
368 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 TJie Chorus 
 
 Thou tellest the fate of the last sti: 4, 
 
 Of the three Heracleidie. 
 
 Not of him, of Cresphontes thou shared'st the lot ! 
 
 A king, a king was he while he lived, 
 
 Swaying the sceptre with predestined hand ; 
 
 And now, minister loved. 
 
 Holds rule. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Ah me . . . Ah . , . 
 
 The Cho7'us 
 For the awful Monarchs below. 
 
 Aferope 
 
 Thou touchest the worst of my ills. str. 5. 
 
 Oh had he fallen of old 
 
 At the Isthmus, in fight with his foes, 
 
 By Achaian, Arcadian spear ! 
 
 Then had his sepulchre risen 
 
 On the high sea-bank, in the sight 
 
 Of either Gulf, and remain'd 
 
 All-regarded afar, 
 
 Noble memorial of worth 
 
 Of a valiant Chief, to his own. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 There rose up a cry in the streets ant. 4. 
 
 From the terrified people. 
 
 From the altar of Zeus, from the crowd, came a wail. 
 
MEROPE 369 
 
 A blow, a blow was struck, and he fell, 
 Sullying his garment with dark-streaming blood ; 
 AVhile stood o'er him a Form — 
 Some Form 
 
 Merope 
 
 Ah me . . . Ah . . . 
 
 The Chorus 
 Of a dreadful Presence of fear. 
 
 Merope 
 
 More piercing the second cry rang, ant. 5. 
 
 Wail'd from the palace within, 
 
 From the Children. . . . The Fury to them, 
 
 Fresh from their father, draws near. 
 
 Ah bloody axe ! dizzy blows ! 
 
 In these ears, they thunder, they ring, 
 
 These poor ears, still ! and these eyes 
 
 Night and day see them fall. 
 
 Fiery phantoms of death. 
 
 On the fair, curl'd heads of my sons. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Not to thee only hath come str. 6. 
 
 Sorrow, O Queen, of mankind. 
 
 Had not Electra to haunt 
 
 A palace defiled by a death unavenged, 
 
 For years, in silence, devouring her heart? 
 
 But her nursling, her hope, came at last. 
 
 Thou, too, rearest in hope. 
 
 Far 'mid Arcadian hills, 
 
 2 B 
 
370 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Somewhere, for vengeance, a champion, a Hght. 
 Soon, soon shall Zeus bring him home ! 
 Soon shall he dawn on this land ! 
 
 Merope 
 
 Him in secret, in tears, str. 7. 
 
 Month after month, I await 
 
 Vainly. For he, in the glens 
 
 Of Lycasus afar, 
 
 A gladsome hunter of deer. 
 
 Basks in his morning of youth, 
 
 Spares not a thought to his home. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Give not thy heart to despair. ant. 6. 
 
 No lamentation can loose 
 
 Prisoners of death from the grave ; 
 
 But Zeus, who accounteth thy quarrel his own, 
 
 Still rules, still watches, and numb'reth the hours 
 
 Till the sinner, the vengeance, be ripe. 
 
 Still, by Acheron stream. 
 
 Terrible Deities throned 
 
 Sit, and eye grimly the victim unscourged. 
 
 Still, still the Dorian boy. 
 
 Exiled, remembers his home. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Him if high-ruling Zeus ant. 7. 
 
 Bring to me safe, let the rest 
 Go as it will ! But if this 
 Clash with justice, the Gods 
 Forgive my folly, and work 
 
MEROPE 371 
 
 Vengeance on sinner and sin — 
 Only to me give my child ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 Hear us and help us, Shade of our King ! str. 8. 
 
 Merope 
 A return, O Father ! give to thy boy ! str. 9. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Send an avenger, Gods of the dead ! ant. 8. 
 
 Merope 
 An avenger I ask not — send me my son ! ant. 9. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 O Queen, for an avenger to appear. 
 Thinking that so I pray'd aright, I pray'd ; 
 If I pray'd wrongly, I revoke the prayer. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Forgive me, maidens, if I seem too slack 
 In calling vengeance on a murderer's head. 
 Impious I deem the alliance which he asks, 
 Requite him words severe for seeming kind. 
 And righteous, if he falls, I count his fall. 
 With this, to those unbribed inquisitors 
 Who in man's inmost bosom sit and judge, 
 The true avengers these, I leave his deed, 
 By him shown fair, but, I believe, most foul. 
 If these condemn him, let them pass his doom ! 
 
372 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 That doom obtain effect, from Gods or men ! 
 
 So be it ; yet will that more solace bring 
 
 To the chafed heart of Justice than to mine. 
 
 To hear another tumult in these streets, 
 
 To have another murder in these halls. 
 
 To see another mighty victim bleed — 
 
 Small comfort offers for a woman there ! 
 
 A woman, O my friends, has one desire : 
 
 To see secure, to live with, those she loves. 
 
 Can vengeance give me back the murdered ? no ! 
 
 Can it bring home my child ? Ah, if it can, 
 
 I pray the Furies' ever- restless band, 
 
 And pray the Gods, and pray the all- seeing sun : 
 
 "Sun, who careerest through the height of Heaven, 
 
 AVhen o'er the Arcadian forests thou art come, 
 
 And see'st my stripling hunter there afield, 
 
 Put tightness in thy gold-embossed rein. 
 
 And check thy fiery steeds, and, leaning back. 
 
 Throw him a pealing word of summons down, 
 
 To come, a late avenger, to the aid 
 
 Of this poor soul who bare him, and his sire." 
 
 If this will bring him back, be this my prayer ! 
 
 But Vengeance travels in a dangerous way. 
 
 Double of issue, full of pits and snares 
 
 For all who pass, pursuers and pursued — 
 
 That way is dubious for a mother's prayer. 
 
 Rather on thee I call. Husband beloved — 
 
 May Hermes, herald of the dead, convey 
 
 My words below to thee, and make thee hear — 
 
 Bring back our son ! if may be, without blood ! 
 
 Install him in thy throne, still without blood ! 
 
 Grant him to reign there wise and just like thee, 
 
 More fortunate than thee, more fairly judged ! 
 
MEROPE 373 
 
 This for our son ; and for myself I pray, 
 Soon, having once beheld him, to descend 
 Into the quiet gloom, where thou art now. 
 These words to thine indulgent ear, thy wife, 
 I send, and these libations pour the while. 
 
 \They make their offerings at the tomb. Merope 
 the?i turns to go towards the palace. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 The dead hath now his offerings duly paid. 
 But whither go'st thou hence, O Queen, away? 
 
 Merope 
 
 To receive Areas, who to-day should come, 
 Bringing me of my boy the annual news. 
 
 The Chorus 
 No certain news if like the rest it run. 
 
 Merope 
 Certain in this, that 'tis uncertain still. 
 
 The Chorus 
 What keeps him in Arcadia from return ? 
 
 Me^-ope 
 His grandsire and his uncles fear the risk. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Of what ? it lies with them to make risk none. 
 
374 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Merope 
 Discovery of a visit made by stealth. 
 
 The Chorus 
 With arms then they should send him, not by stealth. 
 
 Merope 
 With arms they dare not, and by stealth they fear. 
 
 TJie Chorus 
 I doubt their caution little suits their ward. 
 
 Merope 
 The heart of youth I know ; that most I fear. 
 
 The Chorus 
 I augur thou wilt hear some bold resolve. 
 
 Merope 
 
 I dare not wish it ; but, at least, to hear 
 
 That my son still survives, in health, in bloom ; 
 
 To hear that still he loves, still longs for, me. 
 
 Yet, with a light uncareworn spirit, turns 
 
 Quick from distressful thought, and floats in joy — 
 
 Thus much from Areas, my old servant true. 
 
 Who saved him from these murderous halls a babe. 
 
 And since has fondly watch'd him night and day 
 
 Save for this annual charge, I hope to hear. 
 
 If this be all, I know not ; but I know. 
 
 These many years I live for this alone. 
 
 [Merope goes in. 
 
MEROPE 375 
 
 TJie C/iofiis 
 
 Much is there which the sea sfr. i. 
 
 Conceals from man, who cannot plumb its depths. 
 
 Air to his unwing'd form denies a way, 
 
 And keeps its liquid solitudes unsealed. 
 
 Even earth, whereon he treads. 
 
 So feeble is his march, so slow, 
 
 Holds countless tracts untrod. 
 
 But more than all unplumb'd, «;/A i. 
 
 Unsealed, untrodden, is the heart of man. 
 
 More than all secrets hid, the way it keeps. 
 
 Nor any of our organs so obtuse, 
 
 Inaccurate, and frail. 
 
 As those wherewith we try to test 
 
 Feelings and motives there. 
 
 Yea, and not only have we not explored str. 2 
 
 That wide and various world, the heart of others. 
 
 But even our own heart, that narrow world 
 
 Bounded in our own breast, we hardly know, 
 
 Of our own actions dimly trace the causes. 
 
 AVhether a natural obscureness, hiding 
 
 That region in perpetual cloud, 
 
 Or our own want of effort, be the bar. 
 
 Therefore — while acts are from their motives 
 
 judged, a;it. 2. 
 
 And to one act many most unlike motives, 
 This pure, that guilty, may have each impell'd — 
 Power fails us to try clearly if that cause 
 Assign'd us by the actor be the true one ; 
 Power fails the man himself to fix distinctly 
 
376 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 The cause which drew him to his deed, 
 And stamp himself, thereafter, bad or good. 
 
 TJic most a?'e bad^ w^ise men have said. str, 3. 
 
 J,et the best ruk^ they say again. 
 
 The best, then, to dominion hath the right. 
 
 Rights unconceded and denied. 
 
 Surely, if rights, may be by force asserted — 
 
 May be, nay should, if for the general weal. 
 
 The best, then, to the throne may carve his way, 
 
 And strike opposers down. 
 
 Free from all guilt of lawlessness, 
 
 Or selfish lust of personal power ; 
 
 Bent only to serve virtue, 
 
 Bent to diminish wrong. 
 
 And truly, in this ill-ruled world, ant. 3. 
 
 Well sometimes may the good desire 
 
 To give to virtue her dominion due ! 
 
 Well may he long to interrupt 
 
 The reign of folly, usurpation ever. 
 
 Though fenced by sanction of a thousand years ! 
 
 Well thirst to drag the wrongful ruler down : 
 
 Well purpose to pen back 
 
 Into the narrow path of right 
 
 The ignorant, headlong multitude. 
 
 Who blindly follow, ever, 
 
 Blind leaders, to their bane ! 
 
 But who can say, without a fear : str. 4. 
 
 That best, 2vho oiigJit to rule, ani I ; 
 The mob, who ought to obey, are these ; 
 T the one righteous, they the many bad ? 
 Who, without check of conscience, can aver 
 
MEROPE 377 
 
 That he to power makes way by arms, 
 Sheds blood, imprisons, banishes, attaints, 
 Commits all deeds the guilty oftenest do, 
 Without a single guilty thought, 
 Arm'd for right only, and the general good ? 
 
 Therefore, with censure unallay'd, ant. 4 
 
 Therefore, with unexcepting ban, 
 
 Zeus and pure-thoughted Justice brand 
 
 Imperious self-asserting violence ; 
 
 Sternly condemn the too bold man, who dares 
 
 Elect himself Heaven's destined arm ; 
 
 And, knowing well man's inmost heart infirm, 
 
 However noble the committer be, 
 
 His grounds however specious shown, 
 
 Turn with averted eyes from deeds of blood. 
 
 Thus, though a woman, I was school'd epode. 
 
 By those whom I revere. 
 
 Whether I learnt their lessons well, 
 
 Or, having learnt them, well apply 
 
 To what hath in this house befall'n. 
 
 If in the event be any proof. 
 
 The event will quickly show. 
 
 [^PYTUS comes in. 
 
 .^pytiis 
 
 Maidens, assure me if they told me true 
 Who told me that the royal house was here. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Rightly they told thee, and thou art arrived. 
 
.78 DRAMATIC I'OKMS 
 
 Alpytus 
 Here, then, it is, where Polyphontes dwells? 
 
 The Chorus 
 He doth ; thou hast both house and master right. 
 
 Aipytus 
 Might some one straight inform him he is sought ? 
 
 The Chonis 
 
 Inform him that thyself, for here he comes. 
 
 [Polyphontes comes forth^ ivith Attendants and 
 
 Guards. 
 
 /Epytus 
 
 O King, all hail ! I come with weighty news ; 
 Most likely, grateful ; but, in all case, sure. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 Speak them, that I may judge their kind myself. 
 
 ^pytus 
 
 Accept them in one word, for good or bad : 
 ^pytus, the Messenian prince, is dead ! 
 
 Polyphontes 
 
 Dead ! — and when died he ? where ? and by what hand ? 
 And who art thou, who bringest me such news? 
 
MEROPE 379 
 
 yEpytus 
 
 He perish'd in Arcadia, where he dwelt 
 With Cypselus ; and two days since he died. 
 One of the train of Cypselus am I. 
 
 Polyphonfes 
 Instruct me of the manner of his death. 
 
 yEpyfns 
 
 That will I do, and to this end I came. 
 
 For, being of like age, of birth not mean, 
 
 The son of an Arcadian noble, I 
 
 Was chosen his companion from a boy ; 
 
 And on the hunting-rambles which his heart. 
 
 Unquiet, drove him ever to pursue 
 
 Through all the lordships of the Arcadian dales, 
 
 From chief to chief, I wander'd at his side. 
 
 The captain of his squires, and his guard. 
 
 On such a hunting-journey, three morns since, 
 
 With beaters, hounds, and huntsmen, he and I 
 
 Set forth from Tegea, the royal town. 
 
 The prince at start seem'd sad, but his regard 
 
 Clear'd with blithe travel and the morning air. 
 
 We rode from Tegea, through the woods of oaks, 
 
 Past Arne spring, where Rhea gave the babe 
 
 Poseidon to the shepherd-boys to hide 
 
 From Saturn's search among the new-yean'd lambs, 
 
 To Mantineia, with its unbaked walls ; 
 
 Thence, by the Sea-God's Sanctuary and the tomb 
 
 Whither from wintry Maenalus were brought 
 
 The bones of Areas, whence our race is named, 
 
}8o DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 On, to the marshy Orchomenian plain, 
 
 And the Stone Coffins ; — then, by Caphy?e CHffs, 
 
 To Pheneos with its craggy citadel. 
 
 There, with the chief of that hill-town, we lodged 
 
 One night ; and the next day at dawn fared on 
 
 By the Three P^ountains and the Adder's Hill 
 
 To the Stymphalian Lake, our journey's end. 
 
 To draw the coverts on Cyllene's side. 
 
 There, on a high green spur which bathes its point 
 
 Far in the liquid lake, we sate, and drew 
 
 Gates from our hunters' pouch. Arcadian fare. 
 
 Sweet chestnuts, barley-cakes, and boar's-flesh dried ; 
 
 And as we ate, and rested there, we talk'd 
 
 Of places we had pass'd, sport we had had. 
 
 Of beasts of chase that haunt the Arcadian hills. 
 
 Wild hog, and bear, and mountain-deer, and roe ; 
 
 Last, of our quarters with the Arcadian chiefs. 
 
 For courteous entertainment, welcome warm, 
 
 Sad, reverential homage, had our prince 
 
 From all, for his great lineage and his woes ; 
 
 All which he own'd, and praised with grateful mind. 
 
 But still over his speech a gloom there hung, 
 
 As of one shadow'd by impending death ; 
 
 And strangely, as we talk'd, he would apply 
 
 The story of spots mention'd to his own ; 
 
 Telling us, Arne minded him, he too 
 
 Was saved a babe, but to a life obscure, 
 
 ^Vhich he, the seed of Heracles, dragg'd on 
 
 Inglorious, and should drop at last unknown, 
 
 I^ven as those dead unepitaph'd, who lie 
 
 In the stone coffins at Orchomenus. 
 
 And, then, he bade remember how we pass'd 
 
 The Mantinean Sanctuary, forbid 
 
MEROPE 381 
 
 To foot of mortal, where his ancestor, 
 
 Named ^]pytus Hke him, having gone in, 
 
 Was bhnded by the outgushing springs of brine. 
 
 Then, turning westward to the Adder's Hill — 
 
 A?iother ajwesto?^, Jiamed, too, like me, 
 
 Died of a snake-bite, said he, on that broiv ; 
 
 Still at his mountain-tomb men marvel, built 
 
 Where, as life ebb\l, his bearers laid him down. 
 
 So he play'd on ; then ended, with a smile : 
 
 This regiofi is not happy for my race. 
 
 We cheer'd him ; but, that moment, from the copse 
 
 By the lake-edge, broke the sharp cry of hounds j 
 
 The prickers shouted that the stag was gone. 
 
 We sprang upon our feet, we snatch'd our spears, 
 
 We bounded down the swarded slope, we plunged 
 
 Through the dense ilex-thickets to the dogs. 
 
 Far in the woods ahead their music rang ; 
 
 And many times that morn we coursed in ring 
 
 The forests round that belt Cyllene's side ; 
 
 Till I, thrown out and tired, came to halt 
 
 On that same spur where we had sate at morn. 
 
 And resting there to breathe, I watch'd the chase- — 
 
 Rare, straggling hunters, foil'd by brake and crag. 
 
 And the prince, single, pressing on the rear 
 
 Of that unflagging quarry and the hounds. 
 
 Now in the woods far down I saw them cross 
 
 An open glade ; now he was high aloft 
 
 On some tall scar fringed with dark feathery pines. 
 
 Peering to spy a goat-track down the cliff, 
 
 Cheering with hand, and voice, and horn his dogs. 
 
 At last the cry drew to the water's edge — 
 
 And through the brushwood, to the pebbly strand, 
 
 Broke, black with sweat, the antler'd mountain-stag, 
 
382 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 And took the lake. Two hounds alone pursued, 
 
 'Vhcn came the prince ; he shouted and plunged in. 
 
 — There is a chasm rifted in the base 
 
 Of that unfooted precipice, whose rock 
 
 Walls on one side the deep Stymphalian 1 >ake ; 
 
 There the lake-waters, which in ages gone 
 
 Wash'd, as the marks upon the hills still sliow. 
 
 All the Stymphalian plain, are now suck'd down. 
 
 A headland, with one aged plane-tree crown'd. 
 
 Parts from this cave-pierced cliff the shelving bay 
 
 Where first the chase plunged in ; the bay is smooth, 
 
 But round the headland's point a current sets. 
 
 Strong, black, tempestuous, to the cavern-mouth. 
 
 Stoutly, under the headland's lee, they swam ; 
 
 But when they came abreast the point, the race 
 
 Caught them as w-ind takes feathers, whirl'd them round 
 
 Struggling in vain to cross it, swept them on. 
 
 Stag, dogs, and hunter, to the yawning gulph. 
 
 All this, O King, not piecemeal, as to thee 
 
 Now told, but in one flashing instant pass'd. 
 
 While from the turf whereon I lay I sprang 
 
 And took three strides, quarry and dogs were gone ; 
 
 A moment more — I saw the prince turn round 
 
 Once in the black and arrowy race, and cast 
 
 An arm aloft for help ; then sweep beneath 
 
 The low-brow'd cavern-arch, and disappear. 
 
 And what I could, I did — to call by cries 
 
 Some straggling hunters to my aid, to rouse 
 
 Fishers who live on the lake-side, to launch 
 
 Boats, and approach, near as we dared, the chasm. 
 
 But of the prince nothing remain'd, save this, 
 
 His boar-spear's broken shaft, back on the lake 
 
 Cast by the rumbling subterranean stream ; 
 
MEROPE 383 
 
 x\nd this, at landing spied by us and saved, 
 
 His broad-brimm'd hunter's hat, which, in the bay. 
 
 Where first the stag took water, floated still. 
 
 And I across the mountains brought with haste 
 
 To Cypselus, at Basilis, this news — 
 
 Basilis, his new city, which he now 
 
 Near Lycosura builds, Lycaon's town. 
 
 First city founded on the earth by men. 
 
 He to thee sends me on, in one thing glad, 
 
 While all else grieves him, that his grandchild's death 
 
 Extinguishes distrust 'twixt him and thee. 
 
 But I from our deplored mischance learn this : 
 
 The man who to untimely death is doom'd, 
 
 Vainly you hedge him from the assault of harm : 
 
 He bears the seed of ruin in himself. 
 
 The Chorus. 
 
 So dies the last shoot of our royal tree ! 
 Who shall tell Merope this heavy new^s? 
 
 Polyphonies 
 
 Stranger, this news thou bringest is too great 
 For instant comment, having many sides 
 Of import, and in silence best received. 
 Whether it turn at last to joy or woe. 
 But thou, the zealous bearer, hast no part 
 In what it hath of painful, whether now, 
 First heard, or in its future issue shown. 
 Thou for thy labour hast deserved our best 
 Refreshment, needed by thee, as I judge, 
 With mountain-travel and night- watching spent. — 
 To the guest-chamber lead him, some one ! give 
 All entertainment which a traveller needs. 
 
384 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 And such as fits a royal house to show ; 
 
 To friends, still more, and labourers in our cause. 
 
 [Attendants conduct ^Epytus ivithin the palace. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 The youth is gone within ; alas ! he bears 
 
 A presence sad for some one through those doors. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 
 Admire then, maidens, how in one short hour 
 
 The schemes, pursued in vain for twenty years. 
 
 Are — by a stroke, though undesired, complete — 
 
 Crown'd with success, not in my way, but Heaven's ! 
 
 This at a moment, too, when I had urged 
 
 A last, long-cherish'd project, in my aim 
 
 Of peace, and been repulsed with hate and scorn. 
 
 Fair terms of reconcilement, equal rule, 
 
 I offer'd to my foes, and they refused ; 
 
 AVorse terms than mine they have obtain'd from Heaven. 
 
 Dire is this blow for Merope ; and I 
 
 Wish'd, truly wish'd, solution to our broil 
 
 Other than by this death ; but it hath come ! 
 
 I speak no word of boast, but this I say : 
 
 A private loss here founds a nation's peace. 
 
 [Polyphontes goes out. 
 The Chorus 
 
 Peace, who tarriest too long ; str. 
 
 Peace, with delight in thy train ; 
 Come, come back to our prayer ! 
 Then shall the revel again 
 Visit our streets, and the sound 
 
MEROPE 385 
 
 Of the harp be heard with the pipe, 
 When the flashing torches appear 
 In the marriage-train coming on, 
 With dancing maidens and boys — 
 While the matrons come to the doors, 
 And the old men rise from their bench, 
 When the youths bring home the bride. 
 
 Not condemn'd by my voice ant. 
 
 He who restores thee shall be, 
 
 Not unfavour'd by Heaven. 
 
 Surely no sinner the man, 
 
 Dread though his acts, to whose hand 
 
 Such a boon to bring hath been given. 
 
 Let her come, fair Peace ! let her come ! 
 
 But the demons long nourish'd here, 
 
 Murder, Discord, and Hate, 
 
 In the stormy desolate waves 
 
 Of the Thracian Sea let her leave, 
 
 Or the howling outermost main ! 
 
 [Merope comes forth 
 
 Merope 
 
 A whisper through the palace flies of one 
 
 Arrived from Tegea with weighty news ; 
 
 And I came, thinking to find Areas here. 
 
 Ye have not left this gate, which he must pass ; 
 
 Tell me — hath one not come ? or, worse mischance, 
 
 Come, but been intercepted by the King ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 A messenger, sent from Arcadia here, 
 Arrived, and of the King had speech but now. 
 
 2 c 
 
3S6 DRAMATIC I'OEMS 
 
 All nie ! the wrong expectant got his news. 
 
 The C]i07'us 
 Tlie message brought was for the Kijig design'd. 
 
 Merope 
 How so? was Areas not the messenger? 
 
 llic Chorus 
 A younger man, and of a different name. 
 
 Merope 
 And what Arcadian news had he to tell ? 
 
 The CJionis 
 Learn that from other lips, O Queen, than mine. 
 
 Merope 
 He kept his tale, then, for the King alone? 
 
 The Chorus 
 His tale was meeter for that ear than thine. 
 
 Merope 
 Why dost thou falter, and make half reply ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 thrice unhappy, how I groan thy fate ! 
 
MEROPE 387 
 
 Merope 
 
 Thou frightenest and confound'st me by thy words. 
 O were but Areas come, all would be well ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 If so, all's well : for look, the old man speeds 
 Up from the city tow'rd this gated hill. 
 
 [Arcas comes in. 
 Merope 
 
 Not with the failing breath and foot of age 
 
 My faithful follower comes. Welcome, old friend ! 
 
 Arcas 
 
 Faithful, not welcome, when my tale is told. 
 O that my over -speed and bursting grief 
 Had on the journey choked my labouring breath, 
 And lock'd my speech for ever in my breast ! 
 Yet then another man would bring this news, 
 Wherewith from end to end Arcadia rings. — 
 O honour'd Queen, thy son, my charge, is gone. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Too suddenly thou tellest such a loss. 
 
 Look up, O Queen ! look up, O mistress dear ! 
 
 Look up, and see thy friends who comfort thee. 
 
 Merope 
 Ah ,.. Ah ... Ah me ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 And I, too, say, ah me ! 
 
388 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Areas 
 Forgive, forgive the bringer of such news ! 
 
 MeroJ)e 
 Better from thine than from an enemy's tongue. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 And yet no enemy did this, O Queen : 
 
 But the wit -baffling will and hand of Heaven. 
 
 Areas 
 
 No enemy ! and what hast thou, then, heard ? 
 Swift as I came, hath falsehood been before ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 A youth arrived but now — the son, he said, 
 
 Of an Arcadian lord — our prince's friend — 
 
 Jaded with travel, clad in hunter's garb. 
 
 He brought report that his own eyes had seen 
 
 The prince, in chase after a swimming stag. 
 
 Swept down a chasm rifted in the cliff 
 
 Which hangs o'er the Stymphalian Lake, and drown'd. 
 
 Areas 
 
 Ah me ! with what a foot doth treason post, 
 While loyalty, with all her speed, is slow ! 
 Another tale, I trow, thy messenger 
 For the King's private ear reserves, like this 
 In one thing only, that the prince is dead. 
 
 The Chorus 
 And how then runs this true and private tale ? 
 
MEROPE 389 
 
 Areas 
 
 As much to the King's wish, more to his shame. 
 This young Arcadian noble, guard and mate 
 To ^pytus, the king seduced with gold, 
 And had him at the prince's side in leash. 
 Ready to slip on his unconscious prey. 
 He on a hunting party two days since. 
 Among the forests on Cyllene's side, 
 Perform'd good service for his bloody wage ; 
 Our prince, and the good Laias, whom his ward 
 Had in a father's place, he basely murder'd. 
 'Tis so, 'tis so, alas, for see the proof: 
 Uncle and nephew disappear ; their death 
 Is charged against this stripling; agents, fee'd 
 To ply 'twixt the Messenian king and him, 
 Come forth, denounce the traffic and the traitor. 
 Seized, he escapes — and next I find him here. 
 Take this for true, the other tale for feign'd. 
 
 The Chorus 
 The youth, thou say'st, we saw and heard but now 
 
 Areas 
 He comes to tell his prompter he hath sped. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Still he repeats the drowning story here. 
 
 Areas 
 To thee — that needs no CEdipus to explain. 
 
390 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 The Chorus 
 Interpret, then ; for we, it seems, are dull. 
 
 Areas 
 
 Your King desired the profit of his death, 
 
 Not the black credit of his murderer. 
 
 That stern word ^''murder'''' had too dread a sound 
 
 For the Messenian hearts, who loved the prince. 
 
 The Chorus 
 Suspicion grave I see, but no firm proof. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Peace ! peace ! all's clear. — The wicked watch and work 
 
 While the good sleep ; the workers have the day. 
 
 Yes ! yes ! now I conceive the liberal grace 
 
 Of this far-scheming tyrant, and his boon 
 
 Of heirship to his kingdom for my son : 
 
 He had his murderer ready, and the sword 
 
 Lifted, and that unwish'd-for heirship void — 
 
 A tale, meanwhile, forged for his subjects' ears — 
 
 And me, henceforth sole rival with himself 
 
 In their allegiance, me, in my son's death-hour, 
 
 When all turn'd tow'rds me, me he would have shown 
 
 To my Messenians, duped, disarm'd, despised, 
 
 The willing sharer of his guilty rule, 
 
 All claim to succour forfeit, to myself 
 
 Hateful, by each Messenian heart abhorr'd. 
 
 His offers I repell'd — but what of that ? 
 
 If with no rage, no fire of righteous hate. 
 
 Such as ere now hath spurr'd to fearful deeds 
 
MEROPE 391 
 
 Weak women with a thousandth part my wrongs, 
 
 But cahii, but unresentful, I endured 
 
 His ofters, coldly heard them, cold repell'd ? 
 
 How must men think me abject, void of heart, 
 
 While all this time I bear to linger on 
 
 In this blood-deluged palace, in whose halls 
 
 Either a vengeful Fury I should stalk. 
 
 Or else not live at all ! — but here I haunt, 
 
 A pale, unmeaning ghost, powerless to fright 
 
 Or harm, and nurse my longing for my son, 
 
 A helpless one, I know it — but the Gods 
 
 Have temper'd me e'en thus, and, in some souls, 
 
 Misery, which rouses others, breaks the spring. 
 
 And even now, my son, ah me ! my son, 
 
 Fain would I fade away, as I have lived, 
 
 Without a cry, a struggle, or a blow, 
 
 All vengeance unattempted, and descend 
 
 To the invisible plains, to roam with thee, 
 
 Fit denizen, the lampless under-world 
 
 But with what eyes should I encounter there 
 
 My husband, wandering with his stern compeers, 
 
 Amphiaraos, or Mycenae's king, 
 
 Who led the Greeks to Ilium, Agamemnon, 
 
 Betray'd like him, but, not like him, avenged? 
 
 Or with what voice shall I the questions meet 
 
 Of my two elder sons, slain long ago. 
 
 Who sadly ask me, what, if not revenge, 
 
 Kept me, their mother, from their side so long ? 
 
 Or how reply to thee, my child last-born, 
 
 Last-murder'd, who reproachfully wilt say : 
 
 Mother^ I well believed thou lived' sf on 
 
 hi the detested palace of thy foe ^ 
 
 With patience on thy face, death in thy heart, 
 
392 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Countings till I grew up, the laggard years, 
 That our Joint hands 7night the7i together pay 
 To our unhappy house the debt we owe. 
 My death makes my debt void, and doubles thine — 
 But dow?i thou fieest here, and leav'st our scourge 
 Triumphafit, a?td condemnest all our race 
 To lie in gloom for ever unappeased. 
 What shall I have to answer to such words ? — 
 No, something must be dared ; and, great as erst 
 Our dastard patience, be our daring now ! 
 Come, ye swift Furies, who to him ye haunt 
 Permit no peace till your behests are done ; 
 Come Hermes, who dost friend the unjustly kill'd, 
 And can'st teach simple ones to plot and feign ; 
 Come, lightning Passion, that with foot of fire 
 Advancest to the middle of a deed 
 Almost before 'tis plann'd ; come, glowing Hate ; 
 Come, baneful Mischief, from thy murky den 
 Under the dripping black Tartarean cliff 
 Which Styx's awful waters trickle down — 
 Inspire this coward heart, this flagging arm ! 
 How say ye, maidens, do ye know these prayers ? 
 Are these words Merope's — is this voice mine ? 
 Old man, old man, thou had'st my boy in charge. 
 And he is lost, and thou hast that to atone ! 
 Fly, find me on the instant where confer 
 The murderer and his impious setter-on — 
 And ye, keep faithful silence, friends, and mark 
 What one weak woman can achieve alone. 
 
 Areas 
 O mistress, by the Gods, do nothing rash ! 
 
MEROPE 393 
 
 Merope 
 Unfaithful servant, dost thou, too, desert me ? 
 
 Areas 
 
 I go ! I go ! — The King holds council — there 
 Will I seek tidings. Take, the while, this word : 
 Attempting deeds beyond thy power to do. 
 Thou nothing profitest thy friends, but mak'st 
 Our misery more, and thine own ruin sure. 
 
 [Arcas goes out. 
 The Chorus 
 
 I have heard, O Queen, how a prince, str. i. 
 
 Agamemnon's son, in Mycenae, 
 Orestes, died but in name, 
 Lived for the death of his foes. 
 
 Merope 
 Peace ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 What is it ? 
 
 Merope 
 
 Alas, 
 Thou destroyest me ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 How? 
 
 Merope 
 
 Whispering hope of a life 
 Which no stranger unknown, 
 
394 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 But the faithful servant and nurse, 
 Whose tears warrant his truth, 
 Bears sad witness is lost. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Wheresoe'er men are, there is grief. ani(. i. 
 
 In a thousand countries, a thousand 
 Homes, e'en now is there wail ; 
 Mothers lamenting their sons. 
 
 Aferope 
 Yes 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Thou knowest it ? 
 
 Merope 
 
 This, 
 Who lives, witnesses. 
 
 The Chorus 
 True. 
 
 Merope 
 
 But is it only a fate 
 
 Sure, all-common, to lose 
 
 In a land of friends, by a friend, 
 
 One last, murder-saved child ? 
 
 TJie Chorus 
 Ah me ! s^r. 2 
 
MEROPE 395 
 
 Merope 
 
 Thou confessest the prize 
 
 In the rushing, thundering, mad. 
 
 Cloud-enveloped, obscure, 
 
 Unapplauded, unsung 
 
 Race of calamity, mine ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 None can truly claim that 
 Mournful preeminence, not 
 Thou. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Fate gives it, ah me ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Not, above all, in the doubts. 
 Double and clashing, that hang — 
 
 Merope 
 
 What then ? ant. 2. 
 
 Seems it lighter, my loss, 
 
 If, perhaps, unpierced by the sword. 
 
 My child lies in his jagg'd 
 
 Sunless prison of rock. 
 
 On the black wave borne to and fro ? 
 
 The Choj'us 
 
 Worse, far worse, if his friend, 
 If the Arcadian within. 
 If 
 
396 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Merope {with a start) 
 How say'st thou ? within ? , . 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 He in the guest-chamber now, 
 Faithlessly murder'd his friend. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Ye, too, ye, too, join to betray, then 
 Your Queen ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 What is this ? 
 
 Me?'ope 
 
 Ye knew, 
 O false friends ! into what 
 Haven the murderer had dropp'd ? 
 Ye kept silence ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 In fear, 
 
 loved mistress ! in fear, 
 Dreading thine over-wrought mood. 
 What I knew, I conceal'd. 
 
 Merope 
 Swear by the Gods henceforth to obey me ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Unhappy one, what deed 
 Purposes thy despair ? 
 
 1 promise ; but I fear. 
 
MEROPE 397 
 
 Merope 
 
 From the altar, the unavenged tomb, 
 Fetch me the sacrifice-axe ! 
 
 [The Chorus ^(J?^^ towards the tomb ^t/'Cresphontes, 
 and their leader brings back the axe. 
 
 O Husband, O clothed 
 With the grave's everlasting, 
 All-covering darkness ! O King, 
 Well-mourn'd, but ill-avenged ! 
 
 Approv'st thou thy wife now ? 
 
 The axe ! — who brings it ? 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 'Tis here ! 
 But thy gesture, thy look, 
 Appals me, shakes me with awe. 
 
 Merope 
 Thrust back now the bolt of that door ! 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Alas ! alas ! — 
 
 Behold the fastenings withdrawn 
 
 Of the guest-chamber door ! — 
 
 Ah ! I beseech thee — with tears 
 
 Merope 
 Throw the door open ! 
 
398 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 'Tis done ! . . . 
 [ The door of the house is thrown open : the interior 
 of the gtiest-cliauiher is discovered, with .^pytus 
 as kef on a couch. 
 
 Merope 
 
 He sleeps — sleeps calm. O ye all-seeing Gods ! 
 
 Thus peacefully do ye let sinners sleep, 
 
 While troubled innocents toss, and lie awake ? 
 
 What sweeter sleep than this could I desire 
 
 For thee, my child, if thou wert yet alive ? 
 
 How often have I dream'd of thee like this, 
 
 With thy soil'd hunting-coat, and sandals torn, 
 
 Asleep in the Arcadian glens at noon, 
 
 Thy head droop'd softly, and the golden curls 
 
 Clustering o'er thy white forehead, like a girl's ; 
 
 The short proud lip showing thy race, thy cheeks 
 
 Brown'd with thine open-air, free, hunter's life. 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 And where dost thou sleep now, my innocent boy ? — 
 
 In some dark fir-tree's shadow, amid rocks 
 
 Untrodden, on Cyllene's desolate side ; 
 
 Where travellers never pass, where only come 
 
 Wild beasts, and vultures sailing overhead. 
 
 There, there thou liest now, my hapless child ! 
 
 Stretch'd among briars and stones, the slow, black gore 
 
 Oozing through thy soak'd hunting-shirt, with limbs 
 
 Yet stark from the death-struggle, tight-clench'd hands, 
 
 And eyeballs staring for revenge in vain. 
 
 Ah miserable ! 
 
 And thou, thou fair-skinn'd Serpent ! thou art laid 
 
MEROPE 399 
 
 In a rich chamber, on a happy bed, 
 
 In a king's house, thy victim's heritage ; 
 
 And drink'st untroubled slumber, to sleep off 
 
 The toils of thy foul service, till thou wake 
 
 Refresh'd, and claim thy master's thanks and gold. — 
 
 Wake up in hell from thine unhallow'd sleep, 
 
 Thou smiling Fiend, and claim thy guerdon there ! 
 
 Wake amid gloom, and howling, and the noise 
 
 Of sinners pinion'd on the torturing wheel, 
 
 And the stanch Furies' never-silent scourge. 
 
 And bid the chief tormentors there provide 
 
 For a grand culprit shortly coming down. 
 
 Go thou the first, and usher in thy lord ! 
 
 A more just stroke than that thou gav'st my son 
 
 Take 
 
 [Merope advances toivards t/ie sleeping tEpytus, 
 
 7vith the axe uplifted. At the same moment Arcas 
 
 7-e-entei's. 
 
 Arcas {to the Chorus) 
 
 Not with him to council did the King 
 Carry his messenger, but left him here. 
 
 [Sees Merope and yFJpYTUS. 
 O Gods ! . . . 
 
 Merope 
 
 Foolish old man, thou spoil'st my blow ! 
 
 Arcas 
 What do I see ? . . . 
 
 Aferope 
 A murderer at death's door. 
 Therefore no words ! 
 
400 
 
 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Areas 
 
 A murderer ? . . . 
 
 ATerope 
 
 And a captive 
 To the dear next-of-kin of him he murder'd. 
 Stand, and let vengeance pass ! 
 
 Areas 
 
 Hold, O Queen, hold ! 
 Thou know'st not whom thou strik'st . . . 
 
 Merope 
 
 Areas 
 Unhappy one ! thou strik'st — 
 
 Merope 
 
 Areas 
 No, by the Gods, thou slay'st- 
 
 Merope 
 
 I know his crime. 
 
 A most just blow. 
 
 Stand off! 
 
 Areas 
 
 Thy son 
 
MEROPE 401 
 
 Merope 
 
 Ah ! . . . 
 
 [She lets the axe drop, and falls insensible. 
 
 yEpytus {aivaking) 
 
 Who are these ? What shrill, ear-piercing scream 
 Wakes me thus kindly from the perilous sleep 
 Wherewith fatigue and youth had bound mine eyes, 
 Even in the deadly palace of my foe ? — 
 Areas ! Thou here ? 
 
 Areas {embracing him) 
 
 O my dear master ! O 
 My child, my charge beloved, welcome to life ! 
 As dead we held thee, mourn'd for thee as dead. 
 
 ."Epytus 
 
 In word I died, that I in deed might live. 
 But who are these ? 
 
 Areas 
 Messenian maidens, friends. 
 
 y-Epytns 
 And, Areas ! — but I tremble ! 
 
 Areas 
 
 Boldly ask. 
 
 ^pytus 
 
 That black-robed, swooning figure ? . . . 
 
 2 D 
 
402 DRAMATIC TOEMS 
 
 Areas 
 
 Merope. 
 yEpyfus 
 
 O mother ! mother ! 
 
 Merope 
 
 Who upbraids me ? Ah ! . . . 
 
 [seeing the axe. 
 
 ^pytus 
 Upbraids thee? no one. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Thou dost well : but take . . . 
 
 /Epytus 
 What wav'st thou off? 
 
 Merope 
 That murderous axe away ! 
 
 /Epytus 
 Thy son is here. 
 
 Merope 
 One said so, sure, but now. 
 
 /Epytus 
 Here, here thou hast him ! 
 
MEROPE 
 
 403 
 
 Merope 
 
 Slaughter'd by this hand ! . . , 
 
 ^pytus 
 No, by the Gods, aUve and Hke to Hve ! 
 
 Merope 
 What, thou ? — I dream 
 
 ^pytus 
 
 May'st thou dream ever so ! 
 
 Merope iadvanci?ig towards hini) 
 My child ? unhurt ? . . . 
 
 ^pyhis 
 
 Only by over joy 
 
 Merope 
 Art thou, then, come ? . . . 
 
 yEpytus 
 
 Never to part again. 
 {They fall into one anothe7'''s arjns. Then Merope, 
 holding ^PYTUS by the hand, turns to The 
 Chorus. 
 
 Merope 
 
 O kind Messenian maidens, O my friends, 
 Bear witness, see, mark well, on what a head 
 My first stroke of revenge had nearly fallen ! 
 
404 
 
 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 We see, dear mistress : and we say, the Gods, 
 As hitherto they kept him, keep him now. 
 
 Merope 
 
 my son ! -^^^ 
 
 1 have, I have thee ... the years 
 Fly back, my child ! and thou seem'st 
 Ne'er to have gone from these eyes, 
 Never been torn from this breast. 
 
 yEpytiis 
 
 Mother, my heart runs over ; but the time 
 Presses me, chides me, will not let me weep. 
 
 Merope 
 Fearest thou now ? 
 
 /Epytus 
 I fear not, but I think on my design. 
 
 Merope 
 
 At the undried fount of this breast, 
 A babe, thou smilest again. 
 Thy brothers play at my feet, 
 Early -slain innocents ! near, 
 Thy kind -speaking father stands 
 
 ^"Epytus 
 Remember, to revenge his death I come ! 
 
MEROPE 405 
 
 Merope 
 
 Ah . . . revenge ! ^'^^• 
 
 That word ! it kills me ! I see 
 Once more roll back on my house, 
 Never to ebb, the accurst 
 All-flooding ocean of blood. 
 
 y^pytus 
 
 Mother, sometimes the justice of the Gods 
 Appoints the way to peace through shedding blood. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Sorrowful peace 
 
 y^pytus 
 And yet the only peace to us allow'd. 
 
 Merope 
 
 From the first-wrought vengeance is born 
 
 A long succession of crimes. 
 
 Fresh blood flows, calling for blood. 
 
 Fathers, sons, grandsons, are all 
 
 One death -deahng vengeful train. 
 
 ALpytus 
 
 Mother, thy fears are idle ; for I come 
 To close an old wound, not to open new 
 In all else willing to be taught, in this 
 Instruct me not ; I have my lesson clear. — 
 Areas, seek out my uncle Laias, now 
 Conferring in the city with our friends ; 
 
4o6 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Here bring him, ere the king come back from council. 
 That, how to accompHsh what the Gods enjoin. 
 And the slow -ripening time at last prepares. 
 We two with thee, my mother, may consult ; 
 For whose help dare I count on, if not thine ? 
 
 Merope 
 Approves my brother Laias this intent ? 
 
 u^PyUis 
 Yes, and alone is with me here to share. 
 
 Merope 
 
 And what of thine Arcadian mate, who bears 
 Suspicion from thy grandsire of thy death, 
 For whom, as I suppose, thou passest here ? 
 
 yEpytus 
 
 * Sworn to our plot he is ; if false surmise 
 Fix him the author of my death, I know not 
 
 Merope 
 Proof, not surmise, shows him in commerce close 
 
 y£pyfus 
 With this Messenian tyrant — that I know. 
 
 Alerope 
 And entertain'st thou, child, such dangerous friends? 
 
 ^pytus 
 This commerce for my best behoof he plies. 
 
MEROPE 407 
 
 Merope 
 That thou may'st read thine enemy's counsel plain ? 
 
 yEpytus 
 Too dear his secret wiles have cost our house, 
 
 Merope 
 And of his unsure agent what demands he ? 
 
 y^Pyttts 
 News of my business, pastime, temper, friends. 
 
 Merope 
 His messages, then, point not to thy murder ? 
 
 y^Pyfus 
 Not yet, though such, no doubt, his final aim. 
 
 Merope 
 And what Arcadian helpers bring'st thou here ? 
 
 ^Epytus 
 Laias alone ; no errand mine for crowds. 
 
 Me7'0pe 
 On what relying, to crush such a foe ? 
 
 JS.pytus 
 One sudden stroke, and the Messenians' love. 
 
4o8 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Merope 
 
 O thou long-lost, long seen in dreams alone, 
 
 But now seen face to face, my only child ! 
 
 Why wilt thou fly to lose as soon as found 
 
 My new-won treasure, thy beloved life? 
 
 Or how expectest not to lose, who com'st 
 
 AVith such slight means to cope with such a foe ? 
 
 Thine enemy thou know'st not, nor his strength. 
 
 The stroke thou purposest is desperate, rash — 
 
 Yet grant that it succeeds — thou hast behind 
 
 The stricken king a second enemy 
 
 Scarce dangerous less than him, the Dorian lords. 
 
 These are not now the savage band who erst 
 
 Follow'd thy father from their northern hills. 
 
 Mere ruthless and uncounsell'd wolves of war. 
 
 Good to obey, without a leader nought. 
 
 Their chief hath train'd them, made them like himself, 
 
 Sagacious, men of iron, watchful, firm, 
 
 Against surprise and sudden panic proof 
 
 Their master fall'n, these will not flinch, but band 
 
 To keep their master's power ; thou wilt find 
 
 Behind his corpse their hedge of serried spears. 
 
 But, to match these, thou hast the people's love ? 
 
 On what a reed, my child, thou leanest there ! 
 
 Knowest thou not how timorous, how unsure. 
 
 How useless an ally a people is 
 
 Against the one and certain arm of power ? 
 
 Thy father perish'd in this people's cause, 
 
 Perish'd before their eyes, yet 110 man stirr'd ! 
 
 For years, his widow, in their sight I stand, 
 
 A never -changing index to revenge — 
 
 What help, what vengeance, at their hands have I ? — 
 
MEROPE 409 
 
 At least, if thou wilt trust them, try them first. 
 Against the King himself array the host 
 Thou countest on to back thee 'gainst his lords ; 
 First rally the Messenians to thy cause. 
 Give them cohesion, purpose, and resolve, 
 Marshal them to an army — then advance, 
 Then try the issue ; and not, rushing on 
 Single and friendless, give to certain death 
 That dear-beloved, that young, that gracious head. 
 Be guided, O my son ! spurn counsel not ! 
 For know thou this, a violent heart hath been 
 Fatal to all the race of Heracles. 
 
 The CJiorus 
 
 With sage experience she speaks ; and thou, 
 O ^pytus, weigh well her counsel given. 
 
 111 counsel, in my judgment, gives she here. 
 Maidens, and reads experience much amiss ; 
 Discrediting the succour w^hich our cause 
 Might from the people draw, if rightly used ; 
 Advising us a course which would, indeed. 
 If follow'd, make their succour slack and null. 
 A people is no army, train'd to fight, 
 A passive engine, at their general's w^ill ; 
 And, if so used, proves, as thou say'st, unsure. 
 A people, like a common man, is dull. 
 Is Ufeless, while its heart remains untouch'd ; 
 A fool can drive it, and a fly may scare. 
 When it admires and loves, its heart awakes : 
 Then irresistibly it lives, it w^orks ; 
 
4IO DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 A people, then, is an ally indeed — 
 
 It is ten thousand fiery wills in one. 
 
 Now I, if I invite them to run risk 
 
 Of life for my advantage, and myself. 
 
 Who chiefly profit, run no more than they--- 
 
 How shall I rouse their love, their ardour so ? 
 
 But, if some signal, unassisted stroke, 
 
 Dealt at my own sole risk, before their eyes. 
 
 Announces me their rightful prince return'd — 
 
 The undegenerate blood of Heracles — 
 
 The daring claimant of a perilous throne — 
 
 How might not such a sight as this revive 
 
 Their loyal passion tow'rd my father's house. 
 
 Kindle their hearts, make them no more a mob, 
 
 A craven mob, but a devouring fire ? 
 
 Then might I use them, then, for one who thus 
 
 Spares not himself, themselves they will not spare. 
 
 Haply, had but one daring soul stood forth 
 
 To rally them and lead them to revenge, 
 
 When my great father fell, they had replied ! 
 
 Alas ! our foe alone stood forward then. 
 
 And thou, my mother, hadst thou made a sign — 
 
 Hadst thou, from thy forlorn and captive state 
 
 Of widowhood in these polluted halls. 
 
 Thy prison-house, raised one imploring cry — 
 
 Who knows but that avengers thou hadst found ? 
 
 But mute thou sat'st, and each Messenian heart 
 
 In thy despondency desponded too. 
 
 Enough of this ! — Though not a finger stir 
 
 To succour me in my extremest need ; 
 
 Though all free spirits in this land were dead, 
 
 And only slaves and tyrants left alive ; 
 
 Yet for me, mother, I had liefer die 
 
MEROPE 411 
 
 On native ground, than drag the tedious hours 
 Of a protected exile any more. 
 Hate, duty, interest, passion call one way ; 
 Here stand I now, and the attempt shall be. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Prudence is on the other side ; but deeds 
 Condemn'd by prudence have sometimes gone well. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Not till the ways of prudence all are tried. 
 And tried in vain, the turn of rashness comes. 
 Thou leapest to thy deed, and hast not ask'd 
 Thy kinsfolk and thy father's friends for aid. 
 
 /^pytus 
 And to what friends should I for aid apply ? 
 
 Merope 
 The royal race of Temenus, in Argos 
 
 .Epytus 
 That house, like ours, intestine murder maims. 
 
 Merope 
 Thy Spartan cousins, Procles and his brother— 
 
 yEpytiis 
 Love a won cause, but not a cause to win. 
 
 Merope 
 My father, then, and his Arcadian chiefs — 
 
412 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 y^pyttis 
 Mean still to keep aloof from Dorian broil 
 
 Merope 
 Wait, then, until sufficient help appears 
 
 y^pytus 
 Orestes in Mycence had no more. 
 
 Merope 
 He to fulfil an order raised his hand. 
 
 y^pytiis 
 What order more precise had he than I ? 
 
 Merope 
 Apollo peal'd it from his Delphian cave. 
 
 y-Epytus 
 A mother's murder needed hest divine. 
 
 Merope 
 He had a hest, at least, and thou hast none. 
 
 yEpytus 
 The Gods command not where the heart speaks clear. 
 
 Merope 
 Thou wilt destroy, I see, thyself and us. 
 
MEROPE 413 
 
 yEpyttts 
 
 O suffering ! O calamity ! how ten, 
 
 How twentyfold worse are ye, when your blows 
 
 Not only wound the sense, but kill the soul, 
 
 The noble thought, which is alone the man ! 
 
 That I, to-day returning, find myself 
 
 Orphan'd of both my parents — by his foes 
 
 My father, by your strokes my mother slain ! 
 
 For this is not my mother, who dissuades, 
 
 At the dread altar of her husband's tomb, 
 
 His son from vengeance on his murderer ; 
 
 And not alone dissuades him, but compares 
 
 His just revenge to an unnatural deed, 
 
 A deed so awful, that the general tongue 
 
 Fluent of horrors, falters to relate it — 
 
 Of darkness so tremendous, that its author. 
 
 Though to his act empower'd, nay, impell'd. 
 
 By the oracular sentence of the Gods, 
 
 Fled, for years after, o'er the face of earth, 
 
 A frenzied wanderer, a God-driven man. 
 
 And hardly yet, some say, hath found a grave — 
 
 With such a deed as this thou matchest mine, 
 
 Which Nature sanctions, which the innocent blood 
 
 Clamours to find fulfill'd, which good men praise. 
 
 And only bad men joy to see undone ! 
 
 O honour'd father ! hide thee in thy grave 
 
 Deep as thou canst, for hence no succour comes ; 
 
 Since from thy faithful subjects what revenge 
 
 Canst thou expect, when thus thy widow fails ? 
 
 Alas ! an adamantine strength indeed. 
 
 Past expectation, hath thy murderer built ; 
 
414 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 For this is the true strength of guilty kings, 
 When they corrupt the souls of those they rule. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Zeal makes him most unjust ; but, in good time, 
 Here, as I guess, the noble Laias comes. 
 
 Laias 
 
 Break off, break off your talking, and depart 
 Each to his post, where the occasion calls ; 
 Lest from the council-chamber presently 
 The King return, and find you prating here. 
 A time will come for greetings ; but to-day 
 The hour for words is gone, is come for deeds. 
 
 yEpyhds 
 
 princely Laias ! to what purpose calls 
 The occasion, if our chief confederate fails ? 
 My mother stands aloof, and blames our deed. 
 
 Laias 
 
 My royal sister ? . . . but, without some cause, 
 
 1 know, she honours not the dead so ill. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Brother, it seems thy sister must present. 
 
 At this first meeting after absence long, 
 
 Not welcome, exculpation to her kin ; 
 
 Yet exculpation needs it, if I seek, 
 
 A woman and a mother, to avert 
 
 Risk from my new-restored, my only son ? — 
 
MEROPE 415 
 
 Sometimes, when he was gone, I wish'd him back, 
 
 Risk what he might ; now that I have him here, 
 
 Now that I feed mine eyes on that young face, 
 
 Hear that fresh voice, and clasp that gold-lock'd head, 
 
 I shudder, Laias, to commit my child 
 
 To murder's dread arena, where I saw 
 
 His father and his ill-starr'd brethren fall ! 
 
 I loathe for him the slippery way of blood ; 
 
 I ask if bloodless means may gain his end. 
 
 In me the fever of revengeful hate. 
 
 Passion's first furious longing to imbrue 
 
 Our own right hand in the detested blood 
 
 Of enemies, and count their dying groans — 
 
 If in this feeble bosom such a fire 
 
 Did ever burn — is long by time allay'd, 
 
 And I would now have Justice strike, not me. 
 
 Besides — for from my brother and my son 
 
 I hide not even this — the reverence deep. 
 
 Remorseful, tow'rd my hostile solitude, 
 
 By Polyphontes never fail'd-in once 
 
 Through twenty years ; his mournful anxious zeal 
 
 To efface in me the memory of his crime — 
 
 Though it efface not that, yet makes me wish 
 
 His death a public, not a personal act, 
 
 Treacherously plotted 'twixt my son and me ; 
 
 To whom this day he came to proffer peace. 
 
 Treaty, and to this kingdom for my son 
 
 Heirship, with fair intent, as I believe. — 
 
 For that he plots thy death, account it false ; 
 
 [to ^PYTUS. 
 
 Number it with the thousand rumours vain, 
 Figments of plots, wherewith intriguers fill 
 The enforced leisure of an exile's ear. 
 
4t6 dramatic poems 
 
 Immersed in serious state-craft is the King, 
 Bent above all to pacify, to rule. 
 Rigidly, yet in settled calm, this realm ; 
 Not prone, all say, averse to bloodshed now.— 
 So much is due to truth, even tow'rds our foe. 
 
 [/<? Lai AS 
 
 Do I, then, give to usurpation grace, 
 
 And from his natural rights my son debar ? 
 
 Not so ! let him — and none shall be more prompt 
 
 Than I to help — raise his Messenian friends ; 
 
 Let him fetch succours from Arcadia, gain 
 
 His Argive or his Spartan cousins' aid ; 
 
 Let him do this, do aught but recommence 
 
 Murder's uncertain, secret, perilous game — 
 
 And I, when to his righteous standard down 
 
 Flies Victory wing'd, and Justice raises then 
 
 Her sword, will be the first to bid it fall. 
 
 If, haply, at this moment, such attempt 
 
 Promise not fair, let him a little while 
 
 Have faith, and trust the future and the Gods. 
 
 He may ; for never did the Gods allow 
 
 Fast permanence to an ill-gotten throne. — 
 
 These are but woman's words — yet, Laias, thou 
 
 Despise them not ! for, brother, thou and I 
 
 Were not among the feuds of warrior-chiefs, 
 
 Each sovereign for his dear-bought hour, born ; 
 
 But in the pastoral Arcadia rear'd. 
 
 With Cypselus our father, where we saw 
 
 The simple patriarchal state of kings. 
 
 Where sire to son transmits the unquestion'd crown, 
 
 Unhack'd, unsmirch'd, unbloodied, and have learnt 
 
 That spotless hands unshaken sceptres hold. 
 
 Having learnt this, then, use thy knowledge now. 
 
MEROPE 417 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Which way to lean I know not : bloody strokes 
 Are never free from doubt, though sometimes due. 
 
 Lm'as 
 
 O Merope, the common heart of man 
 Agrees to deem some deeds so dark in guilt, 
 That neither gratitude, nor tie of race, 
 Womanly pity, nor maternal fear. 
 Nor any pleader else, shall be indulged 
 To breathe a syllable to bar revenge. 
 All this, no doubt, thou to thyself hast urged — 
 Time presses, so that theme forbear I now ; 
 Direct to thy dissuasions I reply. 
 Blood-founded thrones, thou say'st, are insecure ; 
 Our father's kingdom, because pure, is safe. 
 True ; but what cause to our Arcadia gives 
 Its privileged immunity from blood. 
 But that, since first the black and fruitful Earth 
 In the primeval mountain-forests bore 
 Pelasgus, our forefather and mankind's. 
 Legitimately sire to son, with us, 
 Bequeaths the allegiance of our shepherd-tribes. 
 More loyal, as our line continues more ? — 
 How can your Heracleidan chiefs inspire 
 This awe which guards our earth-sprung, lineal kings ? 
 What permanence, what stability like ours, 
 Whether blood flows or no, can yet invest 
 The broken order of your Dorian thrones, 
 Fix'd yesterday, and ten times changed since then ?— 
 Two brothers, and their orphan nephews, strove 
 
 2 £ 
 
4iS DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 For the three conquer'd kingdoms of this isle ; 
 The eldest, mightiest brother, Temeniis, took 
 Argos ; a juggle to Cresphontes gave 
 Messenia ; to those helpless Boys, the lot 
 Worst of the three, the stony Sparta, fell. 
 August, indeed, was the foundation here ! 
 What follow'd ? — His most trusted kinsman slew 
 Cresphontes in Messenia ; Temenus 
 Perish'd in Argos by his jealous sons ; 
 The Spartan Brothers with their guardian strive. 
 Can houses thus ill-seated, thus embroil'd, 
 Thus little founded in their subjects' love, 
 Practise the indulgent, bloodless policy 
 Of dynasties long-fix'd, and honour'd long ? 
 No ! Vigour and severity must chain 
 Popular reverence to these recent lines. 
 Be their first-founded order strict maintain'd — 
 Their murder'd rulers terribly avenged — 
 Ruthlessly their rebellious subjects crush'd ! 
 Since policy bids thus, what fouler death 
 Than thine illustrious husband's to avenge 
 Shall we select ? than Polyphontes, what 
 More daring and more grand offender find ? 
 Justice, my sister, long demands this blow. 
 And Wisdom, now thou see'st, demands it too. 
 To strike it, then, dissuade thy son no more ; 
 For- to live disobedient to these two, 
 Justice and Wisdom, is no life at all. 
 
 T/ie Chorus 
 
 The Gods, O mistress dear ! the hard-soul'd man, 
 Who spared not others, bid not us to spare. 
 
MEROPE 419 
 
 Merope 
 
 Alas ! against my brother, son, and friends. 
 One, and a woman, how can I prevail ? — 
 O brother, thou hast conquer'd ; yet, I fear ! 
 Son ! with a doubting heart thy mother yields ; 
 May it turn happier than my doubts portend ! 
 
 Laias 
 
 Meantime on thee the task of silence only 
 
 Shall be imposed ; to us shall be the deed. 
 
 Now, not another word, but to our act ! 
 
 Nephew ! thy friends are sounded, and prove true. 
 
 Thy father's murderer, in the public place, 
 
 Performs, this noon, a solemn sacrifice ; 
 
 Be with him — choose the moment — strike thy blow ! 
 
 If prudence counsels thee to go unarm'd, 
 
 The sacrificer's axe will serve thy turn. 
 
 To me and the Messenians leave the rest, 
 
 With the Gods' aid — and, if they give but aid 
 
 As our just cause deserves, I do not fear. 
 
 [^PYTus, Laias, a7id Arcas go out. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 O Son and Mother, str. i. 
 
 Whom the Gods o'ershadow 
 
 In dangerous trial, 
 
 With certainty of favour ! 
 
 As erst they shadow'd 
 
 Your race's founders 
 
 From irretrievable woe ; 
 
 When the seed of Lycaon 
 
420 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Lay forlorn, lay outcast, 
 Callisto and her Boy. 
 
 AMiat deep-grass"d meadow ant. i. 
 
 At the meeting valleys — 
 
 Where clear-flowing Ladon, 
 
 Most beautiful of waters, 
 
 Receives the river 
 
 Whose trout are vocal, 
 
 The Aroanian stream — 
 
 Without home, without mother, 
 
 Hid the babe, hid Areas, 
 
 The nursling of the dells ? 
 
 But the sweet-smelling myrtle, str. 2. 
 
 And the pink-flower'd oleander, 
 
 And the green agnus-castus, 
 
 To the west-wind's murmur, 
 
 Rustled round his cradle ; 
 
 And Maia rear'd him. 
 
 Then, a boy, he startled, 
 
 In the snow-fiU'd hollows 
 
 Of high Cyllene, 
 
 The white mountain-birds ; 
 
 Or surprised, in the glens, 
 
 The basking tortoises. 
 
 Whose striped shell founded 
 
 In the hand of Hermes 
 
 The glory of the lyre. 
 
 But his mother, Callisto, ant. 2. 
 
 In her hiding-place of the thickets 
 Of the lentisk and ilex 
 In her rough form, fearing 
 
MEROPE 421 
 
 The hunter on the outlook, 
 Poor changehng ! trembled. 
 Or the children, plucking 
 In the thorn-choked gullies 
 Wild gooseberries, scared her, 
 The shy mountain-bear ! 
 Or the shepherds, on slopes 
 With pale-spiked lavender 
 And crisp thyme tufted, 
 Came upon her, stealing 
 At day-break through the dew. 
 
 Once, 'mid those gorges, str. 3. 
 
 Spray-drizzled, lonely, 
 
 Unclimb'd of man — 
 
 O'er whose cliffs the townsmen 
 
 Of crag-perch'd Nonacris 
 
 Behold in summer 
 
 The slender torrent 
 
 Of Styx come dancing, 
 
 A wind-blown thread — 
 
 By the precipices of Khelmos, 
 
 The fleet, desperate hunter, 
 
 The youthful Areas, born of Zeus, 
 
 His fleeing mother, 
 
 Transform'd Callisto, 
 
 Unwitting follow'd — 
 
 And raised his spear. 
 
 Turning, with piteous, ant. 3. 
 
 Distressful longing. 
 Sad, eager eyes, 
 Mutely she regarded 
 Her well-known enemy. 
 
422 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Low moans half utter'd 
 
 What speech refused her ; 
 
 Tears coursed, tears human, 
 
 Down those disfigured, 
 
 Once human cheeks. 
 
 With unutterable foreboding 
 
 Her son, heart-stricken, eyed her. 
 
 The Gods had pity, made them Stars. 
 
 Stars now they sparkle 
 
 In the northern Heaven — 
 
 The guard Arcturus, 
 
 The guard-watch'd Bear. 
 
 So, o'er thee and thy child, epode. 
 
 Some God, Merope, now, 
 
 In dangerous hour, stretches his hand. 
 
 So, like a star, dawns thy son, 
 
 Radiant with fortune and joy. 
 
 [POLYPHONTES C07nes in. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 
 O Merope, the trouble on thy face - 
 
 Tells me enough thou know'st the news which all 
 
 Messenia speaks ! the prince, thy son, is dead. 
 
 Not from my lips should consolation fall ; 
 
 To offer that, I come not ; but to urge. 
 
 Even after news of this sad death, our league. 
 
 Yes, once again I come ; I will not take 
 
 This morning's angry answer for thy last. 
 
 To the Messenian kingdom thou and I 
 
 Are the sole claimants left ; what cause of strife 
 
 Lay in thy son is buried in his grave. 
 
 Most honourably I meant, I call the Gods 
 
MEROPE 423 
 
 To witness, offering him return and power ; 
 
 Yet, had he hved, suspicion, jealousy, 
 
 Inevitably had surged up, perhaps, 
 
 'Twixt thee and me — suspicion, that I nursed 
 
 Some ill design against him ; jealousy, 
 
 That he enjoy'd but part, being heir to all. 
 
 And he himself, with the impetuous heart 
 
 Of youth, 'tis like, had never quite forgone 
 
 The thought of vengeance on me, never quite 
 
 Unclosed his itching fingers from his sword. 
 
 But thou, O Merope, though deeply wrong'd, 
 
 Though injured past forgiveness, as men deem, 
 
 Yet hast been long at school with thoughtful time, 
 
 And from that teacher may'st have learn'd, like me. 
 
 That all may be endured, and all forgiv'n — 
 
 Have learn'd, that we must sacrifice the bent 
 
 Of personal feeling to the public weal — 
 
 Have learn'd, that there are guilty deeds, which leave 
 
 The hand that does them guiltless ; in a word, 
 
 That kings live for their peoples, not themselves. 
 
 This having known, let us a union found 
 
 (For the last time I ask, ask earnestly) 
 
 Based on pure public welfare ; let us be 
 
 Not Merope and Polyphontes, foes 
 
 Blood-sever'd, but Messenia's King and Queen ! 
 
 Let us forget ourselves for those we rule ! 
 
 Speak ! I go hence to offer sacrifice ' 
 
 To the Preserver Zeus ; let me return 
 
 Thanks to him for our amity as well 
 
 Merope 
 
 Oh had'st thou, Polyphontes, still but kept 
 The silence thou hast kept for twenty years ! 
 
424 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Polypho7ites 
 
 Henceforth, if what I urge displease, I may. 
 But fair proposal merits fair reply. 
 
 Merope 
 
 And thou shalt have it ! Yes, because thou hast 
 
 For twenty years forborne to interrupt 
 
 The solitude of her whom thou hast wrong'd — 
 
 That scanty grace shall earn thee this reply. — 
 
 First, for our union. Trust me, 'twixt us two 
 
 The brazen-footed Fury ever stalks. 
 
 Waving her hundred hands, a torch in each, 
 
 Aglow with angry fire, to keep us twain. 
 
 Now, for thyself. Thou com'st with well-cloak'd joy. 
 
 To announce the ruin of my husband's house, 
 
 To sound thy triumph in his widow's ears. 
 
 To bid her share thine unendanger'd throne. 
 
 To this thou would'st have answer. Take it : Fly I . 
 
 Cut short thy triumph, seeming at its height ; 
 
 Fling off thy crown, supposed at last secure ; 
 
 Forsake this ample, proud Messenian realm ; 
 
 To some small, humble, and unnoted strand, 
 
 Some rock more lonely than that Lemnian isle 
 
 Where Philoctetes pined, take ship and flee ! 
 
 Some solitude more inaccessible 
 
 Than the ice-bastion'd Caucasian Mount 
 
 Chosen a prison for Prometheus, climb ! 
 
 There in unvoiced oblivion sink thy name^ 
 
 And bid the sun, thine only visitant. 
 
 Divulge not to the far-off world of men 
 
 What once-famed wretch he there did espy hid. 
 
 There nurse a late remorse, and thank the Gods, 
 
MEROPE 
 
 425 
 
 And thank thy bitterest foe, that, having lost 
 All things but life, thou lose not life as well 
 
 Polyphonies 
 AVhat mad bewilderment of grief is this ? 
 
 Merope 
 Thou art bewulder'd ; the sane head is mine. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 I pity thee, and wish thee calmer mind 
 
 Merope 
 Pity thyself; none needs compassion more. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 Yet, oh ! could'st thou but act as reason bids I 
 
 Merope 
 And in my turn I wish the same for thee. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 All I could do to soothe thee has been tried, 
 
 Merope 
 For that, in this my warning, thou art paid. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 
 Know'st thou then aught, that thus thou sound'st the 
 alarm ? 
 
426 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 j\Ierope 
 Thy crime ! that were enough to make one fear. 
 
 Polyphojites 
 My deed is of old date, and long atoned. 
 
 Merope 
 Atoned this very day, perhaps, it is. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 My final victory proves the Gods appeased. 
 
 Merope 
 O victor, victor, trip not at the goal ! 
 
 Polyphontes 
 Hatred and passionate envy blind thine eyes. 
 
 Merope 
 
 Heaven-abandon'd wretch, that envies thee ! 
 
 Polyphontes 
 Thou hold'st so cheap, then, the Messenian crown ? 
 
 Merope 
 
 1 think on what the future hath in store. 
 
 Polyphontes 
 To-day I reign ; the rest I leave to Fate. 
 
MEROPE 427 
 
 Merope 
 For Fate thou wait'st not long ; since, in this hour 
 
 Polyphonies 
 What ? for so far Fate hath not proved my foe — 
 
 Merope 
 Fate seals my lips, and drags to ruin thee. 
 
 Polyphonies 
 
 Enough ! enough ! I will no longer hear 
 
 The ill-boding note which frantic hatred sounds 
 
 To affright a fortune which the Gods secure. 
 
 Once more my friendship thou rejectest ; well ! 
 
 More for this land's sake grieve I, than mine own. 
 
 I chafe not with thee, that thy hate endures. 
 
 Nor bend myself too low, to make it yield. 
 
 What I have done is done ; by my own deed, 
 
 Neither exulting nor ashamed, I stand. 
 
 Why should this heart of mine set mighty store 
 
 By the construction and report of men ? 
 
 Not men's good word hath made me what I am. 
 
 Alone I master'd power ; and alone, 
 
 Since so thou wilt, I dare maintain it still. 
 
 [POLYPHONTES gOeS OUi. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Did I then waver str. i. 
 
 (O woman's judgment !) 
 Misled by seeming 
 
428 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Success of crime ? 
 
 And ask, if sometimes 
 
 The Gods, perhaps, allow'd yoU; 
 
 O lawless daring of the strong, 
 
 O self-will recklessly indulged ? 
 
 Not time, not lightning, ant. i. 
 
 Not rain, not thunder, 
 
 Efface the endless 
 
 Decrees of Heaven — 
 
 Make Justice alter. 
 
 Revoke, assuage her sentence, 
 
 ^^'hich dooms dread ends to dreadful deeds, 
 
 And violent deaths to violent men. 
 
 But the signal example str. 2. 
 
 Of invariableness of justice 
 
 Our glorious founder 
 
 Heracles gave us, 
 
 Son loved of Zeus his father — for he sinn'd, 
 
 And the strand of Euboea, ant. 2. 
 
 And the promontory of Centum, 
 
 His painful, solemn 
 
 Punishment witness'd. 
 
 Beheld his expiation — for he died. 
 
 O villages of QEta str. 3, 
 
 With hedges of the wild rose ! 
 
 O pastures of the mountain, 
 
 Of short grass, beaded with dew. 
 
 Between the pine-woods and the cliffs ! 
 
 O cliffs, left by the eagles. 
 
 On that morn, when the smoke-cloud 
 
MEROPE 429 
 
 From the oak-built, fiercely-burning pyre, 
 
 Up the precipices of Trachis, 
 
 Drove them screaming from their eyries ! 
 
 A willing, a willing sacrifice on that day 
 
 Ye witness'd, ye mountain lawns, 
 
 When the shirt-wrapt, poison-blister'd Hero 
 
 Ascended, with undaunted heart, 
 
 Living, his own funeral-pile, 
 
 And stood, shouting for a fiery torch ; 
 
 And the kind, chance-arrived Wanderer, ^^ 
 
 The inheritor of the bow, 
 
 Coming swiftly through the sad Trachinians, 
 
 Put the torch to the pile. 
 
 That the flame tower'd on high to the Heaven ; 
 
 Bearing with it, to Olympus, 
 
 To the side of Hebe, 
 
 To immortal delight. 
 
 The labour-released Hero. 
 
 O heritage of Neleus, a>it. 3. 
 
 Ill-kept by his infirm heirs ! 
 
 O kingdom of Messene, 
 
 Of rich soil, chosen by craft, 
 
 Possess'd in hatred, lost in blood ! 
 
 O town, high Stenyclaros, 
 
 With new walls, which the victors 
 
 From the four-town'd, mountain-shadow'd Doris, 
 
 For their Heracles-issued princes 
 
 Built in strength against the vanquish'd ! 
 
 Another, another sacrifice on this day 
 
 Ye witness, ye new-built towers ! 
 
 When the white-robed, garland-crowned Monarch 
 
 Approaches, with undoubting heart, 
 
436 DRAMATIC TOEMS 
 
 Living, his own sacrifice-block, 
 
 And stands, shouting for a slaughterous axe ; 
 
 And the stern, destiny-brought Stranger, 
 
 The inheritor of the realm, 
 
 Coming swiftly through the jocund Dorians, 
 
 Drives the axe to its goal. 
 
 That the blood rushes in streams to the dust ; 
 
 Bearing with it, to Erinnys, 
 
 To the Gods of Hades, 
 
 To the dead unavenged, 
 
 The fiercely-required Victim. 
 
 Knowing he did it, unknowing pays for it. \epode. 
 
 Unknowing, unknowing. 
 
 Thinking atoned-for 
 
 Deeds unatonable, 
 
 Thinking appeased 
 
 Gods unappeasable, 
 
 Lo, the ill-fated one. 
 
 Standing for harbour 
 
 Right at the harbour-mouth 
 
 Strikes with all sail set 
 
 Full on the sharp-pointed 
 
 Needle of ruin ! 
 
 \A Messenger comes in. 
 
 Messenger 
 
 O honour'd Queen, O faithful followers 
 Of your dead master's line, I bring you news 
 To make the gates of this long-mournful house 
 Leap, and fly open of themselves for joy ! 
 
 \iioise and shouting heard. 
 Hark how the shouting crowds tramp hitherward 
 
MEKOFE 431 
 
 With glad acclaim ! Ere they forestall my news, 
 Accept it : — Polyphontes is no more. 
 
 Me7'ope 
 Is my son safe ? that question bounds my care. 
 
 Messenge7' 
 He is, and by the people hail'd for king. 
 
 Merope 
 
 The rest to me is little ; yet, since that 
 
 Must from some mouth be heard, relate it thou. 
 
 Messengej' 
 
 Not little, if thou saw'st what love, what zeal, 
 
 At thy dead husband's name the people show. 
 
 For when this morning in the public square 
 
 I took my stand, and saw the unarm'd crowds 
 
 Of citizens in holiday attire. 
 
 Women and children intermix'd ; and then, 
 
 Group'd around Zeus's altar, all in arms, 
 
 Serried and grim, the ring of Dorian lords — 
 
 I trembled for our prince and his attempt. 
 
 Silence and expectation held us all ; 
 
 Till presently the King came forth, in robe 
 
 Of sacrifice, his guards clearing the way 
 
 Before him — at his side, the prince, thy son, 
 
 Unarm'd and travel-soil'd, just as he was. 
 
 With him conferring the King slowly reach'd 
 
 The altar in the middle of the square. 
 
 Where, by the sacrificing minister. 
 
 The flow^er-dress'd victim stood — a milk-white bull, 
 
432 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Swaying from side to side his massy head 
 With short impatient lowings. There he stopp'd, 
 And seem'd to muse awhile, then raised his eyes 
 To heaven, and laid his hand upon the steer. 
 And cried : O Zeus, let ivhat blood-guiltiness 
 Yet stai?is our land be by this blood wash'd out, 
 And gra?it henceforth to the Alessenians peace I 
 That moment, while with upturn'd eyes he pray'd, 
 The prince snatch'd from the sacrificer's hand 
 The axe, and on the forehead of the King, 
 Where twines the chaplet, dealt a mighty blow 
 Which fell'd him to the earth, and o'er him stood, 
 And shouted : Since by thee defilemeiit ca^ne, 
 What blood so meet as thine to ^uash it out ? 
 What hand to strike thee ineet as mine, the hand 
 Of u^pytus, thy murder'' d master'' s son ? — 
 But, gazing at him from the ground, the King . . , 
 Is it, then, thou ? he murmur'd ; and with that. 
 He bow'd his head, and deeply groan'd, and died. 
 Till then we all seem'd stone, but then a cry 
 Broke from the Dorian lords ; forward they rush'd 
 To circle the prince round — when suddenly 
 Laias in arms sprang to his nephew's side, 
 Crying : O ye Messefiians, zvill ye leave 
 The son to perish as ye left the sire ? 
 And from that moment I saw nothing clear ; 
 For from all sides a deluge, as it seem'd 
 Burst o'er the altar and the Dorian lords, 
 Of holiday-clad citizens transform'd 
 To armed warriors ; — I heard vengeful cries, 
 I heard the clash of weapons ; then I saw 
 The Dorians lying dead, thy son hail'd king. 
 And, truly, one who sees, what seem'd so strong, 
 
MEROPE 433 
 
 The power of this tyrant and his lords, 
 Melt like a passing smoke, a nightly dream. 
 At one bold word, one enterprising blow — 
 Might ask, why we endured their yoke so long ; 
 But that we know how every perilous feat 
 Of daring, easy as it seems when done. 
 Is easy at no moment but the right. 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Thou speakest well ; but here, to give our eyes 
 
 Authentic proof of what thou tell'st our ears. 
 
 The conquerors, with the King's dead body, come. 
 
 [^PYTUS, Laias, and Arcas come in with the dead 
 
 body of PoLYPHONTES, followed by a crowd of the 
 
 Messenians. 
 
 Laias 
 
 Sister, from this day forth thou art no more 
 The widow of a husband unavenged. 
 The anxious mother of an exiled son. 
 Thine enemy is slain, thy son is king ! 
 Rejoice with us ! and trust me, he who wish'd 
 Welfare to the Messenian state, and calm. 
 Could find no way to found them sure as this. 
 
 y^pytus 
 
 Mother, all these approve me ; but if thou 
 Approve not too, I have but half my joy. 
 
 Merope 
 
 O ^pytus, my son, behold, behold 
 This iron man, my enemy and thine, 
 
 2 F 
 
434 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 This politic sovereign, lying at our feet, 
 
 With blood-bespatter'd robes, and chaplet shorn ! 
 
 Inscrutable as ever, see, it keeps 
 
 Its sombre aspect of majestic care, 
 
 Of solitary thought, unshared resolve, 
 
 Even in death, that countenance austere ! 
 
 So look'd he, when to Stenyclaros first, 
 
 A new-made wife, I from Arcadia came, 
 
 And found him at my husband's side, his friend, 
 
 His kinsman, his right hand in peace and war. 
 
 Unsparing in his service of his toil, 
 
 His blood — to me, for I confess it, kind ; 
 
 So look'd he in that dreadful day of death ; 
 
 So, when he pleaded for our league but now. 
 
 What meantest thou, O Polyphontes, what 
 
 Desired'st thou, what truly spurr'd thee on ? 
 
 Was policy of state, the ascendency 
 
 Of the Heracleidan conquerors, as thou said'st. 
 
 Indeed thy lifelong passion and sole aim ? 
 
 Or did'st thou but, as cautious schemers use, 
 
 Cloak thine ambition with these specious words ? 
 
 I know not ; just, in either case, the stroke 
 
 Which laid thee low, for blood requires blood ; 
 
 But yet, not knowing this, I triumph not 
 
 Over thy corpse — triumph not, neither mourn, — 
 
 For I find worth in thee, and badness too. 
 
 ■W^hat mood of spirit, therefore, shall we call 
 
 The true one of a man — what way of life 
 
 His fix'd condition and perpetual walk ? 
 
 None, since a twofold colour reigns in all. 
 
 But thou, my son, study to make prevail 
 
 One colour in thy life, the hue of truth ; 
 
 That justice, that sage order, not alone 
 
MEROPE 435 
 
 Natural vengeance, may maintain thine act, 
 
 And make it stand indeed the will of Heaven. 
 
 Thy father's passion was this people's ease, 
 
 This people's anarchy, thy foe's pretence. 
 
 As the chiefs rule, my son, the people are. 
 
 Unhappy people, w4iere the chiefs themselves 
 
 Are, like the mob, vicious and ignorant ! 
 
 So rule, that even thine enemies may fail 
 
 To find in thee a fault whereon to found. 
 
 Of tyrannous harshness, or remissness weak — 
 
 So rule, that as thy father thou be loved ! 
 
 So rule, that as his foe thou be obey'd ! 
 
 Take these, my son, over thine enemy's corpse 
 
 Thy mother's prayers ! and this prayer last of all : 
 
 That even in thy victory thou show, 
 
 Mortal, the moderation of a man. 
 
 yEpytus 
 
 O mother, my best diligence shall be 
 
 In all by thy experience to be ruled 
 
 Where my own youth falls short ! But, Laias, now. 
 
 First work after such victory, let us go 
 
 To render to my true Messenians thanks, 
 
 To the Gods grateful sacrifice ; and then, 
 
 Assume the ensigns of my father's power 
 
 The Chorus 
 
 Son of Cresphontes, past what perils 
 Com'st thou, guided safe, to thy home ! 
 ^^'hat things daring ! what enduring ! 
 And all this by the will of the Gods, 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 Empedocles. 
 Pausanias, a Physician. 
 Callicles, a young Ha^'p-player. 
 
 The Scene of the Poem is on Mount Etna ; at first in the forest region, 
 afterwards on the stwimit of the mountain. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 
 Morning. A Pass in the forest region of Etna. 
 
 Callicles 
 {Alone, resting on a rock by the path.) 
 
 The mules, I think, will not be here this hour ; 
 
 They feel the cool wet turf under their feet 
 
 By the stream-side, after the dusty lanes 
 
 In which they have toil'd all night from Catana, 
 
 And scarcely will they budge a yard. O Pan, 
 
 How gracious is the mountain at this hour ! 
 
 A thousand times have I been here alone, 
 
 Or with the revellers from the mountain-towns, 
 
 But never on so fair a morn ; — the sun 
 
 Is shining on the brilliant mountain-crests, 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 437 
 
 And on the highest pines ; but farther down, 
 Here in the valley, is in shade ; the sward 
 Is dark, and on the stream the mist still hangs ; 
 One sees one's footprints crush'd in the wet grass, 
 One's breath curls in the air ; and on these pines 
 That climb from the stream's edge, the long grey tufts. 
 Which the goats love, are jewell'd thick with dew. 
 Here will I stay till the slow litter comes. 
 I have my harp too — that is well. — Apollo ! 
 What mortal could be sick or sorry here ? 
 I know not in what mind Empedocles, 
 Whose mules I follow'd, may be coming up. 
 But if, as most men say, he is half mad 
 With exile, and with brooding on his wrongs, 
 Pausanias, his sage friend, who mounts with him, 
 Could scarce have lighted on a lovelier cure. 
 The mules must be below, far down. I hear 
 Their tinkling bells, mix'd with the song of birds, 
 Rise faintly to me — now it stops ! — Who's here ? 
 Pausanias ! and on foot ? alone ? 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 And thou, then ? 
 I left thee supping with Peisianax, 
 With thy head full of wine, and thy hair crown'd, 
 Touching thy harp as the whim came on thee. 
 And praised and spoil'd by master and by guests 
 Almost as much as the new dancing-girl. 
 Why hast thou follow'd us ? 
 
 Callicles 
 
 The night was hot, 
 And the feast past its prime ; so we slipp'd out, 
 
438 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Some of us, to the portico to breathe ; — 
 Peisianax, thou know'st, drinks late ; — and then, 
 As I was Hfting my soil'd garland off, 
 I saw the mules and litter in the court, 
 And in the litter sate Empedocles ; 
 Thou, too, wast with him. Straightway I sped home ; 
 I saddled my white mule, and all night long 
 Through the cool lovely country follow'd you, 
 Pass'd you a little since as morning dawn'd. 
 And have this hour sate by the torrent here. 
 Till the slow mules should climb in sight again. 
 And now? 
 
 Paiisa7iias 
 
 And now, back to the town with speed ! 
 Crouch in the wood first, till the mules have pass'd ; 
 They do but halt, they will be here anon. 
 Thou must be viewless to Empedocles ; 
 Save mine, he must not meet a human eye. 
 One of his moods is on him that thou know'st ; 
 I think, thou wouldst not vex him, 
 
 Callicles 
 
 No — and yet 
 I would fain stay, and help thee tend him. Once 
 He knew me well, and would oft notice me ; 
 And still, I know not how, he draws me to him, 
 And I could watch him with his proud sad face, 
 His flowing locks and gold-encircled brow 
 And kingly gait, for ever ; such a spell 
 In his severe looks, such a majesty 
 As drew of old the people after him, 
 In Agrigentum and Olympia, 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 439 
 
 When his star reign'd, before his banishment, 
 
 Is potent still on me in his decline. 
 
 But oh ! Pausanias, he is changed of late ; 
 
 There is a settled trouble in his air 
 
 Admits no momentary brightening now, 
 
 And when he comes among his friends at feasts, 
 
 'Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys. 
 
 Thou know'st of old he loved this harp of mine, 
 
 When first he sojourn'd with Peisianax ; 
 
 He is now always moody, and I fear him ; 
 
 But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could. 
 
 Dared one but try. 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 Thou wast a kind child ever ! 
 He loves thee, but he must not see thee now. 
 Thou hast indeed a rare touch on thy harp, 
 He loves that in thee, too ; — there was a time 
 (But that is pass'd), he would have paid thy strain 
 With music to have drawn the stars from heaven. 
 He hath his harp and laurel with him still. 
 But he has laid the use of music by, 
 And all which might relax his settled gloom. 
 Yet thou may'st try thy playing, if thou wilt — 
 But thou must keep unseen ; follow us on, 
 But at a distance ! in these solitudes. 
 In this clear mountain-air, a voice will rise. 
 Though from afar, distinctly ; it may soothe him. 
 Play when we halt, and, when the evening comes 
 And I must leave him (for his pleasure is 
 To be left musing these soft nights alone 
 In the high unfrequented mountain-spots). 
 Then watch him, for he ranges swift and far. 
 
440 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Sometimes to Etna's top, and to the cone ; 
 But hide thee in the rocks a great way down, 
 And try thy noblest strains, my CaUicles, 
 A\'ith the sweet night to help thy harmony ! 
 Thou wilt earn my thanks sure, and perhaps his, 
 
 CaUicles 
 
 More than a day and night, Pausanias, 
 Of this fair summer-weather, on these hills, 
 Would I bestow to help Empedocles. 
 That needs no thanks ; one is far better here 
 Than in the broiling city in these heats. 
 But tell me, how hast thou persuaded him 
 In this his present fierce, man-hating mood. 
 To bring thee out with him alone on Etna? 
 
 Pausaiiias 
 
 Thou hast heard all men speaking of Pantheia 
 
 The woman who at Agrigentum lay 
 
 Thirty long days in a cold trance of death. 
 
 And whom Empedocles call'd back to life. 
 
 Thou art too young to note it, but his power 
 
 Swells with the swelling evil of this time, 
 
 And holds men mute to see where it will rise. 
 
 He could stay swift diseases in old days. 
 
 Chain madmen by the music of his lyre. 
 
 Cleanse to sweet airs the breath of poisonous streams. 
 
 And in the mountain-chinks inter the winds. 
 
 This he could do of old ; but now, since all 
 
 Clouds and grows daily worse in Sicily, 
 
 Since broils tear us in twain, since this new swarm 
 
 Of sophists has got empire in our schools 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 441 
 
 Where he was paramount, since he is banish'd 
 And Hves a lonely man in triple gloom — 
 He grasps the very reins of life and death. 
 I ask'd him of Pantheia yesterday, 
 When we were gather'd with Peisianax, 
 And he made answer, I should come at night 
 On Etna here, and be alone with him. 
 And he would tell me, as his old, tried friend. 
 Who still was faithful, what might profit me ; 
 That is, the secret of this miracle. 
 
 Callicles 
 
 Bah ! Thou a doctor ! Thou art superstitious. 
 
 Simple Pausanias,' twas no miracle ! 
 
 Pantheia, for I know her kinsmen well. 
 
 Was subject to these trances from a girl. 
 
 Empedocles would say so, did he deign ; 
 
 But he still lets the people, whom he scorns. 
 
 Gape and cry ivizard at him, if they list. 
 
 But thou, thou art no company for him ! 
 
 Thou art as cross, as sour'd as himself! 
 
 Thou hast some wrong from thine own citizens, 
 
 And then thy friend is banish'd, and on that. 
 
 Straightway thou fallest to arraign the times, 
 
 As if the sky was impious not to fall. 
 
 The sophists are no enemies of his ; 
 
 I hear, Gorgias, their chief, speaks nobly of him, 
 
 As of his gifted master, and once friend. 
 
 He is too scornful, too high-wrought, too bitter. 
 
 'Tis not the times, 'tis not the sophists vex him ; 
 
 There is some root of suffering in himself. 
 
 Some secret and unfollow'd vein of woe, 
 
 Which makes the time look black and sad to him. 
 
442 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Pester him not in this his sombre mood 
 
 With questionings about an idle tale, 
 
 But lead him through the lovely mountain-paths. 
 
 And keep his mind from preying on itself, 
 
 And talk to him of things at hand and common, 
 
 Not miracles ! thou art a learned man. 
 
 But credulous of fables as a girl. 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 And thou, a boy whose tongue outruns his knowledge, 
 
 And on whose lightness blame is thrown away. 
 
 Enough of this ! I see the litter wind 
 
 Up by the torrent-side, under the pines. 
 
 I must rejoin Empedocles. Do thou 
 
 Crouch in the brushwood till the mules have pass'd ; 
 
 Then play thy kind part well. Farewell till night ! 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 Noon. A Gleti on the highest skirts of the woody region 
 
 of Etna. 
 
 Empedocles — Pausanias 
 Pausanias 
 
 The noon is hot. When we have cross'd the stream, 
 
 We shall have left the woody tract, and come 
 
 Upon the open shoulder of the hill. 
 
 See how the giant spires of yellow bloom 
 
 Of the sun-loving gentian, in the heat, 
 
 Are shining on those naked slopes like flame ! 
 
 Let us rest here ; and now, Empedocles, 
 
 Pantheia's history ! 
 
 \^A harp-note below is heard. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 443 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Hark ! what sound was that 
 Rose from below ? If it were possible, 
 And we were not so far from human haunt, 
 I should have said that some one touch'd a harp 
 Hark ! there again ! 
 
 Faiisaiiias 
 
 'Tis the boy Callicles, 
 The sweetest harp-player in Catana. 
 He is for ever coming on these hills, 
 In summer, to all country-festivals. 
 With a gay revelling band ; he breaks from them 
 Sometimes, and wanders far among the glens. 
 But heed him not, he will not mount to us ; 
 I spoke with him this morning. Once more, therefore, 
 Instruct me of Pantheia's story. Master, 
 As I have pray'd thee. 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 That ? and to what end ? 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 It is enough that all men speak of it. 
 
 But I will also say, that when the Gods 
 
 Visit us as they do with sign and plague. 
 
 To know those spells of thine which stay their hand 
 
 Were to live free from terror. 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Spells ? Mistrust them ! 
 
444 DRAMATIC TOEMS 
 
 Mind is the spell which governs earth and heaven. 
 Man has a mind with which to plan his safety ; 
 Know that, and help thyself! 
 
 Pausmiias 
 
 But thine own words? 
 "The wit and counsel of man was never clear, 
 Troubles confound the little wit he has." 
 Mind is a light which the Gods mock us with, 
 To lead those false who trust it. 
 
 \21ie harp sounds again. 
 
 Empedodes 
 
 Hist ! once more ! 
 Listen, Pausanias : — Ay, 'tis Callicles ; 
 I know these notes among a thousand. Hark ! 
 
 Callicles 
 
 (Sings unseen^ from below). 
 
 The track winds down to the clear stream, 
 
 To cross the sparkling shallows ; there 
 
 The cattle love to gather, on their way 
 
 To the high mountain-pastures, and to stay, 
 
 Till the rough cow-herds drive them past, 
 
 Knee-deep in the cool ford ; for 'tis the last 
 
 Of all the woody, high, well-water'd dells 
 
 On Etna ; and the beam 
 
 Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs 
 
 Down its steep verdant sides ; the air 
 
 Is freshen'd by the leaping stream, which throws 
 
 Eternal showers of spray on the moss'd roots 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 445 
 
 Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots 
 
 Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells 
 
 Of hyacinths, and on late anemonies, 
 
 That muffle its wet banks ; but glade, 
 
 And stream, and sward, and chestnut-trees. 
 
 End here ; Etna beyond, in the broad glare 
 
 Of the hot noon, without a shade. 
 
 Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare ; 
 
 The peak, round which the white clouds play. 
 
 In such a glen, on such a day. 
 On Pelion, on the grassy ground, 
 Chiron, the aged Centaur lay. 
 The young Achilles standing by. 
 The Centaur taught him to explore 
 The mountains ; where the glens are dry 
 And the tired Centaurs come to rest, 
 And where the soaking springs abound 
 And the straight ashes grow for spears, 
 And where the hill-goats come to feed. 
 And the sea-eagles build their nest. 
 He show'd him Phthia far away. 
 And said : O boy, I taught this lore 
 To Peleus, in long distant years ! 
 He told him of the Gods, the stars. 
 The tides ; — and then of mortal wars. 
 And of the life which heroes lead 
 Before they reach the Elysian place 
 And rest in the immortal mead ; 
 And all the wisdom of his race. 
 
 The music below ceases^ and Empedocles speaks, accom- 
 panying himself in a solemn mannei' on his harp. 
 
446 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 The out-spread world to span 
 A cord the Gods first slung, 
 And then the soul of man 
 There, like a mirror, hung, 
 And bade the winds through space impel the gusty toy 
 
 Hither and thither spins 
 The wind-borne, mirroring soul, 
 A thousand glimpses wins, 
 And never sees a whole ; 
 Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and leaves its last employ. 
 
 The Gods laugh in their sleeve 
 To watch man doubt and fear, 
 Who knows not what to believe 
 Since he sees nothing clear, 
 And dares stamp nothing false where he finds nothing sure. 
 
 Is this, Pausanias, so? 
 And can our souls not strive, 
 But with the winds must go, 
 And hurry where they drive ? 
 Is fate indeed so strong, man's strength indeed so poor ? 
 
 I will not judge. That man, 
 Howbeit, I judge as lost, 
 Whose mind allows a plan. 
 Which would degrade it most ; 
 And he treats doubt the best who tries to see least ill. 
 
 Be not, then, fear's blind slave ! 
 Thou art my friend ; to thee, 
 All knowledge that I have, 
 All skill I wield, are free. 
 Ask not the latest news of the last miracle, 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 447 
 
 Ask not what days and nights 
 In trance Pantheia lay. 
 But ask how thou such sights 
 May'st see without dismay ; 
 Ask what most helps when known, thou son of Anchitus ! 
 
 What ? hate, and awe, and shame 
 Fill thee to see our time ; 
 Thou feelest thy soul's frame 
 Shaken and out of chime ? 
 What ? life and chance go hard with thee too, as with us ; 
 
 Thy citizens, 'tis said. 
 Envy thee and oppress. 
 Thy goodness no men aid, 
 All strive to make it less ; 
 Tyranny, pride, and lust, fill Sicily's abodes ; 
 
 Heaven is with earth at strife. 
 Signs make thy soul afraid, 
 The dead return to life. 
 Rivers are dried, winds stay'd ; 
 Scarce can one think in calm, so threatening are the Gods ; 
 
 And we feel, day and night. 
 The burden of ourselves — 
 Well, then, the wiser wight 
 In his own bosom delves. 
 And asks what ails him so, and gets what cure he can. 
 
 The sophist sneers : Fool, take 
 Thy pleasure, right or wrong. 
 The pious wail : Forsake 
 A world these sophists throng. 
 Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man ! 
 
44S DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 These hundred doctors try 
 To preach thee to their school. 
 We have the truth ! they cry ; 
 And yet their oracle, 
 Trumpet it as they will, is but the same as thine. 
 
 Once read thy own breast right, 
 And thou hast done with fears ; 
 Man gets no other light. 
 Search he a thousand years. 
 Sink in thyself! there ask what ails thee, at that shrine ! 
 
 What makes thee struggle and rave ? 
 Why are men ill at ease? — 
 'Tis that the lot they have 
 Fails their own will to please ; 
 For man would make no murmuring, were his will obey'd. 
 
 And why is it, that still 
 Man with his lot thus fights ? — 
 'Tis that he makes this ivill 
 The measure of his rights^ 
 And believes Nature outraged if his will's gainsaid. 
 
 Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn 
 How deep a fault is this ; 
 Couldst thou but once discern 
 Thou hast no right to bliss, 
 No title from the Gods to welfare and repose ; 
 
 Then thou wouldst look less mazed 
 Whene'er of bliss debarr'd, 
 Nor think the Gods were crazed 
 When thy own lot went hard. 
 J Jut we are all the same — the fools of our own woes ! 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 449 
 
 For, from the first faint morn 
 Of life, the thirst for bliss 
 Deep in man's heart is born ; 
 And, sceptic as he is, 
 He fails not to judge clear if this be quench'd or no. 
 
 Nor is the thirst to blame. 
 Man errs not that he deems 
 His welfare his true aim, 
 He errs because he dreams 
 The world does but exist that welfare to bestow. 
 
 We mortals are no kings 
 For each of whom to sway 
 A new-made world up-springs, 
 Meant merely for his play ; 
 No, we are strangers here ; the world is from of old. 
 
 In vain our pent wills fret, 
 And would the world subdue. 
 Limits we did not set 
 Condition all we do ; 
 Born into life we are, and life must be our mould. 
 
 Born into life ! — man grows 
 Forth from his parents' stem, 
 And blends their bloods, as those 
 Of theirs are blent in them ; 
 So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time. 
 
 Born into life ! — we bring 
 A bias with us here, 
 And, when here, each new thing 
 Affects us we come near ; 
 To tunes we did not call our being must keep chime. 
 
 2 G 
 
450 
 
 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Born into life ! — in vain, 
 Opinions, those or these, 
 Unalter'd to retain 
 The obstinate mind decrees ; 
 Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in. 
 
 Born into life ! — who lists 
 May what is false hold dear, 
 And for himself make mists 
 Through which to see less clear ; 
 The world is what it is, for all our dust and din. 
 
 Born into life ! — 'tis we. 
 And not the world, are new ; 
 Our cry for bliss, our plea. 
 Others have urged it too — 
 Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before. 
 
 No eye could be too sound 
 To observe a world so vast. 
 No patience too profound 
 To sort what's here amass'd ; 
 How man may here best live no care too great to explore. 
 
 But we — as some rude guest 
 Would change, where'er he roam, 
 The manners there profess'd 
 To those he brings from home — 
 We mark not the world's course, but would have it take ours. 
 
 The world's course proves the terms 
 On which man wins content ; 
 Reason the proof confirms — 
 We spurn it, and invent 
 A false course for the world, and for ourselves, false powers. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 451 
 
 Riches we wish to get, 
 Yet remain spendthrifts still ; 
 We would have health, and yet 
 Still use our bodies ill ; 
 Bafflers of our own prayers, from youth to life's last scenes. 
 
 We would have inward peace, 
 Yet will not look within ; 
 AVe would have misery cease, 
 Yet will not cease from sin ; 
 We want all pleasant ends, but will use no harsh means ; 
 
 We do not what we ought, 
 What we ought not, we do, 
 And lean upon the thought 
 That chance will bring us through ; 
 But our own acts, for good or ill, are mightier powers. 
 
 Yet, even when man forsakes 
 All sin, — is just, is pure, 
 Abandons all which makes 
 His welfare insecure, — 
 Other existences there are, that clash with ours. 
 
 Like us, the lightning-fires 
 Love to have scope and play ; 
 The stream, like us, desires 
 An unimpeded way ; 
 Like us, the Libyan wind delights to roam at large. 
 
 Streams will not curb their pride 
 The just man not to entomb, 
 Nor lightnings go aside 
 To give his virtues room ; 
 Nor is that wind less rough which blows a good man's barge. 
 
452 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Nature, with equal mind, 
 Sees all her sons at play ; 
 Sees man control the wind, 
 The wind sweep man away ; 
 Allows the proudly-riding and the foundering bark. 
 
 And, lastly, though of ours 
 No weakness spoil our lot. 
 Though the non-human powers 
 Of Nature harm us not. 
 The ill deeds of other men make often oiw life dark. 
 
 What were the wise man's plan ? — 
 Through this sharp, toil-set hfe, 
 To work as best he can. 
 And win what's won by strife. — 
 But we an easier way to cheat our pains have found. 
 
 Scratch'd by a fall, with moans 
 As children of weak age 
 Lend hfe to the dumb stones 
 Whereon to vent their rage. 
 And bend their little fists, and rate the senseless ground ; 
 
 So, loath to suffer mute. 
 We, peopling the void air, 
 Make Gods to whom to impute 
 The ills we ought to bear ; 
 With God and Fate to rail at, suffering easily. 
 
 Yet grant — as sense long miss'd 
 Things that are now perceived, 
 And much may still exist 
 Which is not yet believed — 
 Grant that the world were fbll of Gods we cannot see ; 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 453 
 
 All things the world which fill 
 Of but one stuff are spun, 
 That we who rail are still, 
 With what we rail at, one ; 
 One with the o'erlabour'd Power that through the breadth 
 and length 
 
 Of earth, and air, and sea. 
 In men, and plants, and stones, 
 Hath toil perpetually. 
 And travails, pants, and moans ; 
 Fain would do all things well, but sometimes fails in strength. 
 
 And patiently exact 
 This universal God 
 Alike to any act 
 Proceeds at any nod, 
 And quietly declaims the cursings of himself. 
 
 This is not what man hates, 
 Yet he can curse but this. 
 Harsh Gods and hostile Fates 
 Are dreams ! this only is — 
 Is everywhere ; sustains the wise, the foolish elf- 
 
 Nor only, in the intent 
 To attach blame elsewhere, 
 Do we at will invent 
 Stern Powers who make their care 
 To embitter human life, malignant Deities; 
 
 But, next, we would reverse 
 The scheme ourselves have spun. 
 And what we made to curse 
 We now would lean upon, 
 And feign kind Gods who perfect what man vainly tries. 
 
454 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Look, the world tempts our eye, 
 And we w^ould know it all ! 
 We map the starry sky, 
 We mine this earthen ball. 
 We measure the sea-tides, we number the sea-sands; 
 
 We scrutinise the dates 
 Of long-past human things, 
 The bounds of effaced states. 
 The lines of deceased kings ; 
 We search out dead men's words, and works of dead men's 
 hands ; 
 
 AVe shut our eyes, and muse 
 How our own minds are made, 
 What springs of thought they use, 
 How righten'd, how betray'd — 
 And spend our wit to name what most employ unnamed. 
 
 But still, as we proceed 
 ■ The mass swells more and more 
 Of volumes yet to read, 
 Of secrets yet to explore. 
 Our hair grows grey, our eyes are dimm'd, our heat is tamed ; 
 
 We rest our faculties, 
 And thus address the Gods : 
 " True science if there is, 
 It stays in your abodes ! 
 Man's measures cannot mete the immeasurable All 
 
 "You only can take in 
 The world's immense design. 
 Our desperate search was sin. 
 Which henceforth we resign, 
 Sure only that your mind sees all things which befal." 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 455 
 
 Fools ! That in man's brief term 
 He cannot all things view, 
 Affords no ground to affirm 
 That there are Gods who do ; 
 Nor does being weary prove that he has where to rest. 
 
 Again. — Our youthful blood 
 Claims rapture as its right ; 
 The world, a rolling flood 
 Of newness and delight, 
 Draws in the enamour'd gazer to its shining breast ; 
 
 Pleasure, to our hot grasp. 
 Gives flowers, after flowers ; 
 With passionate warmth we clasp 
 Hand after hand in ours ; 
 Now do we soon perceive how fast our youth is spent. 
 
 At once our eyes grow clear ! 
 We see, in blank dismay, 
 Year posting after year. 
 Sense after sense decay ; 
 Our shivering heart is mined by secret discontent ; 
 
 Yet still, in spite of truth, 
 In spite of hopes entomb'd. 
 That longing of our youth 
 Burns ever unconsumed, 
 Still hungrier for delight as delights grow more rare. 
 
 W^e pause ; we hush our heart, 
 And thus address the Gods : 
 "The world hath fail'd to impart 
 The joy our youth forebodes, 
 Fail'd to fill up the void which in our breasts we bear. 
 
4S6 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 '' Changeful till now, we still 
 Look'd on to something new ; 
 Let us, \vith changeless will. 
 Henceforth look on to you, 
 To find with you the joy we in vain here require !" 
 
 Fools ! That so often here 
 Happiness mock'd our prayer, 
 I think, might make us fear 
 A like event elsewhere ; 
 Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate desire. 
 
 And yet, for those who know 
 Themselves, who wisely take 
 Their way through life, and bow 
 . ' To what they cannot break. 
 Why should I say that life need yield but moderate bliss? 
 
 Shall we, with temper spoil'd, 
 Health sapp'd by living ill, 
 And judgment all embroil'd 
 By sadness and self-will, 
 Shall we judge what for man is not true bliss or is ? 
 
 Is it so small a thing 
 To have enjoy'd the sun, 
 To have lived light in the spring. 
 To have loved, to have thought, to have done ; 
 To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes- 
 
 That we must feign a bliss 
 Of doubtful future date. 
 And, while we dream on this, 
 Lose all our present state. 
 And relegate to worlds yet distant our rejiose ? 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 457 
 
 Not much, I know, you prize 
 What pleasures may be had. 
 Who look on life with eyes 
 Estranged, like mine, and sad; 
 And yet the village-churl feels the truth more than you, 
 
 Who's loath to leave this life 
 Which to him little yields — 
 His hard-task'd sunburnt wife. 
 His often-labour'd fields. 
 The boors with whom he talk'd, the country-spots he knew. 
 
 But thou, because thou hear'st 
 Men scoff at Heaven and Fate, 
 Because the Gods thou fear'st 
 Fail to make blest thy state, 
 Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are ! 
 
 I say : Fear not ! Life still 
 Leaves human effort scope. 
 But, since life teems with ill, 
 Nurse no extravagant hope ; 
 Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair ! 
 
 A long pause. At the end of it the notes of a harp 
 beloiv are again heard, and Callicles sings : — 
 
 Far, far from here. 
 The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay 
 Among the green Illyrian hills ; and there 
 The sunshine in the happy glens is fair. 
 And by the sea, and in the brakes. 
 The grass is cool, the sea-side air 
 Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers 
 More virginal and sweet than ours. 
 
45S DRAMATIC TOEMS 
 
 And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes, 
 Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia, 
 Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore, 
 In breathless quiet, after all their ills ; 
 Nor do they see their country, nor the place 
 Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, 
 Nor the unhappy palace of their race, 
 Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. 
 
 There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes ! 
 They had stay'd long enough to see. 
 In Thebes, the billow of calamity 
 Over their own dear children roll'd, 
 Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, 
 For years, they sitting helpless in their home, 
 A grey old man and woman ; yet of old 
 The Gods had to their marriage come, 
 And at the banquet all the Muses sang. 
 
 Therefore they did not end their days 
 In sight of blood; but were rapt, far away, 
 To where the west-wind plays, 
 And murmurs of the Adriatic come 
 ' To those untrodden mountain-lawns ; and there 
 Placed safely in changed forms, the pair 
 Wholly forget their first sad life, and home, 
 And all that Theban woe, and stray 
 For ever through the glens, placid and dumb. 
 
 Enipedocles 
 
 That was my harp-player again ! — where is he ? 
 Down by the stream ? 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 459 
 
 Pausanias 
 
 Yes, Master, in the wood. 
 
 E7}ipedocles 
 
 He ever loved the Theban story well ! 
 But the day wears. Go now, Pausanias, 
 For I must be alone. Leave me one mule ; 
 Take down with thee the rest to Catana. 
 And for young Callicles, thank him from me ; 
 Tell him, I never fail'd to love his lyre — 
 But he must follow me no more to-night. 
 
 Pausanias 
 Thou wilt return to-morrow to the city ? 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Either to-morrow or some other day, 
 
 In the sure revolutions of the world, 
 
 Good friend, I shall revisit Catana. 
 
 I have seen many cities in my time, 
 
 Till mine eyes ache with the long spectacle, 
 
 And I shall doubtless see them all again ; 
 
 Thou know'st me for a wanderer from of old. 
 
 Meanwhile, stay me not now. Farewell, Pausanias ! 
 
 He departs on his 7vay up the mountain. 
 
 Pausanias {alone) 
 
 I dare not urge him further — he must go; 
 
 But he is strangely wrought ! — I will speed back 
 
 And bring Peisianax to him from the city ; 
 
 His counsel could once soothe him. But, Apollo ! 
 
46o DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 How his brow lighten'd as the music rose ! 
 Callicles must wait here, and play to him ; 
 I saw him through the chestnuts far below, 
 Just since, down at the stream. — Ho ! Callicles ! 
 
 He descends, caili?ig. 
 
 ACT II 
 Eventing. The Summit of Etna. 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 Alone ! — 
 On this charr'd, blacken'd, melancholy waste, 
 Crown'd by the awful peak, Etna's great mouth. 
 Round which the sullen vapour rolls — alone ! 
 Pausanias is far hence, and that is well. 
 For I must henceforth speak no more with man 
 He hath his lesson too, and that debt's paid ; 
 And the good, learned, friendly, quiet man. 
 May bravelier front his life, and in himself 
 Find henceforth energy and heart. But I — 
 The weary man, the banish'd citizen, 
 Whose banishment is not his greatest ill, 
 AVhose weariness no energy can reach. 
 And for whose hurt courage is not the cure — 
 What should I do with life and living more ? 
 
 No, thou art come too late, Empedocles ! 
 And the world hath the day, and must break thee. 
 Not thou the world. With men thou canst not live. 
 Their thoughts, their ways, their wishes, are not thine ; 
 And being lonely thou art miserable. 
 For something has impair'd thy spirit's strength. 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 461 
 
 And dried its self-sufficing fount of joy. 
 
 Thou canst not live with men nor with thyself — 
 
 O sage ! O sage ! — Take then the one way left ; 
 
 And turn thee to the elements, thy friends, 
 
 Thy well-tried friends, thy willing ministers, . 
 
 And say : Ye helpers, hear Empedocles, 
 
 Who asks this final service at your hands ! 
 
 Before the sophist-brood hath overlaid 
 
 The last spark of man's consciousness with words — 
 
 Ere quite the being of man, ere quite the world 
 
 Be disarray'd of their divinity — 
 
 Before the soul lose all her solemn joys, 
 
 And awe be dead, and hope impossible, 
 
 And the soul's deep eternal night come on — 
 
 Receive me, hide me, quench me, take me home ! 
 
 He advajices to the edge of the crater. Smoke 
 and fire break forth with a loud ?wise^ a?id 
 Callicles is heard beloiv si?iging : — 
 
 The lyre's voice is lovely everywhere ; 
 In the court of Gods, in the city of men. 
 And in the lonely rock-strewn mountain-glen, 
 In the still mountain air. 
 
 Only to Typho it sounds hatefully ; 
 
 To Typho only, the rebel o'erthrown. 
 
 Through whose heart Etna drives her roots of stone, 
 
 To imbed them in the sea. 
 
 Wherefore dost thou groan so loud ? 
 Wherefore do thy nostrils flash, 
 Through the dark night, suddenly, 
 Typho, such red jets of flame ? — 
 Is thy tortured heart still proud ? 
 
462 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 Is thy fire-scathed arm still rash ? 
 
 Still alert thy stone-crush'd frame? 
 
 Doth thy fierce soul still deplore 
 
 Thine ancient rout by the Cilician hills, 
 
 And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore ? ^^ 
 
 Do thy bloodshot eyes still weep 
 
 The fight which crown'd thine ills, 
 
 Thy last mischance on this Sicilian deep ? 
 
 Hast thou sworn, in thy sad lair. 
 
 Where erst the strong sea-currents suck'd thee down, 
 
 Never to cease to writhe, and try to rest, 
 
 Letting the sea-stream wander through thy hair? 
 
 That thy groans, Hke thunder prest, 
 
 Begin to roll, and almost drown 
 
 The sweet notes whose lulling spell 
 
 Gods and the race of mortals love so well, 
 
 When through thy caves thou hearest music swell ? 
 
 But an awful pleasure bland 
 
 Spreading o'er the Thunderer's face, 
 
 When the sound climbs near his seat, 
 
 The Olympian council sees ; 
 
 As he lets his lax right hand, 
 
 Which the lightnings doth embrace. 
 
 Sink upon his mighty knees. 
 
 And the eagle, at the beck 
 
 Of the appeasing, gracious harmony, 
 
 Droops all his sheeny, brown, deep-feather'd neck, 
 
 Nestling nearer to Jove's feet ; 
 
 While o'er his sovran eye 
 
 The curtains of the blue films slowly meet 
 
 And the white Olympus-peaks 
 
 Rosily brighten, and the soothed Gods smile 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 463 
 
 At one another from their golden chairs, 
 
 And no one round the charmed circle speaks. 
 
 Only the loved Hebe bears 
 
 The cup about, whose draughts beguile 
 
 Pain and care, with a dark store 
 
 Of fresh-pull'd violets wreathed and nodding o'er ; 
 
 And her flush'd feet glow on the marble floor. 
 
 Empedocles 
 
 He fables, yet speaks truth ! 
 
 The brave, impetuous heart yields everywhere 
 
 To the subtle, contriving head ; 
 
 Great qualities are trodden down. 
 
 And littleness united 
 
 Is become invincible. 
 
 These rumblings are not Typho's groans, I know ! 
 
 These angry smoke-bursts 
 
 Are not the passionate breath 
 
 Of the mountain-crush'd, tortured, intractable Titan 
 
 king- 
 But over all the world 
 What suffering is there not seen 
 Of plainness oppress'd by cunning, 
 As the well-counsell'd Zeus oppress'd 
 That self-helping son of earth ! 
 What anguish of greatness, 
 Rail'd and hunted from the world. 
 Because its simplicity rebukes 
 This envious, miserable age ! 
 
 I am weary of it. 
 
 — Lie there, ye ensigns 
 
 Of my unloved preeminence 
 
464 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 In an age like this ! 
 
 Among a people of children, 
 
 Who throng'd me in their cities, 
 
 Who worshipp'd me in their houses, 
 
 And ask'd, not wisdom. 
 
 But drugs to charm with, 
 
 But spells to mutter — 
 
 All the fool's-armoury of magic ! — Lie there, 
 
 My golden circlet, 
 
 My purple robe ! 
 
 Callicles {fro7?i below) 
 
 As the sky-brightening south-wind clears the day, 
 And makes the mass'd clouds roll, 
 The music of the lyre blows away 
 The clouds which wrap the soul. 
 
 Oh ! that Fate had let me see 
 
 That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre, 
 
 That famous, final victory. 
 
 When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire ; 
 
 When, from far Parnassus' side, 
 Young Apollo, all the pride 
 Of the Phrygian flutes to tame. 
 To the Phrygian highlands came ; 
 Where the long green reed-beds sway 
 In the rippled waters grey 
 Of that solitary lake 
 Where Maeander's springs are born ; 
 Whence the ridged pine-wooded roots 
 Of Messogis westward break. 
 Mounting westward, high and higher. 
 There was held the famous strife ; 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 465 
 
 There the Phrygian brought his flutes, 
 
 And Apollo brought his lyre ; 
 
 And, when now the westering sun 
 
 Touch'd the hills, the strife was done. 
 
 And the attentive Muses said : 
 
 " Marsyas, thou art vanquished ! " 
 
 Then Apollo's minister 
 
 Hang'd upon a branching fir 
 
 Marsyas, that unhappy Faun, 
 
 And began to whet his knife. 
 
 But the Maenads, who were there, 
 
 Left their friend, and with robes flowing 
 
 In the wind, and loose dark hair 
 
 O'er their polish'd bosoms blowing, 
 
 Each her ribbon'd tambourine 
 
 Flinging on the mountain-sod. 
 
 With a lovely frighten'd mien 
 
 Came about the youthful God. 
 
 But he turn'd his beauteous face 
 
 Haughtily another way. 
 
 From the grassy sun-warm 'd place . 
 
 Where in proud repose he lay, 
 
 With one arm over his head. 
 
 Watching how the whetting sped. 
 
 But aloof, on the lake-strand. 
 Did the young Olympus stand. 
 Weeping at his master's end ; 
 For the Faun had been his friend. 
 For he taught him how to sing, 
 And he taught him flute-playing. 
 Many a morning had they gone 
 To the glimmering mountain-lakes, 
 2 H 
 
466 DRAMATIC I'OEMS 
 
 And had torn up by the roots 
 
 The tall crested water-reeds 
 
 ^^'ith long plumes and soft brown seeds, 
 
 And had carved them into flutes, 
 
 Sitting on a tabled stone 
 
 Where the shoreward ripple breaks. 
 
 And he taught him how to please 
 
 The red-snooded Phrygian girls, 
 
 AVhom the summer evening sees 
 
 Flashing in the dance's whirls 
 
 Underneath the starlit trees 
 
 In the mountain-villages. 
 
 Therefore now Olympus stands, 
 
 At his master's piteous cries 
 
 Pressing fast with both his hands 
 
 His white garment to his eyes, 
 
 Not to see Apollo's scorn ; — 
 
 Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun ! ah, poor Faun ! 
 
 Einpedocles 
 
 And lie thou there, 
 IVIy laurel bough ! 
 
 Scornful Apollo's ensign, lie thou there ! 
 Though thou hast been my shade in the world's heat- 
 Though I have loved thee, lived in honouring thee — 
 Yet lie thou there, 
 My laurel bough ! 
 
 I am weary of thee. 
 
 I am weary of the solitude 
 
 Where he who bears thee must abide — 
 
 Of the rocks of Parnassus, 
 
 Of the rocks of Delphi, 
 
EMrEDOCLES ON ETNA 467 
 
 Of the moonlit peaks, and the caves. 
 
 Thou guardest them, Apollo ! 
 
 Over the grave of the slain Pytho, 
 
 Though young, intolerably severe ! 
 
 Thou keepest aloof the profane, 
 
 But the solitude oppresses thy votary ! 
 
 The jars of men reach him not in thy valley — 
 
 But can life reach him ? 
 
 Thou fencest him from the multitude — 
 
 Who will fence him from himself? 
 
 He hears nothing but the cry of the torrents, 
 
 And the beating of his own heart. 
 
 The air is thin, the veins swell. 
 
 The temples tighten and throb there — 
 
 Air ! air ! 
 
 Take thy bough, set me free from my solitude ; 
 I have been enough alone ! 
 
 Where shall thy votary fly then ? back to men ? — 
 
 But they will gladly welcome him once more, 
 
 And help him to unbend his too tense thought, 
 
 And rid him of the presence of himself, 
 
 And keep their friendly chatter at his ear, 
 
 And haunt him, till the absence from himself. 
 
 That other torment, grow unbearable ; 
 
 And he will fly to solitude again, 
 
 And he will find its air too keen for him. 
 
 And so change back ; and many thousand times 
 
 Be miserably bandied to and fro 
 
 Like a sea-wave, betwixt the world and thee, 
 
 Thou young, implacable God ! and only death 
 
 Can cut his oscillations short, and so 
 
 Bring him to poise. There is no other way. 
 
468 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 And yet what days were those, Parmenides ! 
 
 When we were young, when we could number friends 
 
 In all the Italian cities like ourselves. 
 
 When with elated hearts we join'd your train. 
 
 Ye Sun-born Virgins ! on the road of truth. ^-^ 
 
 Then we could still enjoy, then neither thought 
 
 Nor outward things were closed and dead to us ; 
 
 But we received the shock of mighty thoughts 
 
 On simple minds with a pure natural joy ; 
 
 And if the sacred load oppress'd our brain, 
 
 We had the power to feel the pressure eased, 
 
 The brow unbound, the thoughts flow free again, 
 
 In the delightful commerce of the world. 
 
 We had not lost our balance then, nor grown 
 
 Thought's slaves, and dead to every natural joy. 
 
 The smallest thing could give us pleasure then — ■ 
 
 The sports of the country-people, 
 
 A flute-note from the woods. 
 
 Sunset over the sea ; 
 
 Seed-time and harvest. 
 
 The reapers in the corn, 
 
 The vinedresser in his vineyard, 
 
 The village-girl at her wheel. 
 
 Fulness of life and power of feeling, ye 
 
 Are for the happy, for the souls at ease, 
 
 AVho dwell on a firm basis of content ! 
 
 But he, who has outlived his prosperous days — 
 
 But he, whose youth fell on a different world 
 
 From that on which his exiled age is thrown — 
 
 Whose mind was fed on other food, was train'd 
 
 By other rules than are in vogue to-day — 
 
 Whose habit of thought is fix'd, who will not change, 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 469 
 
 But, in a world he loves not, must subsist 
 
 In ceaseless opposition, be the guard 
 
 Of his own breast, fettered to what he guards, 
 
 That the world win no mastery over him 
 
 Who has no friend, no fellow left, not one ; 
 Who has no minute's breathing space allow'd 
 
 To nurse his dwindling faculty of joy 
 
 Joy and the outward world must die to him, 
 As they are dead to me. 
 
 A long pause, during ivhich Empedocles remains 
 motionless, plunged in thought. The flight deepe?is. 
 He moves forivard and gazes round him, and 
 proceeds : — 
 
 And you, ye stars. 
 
 Who slowly begin to marshal. 
 
 As of old, in the fields of heaven. 
 
 Your distant, melancholy lines I 
 
 Have you, too, survived yourselves ? 
 
 Are you, too, what I fear to become ? 
 
 You, too, once lived ; 
 
 You too moved joyfully 
 
 Among august companions. 
 
 In an older world, peopled by Gods, 
 
 In a mightier order. 
 
 The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons of Heaven. 
 
 But now, ye kindle 
 
 Your lonely, cold-shining lights, 
 
 Unwilling lingerers 
 
 In the heavenly wilderness, 
 
 For a younger, ignoble world ; 
 
 And renew, by necessity. 
 
 Night after night your courses, 
 
470 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 In echoing, unnear'd silence, 
 Above a race you know not — 
 Uncaring and undelighted. 
 Without friend and without home ; 
 Weary Hke us, though not 
 Weary with our weariness. 
 
 No, no, ye stars ! there is no death with you, 
 No languor, no decay ! languor and death. 
 They are with me, not you ! ye are alive — 
 Ye, and the pure dark ether where ye ride 
 Brilliant above me ! And thou, fiery world. 
 That sapp'st the vitals of this terrible mount 
 Upon whose charr'd and quaking crust I stand — 
 Thou, too, brimmest with life ! — the sea of cloud, 
 That heaves its white and billowy vapours up 
 To moat this isle of ashes from the world, 
 Lives ; and that other fainter sea, far down. 
 O'er whose lit floor a road of moonbeams leads 
 To Etna's Liparean sister-fires 
 And the long dusky line of Italy — 
 That mild and luminous floor of waters lives. 
 With held-in joy swelling its heart ; I only. 
 Whose spring of hope is dried, whose spirit has fail'd, 
 I, who have not, like these, in solitude 
 Maintain'd courage and force, and in myself 
 ^ Nursed an immortal vigour — I alone 
 Am dead to life and joy, therefore I read 
 In all things my own deadness. 
 
 A long silence. He co?iti?iues . 
 
 Oh, that I could glow like this mountain ! 
 
 Oh, that my heart bounded with the swell of the sea ! 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 471 
 
 Oh, that my soul were full of light as the stars ! 
 Oh, that it brooded over the world like the air ! 
 
 But no, this heart will glow no more ; thou art 
 A living man no more, Empedocles ! 
 Nothing but a devouring flame of thought — 
 But a naked, eternally restless mind ! 
 
 Affer a pause : — 
 To the elements it came from 
 
 Everything will return — 
 
 Our bodies to earth. 
 
 Our blood to water. 
 
 Heat to fire. 
 
 Breath to air. 
 
 They were well born, they will be well entomb'd — 
 
 But mind? . . . 
 
 And we might gladly share the fruitful stir 
 
 Down in our mother earth's miraculous womb ; 
 
 Well would it be 
 
 With what roU'd of us in the stormy main ; 
 
 We might have joy, blent with the all-bathing air, 
 
 Or with the nimble, radiant life of fire. 
 
 But mind, but thought — 
 
 If these have been the master part of us — 
 
 Where will they find their parent element ? 
 
 What will receive them, who will call theju home ? 
 
 But we shall still be in them, and they in us, 
 
 And we shall be the strangers of the world, 
 
 And they will be our lords, as they are now ; 
 
 And keep us prisoners of our consciousness. 
 
 And never let us clasp and feel the All 
 
 But through their forms, and modes, and stifling veils. 
 
472 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 And we shall be unsatisfied as now ; 
 
 And we shall feel the agony of thirst, 
 
 The ineffable longing for the life of life 
 
 Baffled for ever ; and still thought and mind 
 
 Will hurry us with them on their homeless march, 
 
 Over the unallied unopening earth, 
 
 Over the unrecognising sea ; while air 
 
 Will blow us fiercely back to sea and earth. 
 
 And fire repel us from its living waves. 
 
 And then we shall unwillingly return 
 
 Back to this meadow of calamity, 
 
 This uncongenial place, this human life ; 
 
 And in our individual human state 
 
 Go through the sad probation all again, 
 
 To see if we will poise our life at last, 
 
 To see if we will now at last be true 
 
 To our own only true, deep-buried selves. 
 
 Being one with which we are one with the whole world ; 
 
 Or whether we will once more fall away 
 
 Into some bondage of the flesh or mind. 
 
 Some slough of sense, or some fantastic maze 
 
 Forged by the imperious lonely thinking-power. 
 
 And each succeeding age in which we are born 
 
 Will have more peril for us than the last ; 
 
 Will goad our senses with a sharper spur. 
 
 Will fret our minds to an intenser play. 
 
 Will make ourselves harder to be discern'd. 
 
 And we shall struggle awhile, gasp and rebel — 
 
 And we shall fly for refuge to past times. 
 
 Their soul of unworn youth, their breath of greatness , 
 
 And the reality will pluck us back, 
 
 Knead us in its hot hand, and change our nature 
 
 And we shall feel our powers of effort flag, 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 473 
 
 And rally them for one last fight — and fail ; 
 And we shall sink in the impossible strife, 
 And be astray for ever. 
 
 Slave of sense 
 I have in no wise been ; — but slave of thought f . . . 
 And who can say : I have been always free, 
 Lived ever in the light of my own soul ? — 
 I cannot j I have lived in wrath and gloom, 
 Fierce, disputatious, ever at war with man. 
 Far from my own soul, far from warmth and hght / 
 But I have not grown easy in these bonds— 
 But I have not denied what bonds these were. 
 Yea, I take myself to witness, 
 That I have loved no darkness. 
 Sophisticated no truth, 
 Nursed no delusion, 
 Allow'd no fear ! 
 
 And therefore, O ye elements ! I know — 
 Ye know it too — it hath been granted me 
 Not to die wholly, not to be all enslaved. 
 I feel it in this hour. The numbing cloud 
 Mounts off my soul ; I feel it, I breathe free. 
 
 Is it but for a moment? 
 — Ah, boil up, ye vapours ! 
 Leap and roar, thou sea of fire ! 
 My soul glows to meet you. 
 Ere it flag, ere the mists 
 Of despondency and gloom 
 Rush over it again. 
 Receive me, save me ! 
 
 \He plunges itito the crater. 
 
474 DRAMATIC POEMS 
 
 C a Hides 
 
 {from I>e/fl7v) 
 
 Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, 
 Thick breaks the red flame ; 
 All Etna heaves fiercely 
 Her forest-clothed frame. 
 
 Not here, O Apollo ! 
 Are haunts meet for thee. 
 But, where Helicon breaks down 
 In cliff to the sea, 
 
 Where the moon-silver'd inlets 
 Send far their light voice 
 Up the still vale of Thisbe, 
 O speed, and rejoice ! 
 
 On the sward at the cliff-top 
 IJe strewn the white flocks, 
 On the cliff-side the pigeons 
 Roost deep in the rocks. 
 
 In the moonlight the shepherds, 
 Soft lull'd by the rills, 
 Lie wrapt in their blankets 
 Asleep on the hills. 
 
 — What forms are these coming 
 So white through the gloom ? 
 What garments out-glistening 
 The gold-flower'd broom ? 
 
EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 475 
 
 What sweet-breathing presence 
 Out-perfumes the thyme ? 
 What voices enrapture 
 The night's balmy prime? — 
 
 'Tis Apollo comes leading 
 His choir, the Nine. 
 — The leader is fairest, 
 But all are divine. 
 
 They are lost in the hollows ! 
 They stream up again ! 
 What seeks on this mountain 
 The glorified train ? — 
 
 They bathe on this mountain. 
 In the spring by their road ; 
 Then on to Olympus, 
 Their endless abode. 
 
 — Whose praise do they mention ? 
 Of what is it told ? — 
 What will be for ever ; 
 W^hat was from of old. 
 
 First hymn they the Father 
 Of all things ; and then, 
 The rest of immortals, 
 The action of men. 
 
 The day in his hotness, 
 The strife with the palm ; 
 The night in her silence. 
 The stars in their calm. 
 
LATER POEMS 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
 July 25, 1881. 
 
 ( The Day of Burial^ in the Abbey ^ of Arthur Penrhyn 
 Stanley, Dean of Westminster.) 
 
 What ! for a term so scant 
 Our shining visitant 
 Cheer'd us, and now is pass'd into the night ? 
 Couldst thou no better keep, O Abbey old, 
 The boon thy dedication-sign foretold, ^^-^ 
 The presence of that gracious inmate, light ? — 
 
 A child of light appear'd ; 
 Hither he came, late-born and long-desired, 
 
 And to men's hearts this ancient place endear'd j 
 What, is the happy glow so soon expired ? 
 
 — Rough was the winter eve ; 
 Their craft the fishers leave, 
 And down over the Thames the darkness drew. 
 
 One still lags last, and turns, and eyes the Pile 
 Huge in the gloom, across in Thorney Isle, 
 King Sebert's work, the wondrous Minster new. 
 
 — "ris Lambeth now, where then 
 They moor'd their boats among the bulrush stems ; 
 
 And that new Minster in the matted fen 
 The world-famed Abbey by the westering Thames. 
 
48o LATER POEMS 
 
 His mates are gone, and he 
 For mist can scarcely see 
 A strange wayfarer coming to his side — 
 
 Who bade him loose his boat, and fix his oar. 
 And row him straightway to the further shore, 
 And wait while he did there a space abide. 
 
 The fisher awed obeys, 
 That voice had note so clear of sweet command ; 
 
 Through pouring tide he pulls, and drizzling haze, 
 And sets his freight ashore on Thorney strand. 
 
 The Minster's outlined mass 
 Rose dim from the morass. 
 And thitherward the stranger took his way. 
 Lo, on a sudden all the Pile is bright ! 
 Nave, choir and transept glorified with light, 
 While tongues of fire on coign and carving play ! 
 
 And heavenly odours fair 
 Come streaming with the floods of glory in, 
 
 And carols float along the happy air. 
 As if the reign of joy did now begin. 
 
 Then all again is dark ; 
 And by the fisher's bark 
 The unknown passenger returning stands. 
 
 O Saxon fisher f thou hast had ivith thee 
 The fisher from the Lake of Galilee — 
 So saith he, blessing him with outspread hands ; 
 
 Then fades, but speaks the while : 
 At daivn thou to Kt?ig Sebert shall relate 
 
 Hoiv his St. Peter's Church in Thorney Isle 
 Peter^ his friend^ ivith light did consecrate. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY 481 
 
 Twelve hundred years and more 
 Along the holy floor 
 Pageants have pass'd, and tombs of mighty kings 
 Efface the humbler graves of Sebert's line, 
 And, as years sped, the minster-aisles divine 
 Grew used to the approach of Glory's wings. 
 
 Arts came, and arms, and law, 
 And majesty, and sacred form and fear ; 
 
 Only that primal guest the fisher saw, 
 Light, only light, was slow to reappear. 
 
 The Saviour's happy light. 
 Wherein at first was dight 
 His boon of life and immortality^ 
 
 In desert ice of subtleties was spent 
 Or drown'd in mists of childish wonderment, 
 Fond fancies here, there false philosophy ! 
 
 And harsh the temper grew 
 Of men with mind thus darken'd and astray ; 
 And scarce the boon of life could struggle 
 through, 
 For want of light which should the boon convey. 
 
 Yet in this latter time 
 The promise of the prime 
 Seem'd to come true at last, O Abbey old ! 
 
 It seem'd, a child of light did bring the dower 
 Foreshown thee in thy consecration-hour. 
 And in thy courts his shining freight unroll'd : 
 
 Bright wits, and instincts sure, 
 And goodness warm, and truth without alloy. 
 
 And temper sweet, and love of all things pure. 
 And joy in light, and power to spread the joy. 
 
 2 I 
 
482 LATER rOEMS 
 
 And on that countenance bright 
 Shone oft so high a light, 
 That to my mind there came how, long ago, 
 Lay on the hearth, amid a fiery ring. 
 The charm'd babe of the Eleusinian king — ^* 
 His nurse, the Mighty Mother, will'd it so. 
 
 Warm in her breast, by day. 
 He slumber'd, and ambrosia balm'd the child ; 
 But all night long amid the flames he lay, 
 Upon the hearth, and play'd with them, and smiled. 
 
 But once, at midnight deep, 
 His mother woke from sleep. 
 And saw her babe amidst the fire, and scream'd. 
 A sigh the Goddess gave, and with a frown 
 Pluck'd from the fire the child, and laid him down ; 
 Then raised her face, and glory round her stream'd. 
 
 The mourning-stole no more 
 Mantled her form, no more her head was bow'd ; 
 
 But raiment of celestial sheen she wore. 
 And beauty fill'd her, and she spake aloud : — 
 
 " O ignorant race of man ! 
 Achieve your good who can. 
 If your own hands the good begun undo ? 
 
 Had human cry not marr'd the work divine, 
 Immortal had I made this boy of mine ; 
 But now his head to death again is due 
 
 And I have now no power 
 Unto this pious household to repay 
 
 Their kindness shown me in my wandering 
 hour." 
 — She spake, and from the portal pass'd away. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY 4S3 
 
 The Boy his nurse forgot, 
 And bore a mortal lot. 
 Long since, his name is heard on earth no more. 
 In some chance battle on Cithaeron-side 
 The nursling of the Mighty Mother died, 
 And went where all his fathers went before. 
 
 — On thee too, in thy day 
 Of childhood, Arthur ! did some check have power, 
 That, radiant though thou wert, thou couldst 
 but stay, 
 Bringer of heavenly light, a human hour ? 
 
 Therefore our happy guest 
 Knew care, and knew unrest, 
 And weakness warn'd him, and he fear'd decline. 
 And in the grave he laid a cherish'd wife. 
 And men ignoble harass'd him with strife, 
 And deadly airs his strength did undermine. 
 
 Then from his Abbey fades 
 The sound beloved of his victorious breath ; 
 
 And light's fair nursling stupor first invades, 
 And next the crowning impotence of death. 
 
 But hush ! This mournful strain. 
 Which would of death complain. 
 The oracle forbade, not ill-inspired. — 
 
 That Pair, whose head did plan, whose hands did 
 
 forge 
 The Temple in the pure Parnassian gorge, ^^ 
 Finish'd their work, and then a meed required. 
 
 "Seven days," the God replied, 
 " Live happy, then expect your perfect meed !" 
 
 Quiet in sleep, the seventh night, they died. 
 Death, death was judged the boon supreme indeed. 
 
484 LATER rOEMS 
 
 And truly he who here 
 Hath run his bright career, 
 And served men nobly, and acceptance found, 
 
 And borne to light and right his witness high, 
 What could he better wish than then to die, 
 And wait the issue, sleeping underground ? 
 
 Why should he pray to range 
 Down the long age of truth that ripens slow ; 
 
 And break his heart with all the baffling change, 
 And all the tedious tossing to and fro ? 
 
 For this and that way swings 
 The flux of mortal things. 
 Though moving inly to one far-set goal. — 
 
 What had our Arthur gain'd, to stop and see. 
 After light's term, a term of cecity, 
 A Church once large and then grown strait in soul ? 
 
 To live, and see arise. 
 Alternating with wisdom's too short reign, 
 Folly revived, re-furbish'd sophistries. 
 And pullulating rites externe and vain ? 
 
 Ay me ! 'Tis deaf, that ear 
 Which joy'd my voice to hear ; 
 Yet would I not disturb thee from thy tomb, 
 
 Thus sleeping in thine Abbey's friendly shade, 
 And the rough waves of life for ever laid ! 
 I would not break thy rest, nor change thy doom. 
 
 Even as my father, thou — 
 Even as that loved, that well-recorded friend — 
 
 Hast thy commission done ; ye both may now 
 Wait for the leaven to work, the let to end. 
 
GEIST'S GRAVE ^g^ 
 
 And thou, O Abbey grey ! 
 Predestined to the ray 
 
 By this dear guest over thy precinct shed 
 
 Fear not but that thy hght once more shall burn, 
 Once more thine immemorial gleam return. 
 Though sunk be now this bright, this gracious head ! 
 
 Let but the light appear 
 And thy transfigured walls be touch'd with flame— 
 
 Our Arthur will again be present here, 
 Again from lip to lip will pass his name. 
 
 GEIST'S GRAVE 
 
 Four years ! — and didst thou stay above 
 The ground, which hides thee now, but four ? 
 And all that life, and all that love, 
 Were crowded, Geist ! into no more ? 
 
 Only four years those winning ways. 
 Which make me for thy presence yearn, 
 Call'd us to pet thee or to praise. 
 Dear little friend ! at every turn ? 
 
 That loving heart, that patient soul. 
 Had they indeed no longer span. 
 To run their course, and reach their goal, 
 And read their homily to man ? 
 
 That liquid, melancholy eye. 
 
 From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs 
 
 Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry,-'^ 
 
 The sense of tears in mortal things 
 
 Sunt lacrim(£ rerum ! 
 
486 LATER POEMS 
 
 That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled 
 
 By spirits gloriously gay. 
 
 And temper of heroic mould — 
 
 What, was four years their whole short day ? 
 
 Yes, only four ! — and not the course 
 Of all the centuries yet to come, 
 And not the infinite resource 
 Of Nature, with her countless sum 
 
 Of figures, with her fulness vast 
 Of new creation evermore. 
 Can ever quite repeat the past. 
 Or just thy little self restore. 
 
 Stern law of every mortal lot ! 
 
 Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, 
 
 And builds himself I know not what 
 
 Of second life I know not where. 
 
 But thou, when struck thine hour to go, 
 On us, who stood despondent by, 
 A meek last glance of love didst throw. 
 And humbly lay thee down to die. 
 
 Yet would we keep thee in our heart — 
 Would fix our favourite on the scene. 
 Nor let thee utterly depart 
 And be as if thou ne'er hadst been. 
 
 And so there rise these lines of verse 
 On lips that rarely form them now ; 
 While to each other we rehearse : 
 Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou ! 
 
GEIST'S GRAVE 487 
 
 We stroke thy broad brown paws again, 
 We bid thee to thy vacant chair, 
 We greet thee by the window-pane, 
 We hear thy scuffle on the stair. 
 
 We see the flaps of thy large ears 
 Quick raised to ask which way we go ; 
 Crossing the frozen lake, appears 
 Thy small black figure on the snow ! 
 
 Nor to us only art thou dear 
 Who mourn thee in thine English home ; 
 Thou hast thine absent master's tear, 
 Dropt by the far Australian foam. 
 
 Thy memory lasts both here and there. 
 And thou shalt live as long as we. 
 And after that — thou dost not care ! 
 In us was all the world to thee. 
 
 Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame. 
 Even to a date beyond our own 
 We strive to carry down thy name. 
 By mounded turf, and graven stone. 
 
 We lay thee, close within our reach. 
 Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, 
 Between the holly and the beech. 
 Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form, 
 
 Asleep, yet lending half an ear 
 To travellers on the Portsmouth road ; — 
 There build we thee, O guardian dear, 
 Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode ! 
 
488 LATER POEMS 
 
 Then some, who through this garden pass, 
 When we too, Hke thyself, are clay. 
 Shall see thy grave upon the grass, 
 And stop before the stone, and say : 
 
 People who lived here long ago 
 
 Did by this stone, it seems, intend 
 
 To name for ftiture times to know 
 
 The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend. 
 
 POOR MATTHIAS 
 
 Poor Matthias ! — Found him lying 
 Fall'n beneath his perch and dying ? 
 Found him stiff, you say, though warm- 
 All convulsed his little form ? 
 Poor canary ! many a year 
 Well he knew his mistress dear ; 
 Now in vain you call his name, 
 Vainly raise his rigid frame, 
 Vainly warm him in your breast. 
 Vainly kiss his golden crest. 
 Smooth his ruffled plumage fine. 
 Touch his trembling beak with wine. 
 One more gasp — it is the end ! 
 Dead and mute our tiny friend ! 
 — Songster thou of many a year, 
 Now thy mistress brings thee here. 
 Says, it fits that I rehearse. 
 Tribute due to thee, a verse, 
 Meed for daily song of yore 
 Silent now for evermore. 
 
POOR MATTHIAS 489 
 
 Poor Matthias ! Wouldst thou have 
 More than pity ? claim'st a stave ? 
 — Friends more near us than a bird 
 We dismiss'd without a word. 
 Rover, with the good brown head, 
 Great Atossa, they are dead ; 
 Dead, and neither prose nor rhyme 
 Tells the praises of their prime. 
 Thou didst know them old and grey, 
 Know them in their sad decay. 
 Thou hast seen Atossa sage 
 Sit for hours beside thy cage ; 
 Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird, 
 Flutter, chirp — she never stirr'd ! 
 What were now these toys to her? 
 Down she sank amid her fur ; 
 Eyed thee with a soul resign'd — 
 And thou deemedst cats were kind ! 
 — Cruel, but composed and bland. 
 Dumb, inscrutable and grand. 
 So Tiberius might have sat. 
 Had Tiberius been a cat. 
 
 Rover died — Atossa too. 
 Less than they to us are you ! 
 Nearer human were their powers, 
 Closer knit their life with ours. 
 Hands had stroked them, which are cold. 
 Now for years, in churchyard mould ; 
 Comrades of our past were they, 
 Of that unreturning day. 
 Changed and aging, they and we 
 Dwelt, it seem'd, in sympathy. 
 
490 LATER POEMS 
 
 Alway from their presence broke 
 Somewhat which remembrance woke 
 Of the loved, the lost, the young — 
 Yet they died, and died unsung. 
 
 Geist came next, our little friend ; 
 Geist had verse to mourn his end. 
 Yes, but that enforcement strong 
 Which compell'd for Geist a song — 
 All that gay courageous cheer. 
 All that human pathos dear ; 
 Soul-fed eyes with suffering worn, 
 Pain heroically borne, 
 Faithful love in depth divine — 
 Poor Matthias, were they thine ? 
 
 Max and Kaiser we to-day 
 Greet upon the lawn at play ; 
 Max a dachshound without blot — 
 Kaiser should be, but is not. 
 Max, with shining yellow coat, 
 Prinking ears and dewlap throat — 
 Kaiser, with his collie face. 
 Penitent for want of race. 
 — Which may be the first to die, 
 Vain to augur, they or I ! 
 But, as age comes on, I know. 
 Poet's fire gets faint and low ; 
 If so be that travel they 
 First the inevitable way. 
 Much I doubt if they shall have 
 Dirge from me to crown their grave. 
 
 Yet, poor bird, thy tiny corse 
 Moves me, somehow, to remorse ; 
 
POOR MATTHIAS 491 
 
 Something haunts my conscience, brings 
 
 Sad, compunctious visitings. 
 
 Other favourites, dwelhng here, 
 
 Open Hved to us, and near ; 
 
 Well we knew when they were glad, 
 
 Plain we saw if they were sad, 
 
 Joy'd with them when they were gay. 
 
 Soothed them in their last decay ; 
 
 Sympathy could feel and show 
 
 Both in weal of theirs and woe. 
 
 Birds, companions more unknown, 
 Live beside us, but alone ; 
 Finding not, do all they can. 
 Passage from their souls to man. 
 Kindness we bestow, and praise. 
 Laud their plumage, greet their lays ; 
 Still, beneath their feather'd breast, 
 Stirs a history unexpress'd. 
 Wishes there, and feelings strong, 
 Incommunicably throng ; 
 What they want, we cannot guess, 
 Fail to track their deep distress — 
 Dull look on when death is nigh, 
 Note no change, and let them die. 
 Poor Matthias ! couldst thou speak, 
 What a tale of thy last week ! 
 Every morning did we pay 
 Stupid salutations gay, 
 Suited well to health, but how 
 Mocking, how incongruous now ! 
 Cake we offer'd, sugar, seed. 
 Never doubtful of thy need ; 
 
492 LATER POEMS 
 
 Praised, perhaps, thy courteous eye. 
 
 Praised thy golden livery. 
 
 Gravely thou the while, poor dear ! 
 
 Sat'st upon thy perch to hear, 
 
 Fixing with a mute regard 
 
 Us, thy human keepers hard, 
 
 Troubling, with our chatter vain, 
 
 Ebb of life, and mortal pain — 
 
 Us, unable to divine 
 
 Our companion's dying sign. 
 
 Or o'erpass the severing sea 
 
 Set betwixt ourselves and thee, 
 
 Till the sand thy feathers smirch 
 
 Fallen dying off thy perch ! 
 
 Was it, as the Grecian sings, 
 Birds were born the first of things, 
 Before the sun, before the wind, 
 Before the gods, before mankind, 
 Airy, ante-mundane throng — 
 Witness their unworldly song ! 
 Proof they give, too, primal powers. 
 Of a prescience more than ours — 
 Teach us, while they come and go, 
 AVhen to sail, and when to sow. 
 Cuckoo calling from the hill, 
 Swallow skimming by the mill. 
 Swallows trooping in the sedge. 
 Starlings swirling from the hedge, 
 Mark the seasons, map our year, 
 As they show and disappear. 
 But, with all this travail sage 
 Brought from that anterior age, 
 
POOR MATTHIAS 493 
 
 Goes an unreversed decree 
 Whereby strange are they and we , 
 Making want of theirs, and plan, 
 Indiscernible by man. 
 
 No, away with tales like these 
 Stol'n from Aristophanes ! ^^ 
 Does it, if we miss your mind, 
 Prove us so remote in kind ? 
 Birds ! w^e but repeat on you 
 What amongst ourselves we do. 
 Somewhat more or somewhat less, 
 'Tis the same unskilfulness. 
 What you feel, escapes our ken — 
 Know we more our fellow men ? 
 Human suffering at our side. 
 Ah, like yours is undescried ! 
 Human longings, human fears, 
 Miss our eyes and miss our ears. 
 Little helping, wounding much, 
 Dull of heart, and hard of touch. 
 Brother man's despairing sign 
 Who may trust us to divine ? 
 Who assure us, sundering powers 
 Stand not 'twixt his soul and ours ? 
 
 Poor Matthias ! See, thy end 
 What a lesson doth it lend ! 
 For that lesson thou shalt have. 
 Dead canary bird, a stave ! 
 Telling how, one stormy day, 
 Stress of gale and showers of spray 
 Drove my daughter small and me 
 Inland from the rocks and sea. 
 
494 LATER POEMS 
 
 Driv'n inshore, we follow down 
 Ancient streets of Hastings town — 
 Slowly thread them — when behold, 
 French canary-merchant old 
 Shepherding his flock of gold 
 In a low dim-lighted pen 
 Scann'd of tramps and fishermen ! 
 There a bird, high-coloured, fat. 
 Proud of port, though something squat- 
 Pursy, play'd-out Philistine — 
 Dazzled Nelly's youthful eyne. 
 But, far in, obscure, there stirr'd 
 On his perch a sprightlier bird, 
 Courteous-eyed, erect and slim ; 
 And I whisper'd : " Fix on him!'" 
 Home we brought him, young and fair, 
 Songs to trill in Surrey air. 
 Here Matthias sang his fill. 
 Saw the cedars of Pains Hill ; 
 Here he pour'd his little soul, 
 Heard the murmur of the Mole. 
 Eight in number now the years 
 He hath pleased our eyes and ears ; 
 Other favourites he hath known 
 Go, and now himself is gone. 
 — Fare thee well, companion dear ! 
 Fare for ever well, nor fear. 
 Tiny though thou art, to stray 
 Down the uncompanion'd way ! 
 We without thee, little friend. 
 Many years have not to spend ; 
 What are left, will hardly be 
 Better than we spent with thee. 
 
KAISER DEAD 495 
 
 KAISER DEAD 
 
 April 6, 1887. 
 
 What, Kaiser dead? The heavy news 
 Post-haste to Cobham calls the Muse, 
 From where in Farringford she brews 
 
 The ode sublime. 
 Or with Pen-bryn's bold bard pursues 
 
 A rival rhyme. 
 
 Kai's bracelet tail, Kai's busy feet, 
 
 Were known to all the village-street. 
 
 " What, poor Kai dead ? " say all I meet ; 
 
 " A loss indeed ! " 
 O for the croon pathetic, sweet. 
 
 Of Robin's reed ! ^^ 
 
 Six years ago I brought him down, 
 
 A baby dog, from London town ; 
 
 Round his small throat of black and brown 
 
 A ribbon blue. 
 And vouch'd by glorious renown 
 
 A dachshound true. 
 
 His mother, most majestic dame, 
 
 Of blood-unmix'd, from Potsdam came ; 
 
 And Kaiser's race we deem'd the same — 
 
 No lineage higher. 
 And so he bore the imperial name. 
 
 But ah, his sire ! 
 
 Soon, soon the days conviction bring. 
 The collie hair, the collie swing, 
 
496 LATER TOEMS 
 
 The tail's indomitable ring, 
 
 The eye's unrest — 
 
 The case was clear ; a mongrel thing 
 Kai stood confest. 
 
 But all those virtues, which commend 
 The humbler sort who serve and tend, 
 Were thine in store, thou faithful friend. 
 
 What sense, what cheer ! 
 To us, declining tow'rds our end, 
 
 A mate how dear ! 
 
 For Max, thy brother-dog, began 
 To flag, and feel his narrowing span. 
 And cold, besides, his blue blood ran, 
 
 Since, 'gainst the classes, 
 He heard, of late, the Grand Old Man 
 
 Incite the masses. 
 
 Yes, Max and we grew slow and sad ; 
 But Kai, a tireless shepherd-lad, 
 Teeming with plans, alert, and glad 
 
 In work or play. 
 Like sunshine went and came, and bade 
 
 Live out the day ! 
 
 Still, still I see the figure smart — 
 
 Trophy in mouth, agog to start. 
 
 Then, home return'd, once more depart ; 
 
 Or prest together 
 Against thy mistress, loving heart. 
 
 In winter weather. 
 
 I see the tail, like bracelet twirl'd, 
 In moments of disgrace uncurl'd, 
 
KAISER DEAD 497 
 
 Then at a pardoning word re-furl'd, 
 
 A conquering sign ; 
 Crying, " Come on, and range the world, 
 
 And never pine." 
 
 Thine eye was bright, thy coat it shone ; 
 Thou hadst thine errands, off and on ; 
 In joy thy last morn flew ; anon, 
 
 A fit ! All's over ; 
 And thou art gone where Geist hath gone, 
 
 And Toss, and Rover. 
 
 Poor Max, with downcast, reverent head, 
 Regards his brother's form outspread ; 
 Full well Max knows the friend is dead 
 
 Whose cordial talk, 
 And jokes in doggish language said, 
 
 Beguiled his walk. 
 
 And Glory, stretch'd at Burwood gate. 
 Thy passing by doth vainly wait ; 
 And jealous Jock, thy only hate. 
 
 The chiel from Skye, 
 Lets from his shaggy Highland pate 
 
 Thy memory die. 
 
 Well, fetch his graven collar fine, 
 And rub the steel, and make it shine, 
 And leave it round thy neck to twine, 
 
 Kai, in thy grave. 
 There of thy master keep that sign. 
 
 And this plain stave. 
 
 2 K 
 
NOTES 
 
NOTES 
 
 NOTE I, PAGE 2. 
 
 Sa7t' The Wide Prospect, and the Asian Fen. 
 
 The name Europe (Ei'pwttt;, the wide prospect) probably describes the 
 appearance of the European coast to the Greeks on the coast of Asia Minor 
 opposite. The name Asia, again, comes, it has been thought, from the 
 muddy fens of the rivers of Asia Minor, such as the Cayster or Mreander, 
 which struck the imagination of the Greeks living near them. 
 
 NOTE 2, PAGE 8. 
 
 Alyceriims. 
 
 "After Chephren, Mycerinus, son of Cheops, reigned over Egypt. He 
 abhorred his father's courses, and judged his subjects more justly than any 
 of their kings had done. — To him there came an oracle from the city of 
 Buto, to the effect that he was to live but six years longer, and to die in 
 the seventh year from that time." — Herodotus. 
 
 NOTE 3, PAGE 38. 
 
 Stagirius. 
 
 Stagirius was a young monk to whom St. Chrysostom addressed three 
 books, and of whom those books give an account. They will be found in 
 the first volume of the Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom 's works. 
 
 NOTE 4, PAGE 47. 
 
 Horatian Echo. 
 
 Written in 1847. Printed by permission of Mr. Arthur Galton, to 
 whom the Poem was given in 1S86 for publication in The Hobby Horse. 
 
502 NOTES 
 
 NOTE 5, PAGE 54. 
 
 That wayside inn 7ve left to-day. 
 
 Those who have been long familiar with the English Lake-Country will 
 find no difficulty in recalling, from the description in the text, the roadside 
 inn at Wythburn on the descent from Dunmail Raise towards Keswick ; 
 its sedentary landlord of thirty years ago, and the passage over the Wyth- 
 burn Fells to Watendlath. 
 
 NOTE 6, PAGE 65. 
 
 Sohrab and Rnstum. 
 
 The story of Sohrab and Rustum is told in Sir John Malcolm's History 
 of Persia, as follows : — 
 
 "The young Sohrab was the fruit of one of Rustum's early amours. 
 He had left his mother, and sought fame under the banners of Afrasiab, 
 whose armies he commanded, and soon obtained a renown beyond that of 
 all contemporary heroes but his father. He had carried death and dismay 
 into the ranks of the Persians, and had terrified the boldest warriors of that 
 country, before Rustum encountered him, which at last that hero resolved 
 to do, under a feigned name. They met three times. The first time they 
 parted by mutual consent, though Sohrab had the advantage ; the second, 
 the youth obtained a victory, but granted life to his unknown father ; 
 the third was fatal to Sohrab, who, when writhing in the pangs of death, 
 warned his conqueror to shun the vengeance that is inspired by parental 
 woes, and bade him dread the rage of the mighty Rustum, who must soon 
 learn that he had slain his son Sohrab. These words, we are told, were as 
 death to the aged hero ; and when he recovered from a trance, he called in 
 despair for proofs of what Sohrab had said. The afflicted and dying youth 
 tore open his mail, and showed his father a seal which his mother had 
 placed on his arm when she discovered to him the secret of his birth, and 
 bade him seek his father. The sight of his own signet rendered Rustum 
 quite frantic ; he cursed himself, attempting to put an end to his existence, 
 and was only prevented by the efforts of his expiring son. After Sohrab's 
 death, he burnt his tents and all his goods, and carried the corpse to 
 Seistan, where it was interred ; the army of Turan was, agreeably to the 
 last request of Sohrab, permitted to cross the Oxus unmolested. To recon- 
 cile us to the improbability of this tale, we are informed that Rustum could 
 have no idea his son was in existence. The mother of Sohrab had written 
 to him her child was a daughter, fearing to lose her darling infant if she 
 revealed the truth ; and Rustum, as before stated, fought under a feigned 
 name, an usage not uncommon in the chivalrous combats of those days." 
 
NOTES 503 
 
 NOTE 7, PAGE lOI. 
 
 Balder Dead. 
 
 " Balder the Good having iDcen tormented with terrible dreams, indicating 
 that his life was in great peril, communicated them to the assembled ^sir, 
 who resolved to conjure all things to avert from him the threatened danger.' 
 Then Frigga exacted an oath from fire and water, from iron, and all other 
 metals, as well as from stones, earths, diseases, beasts, birds, poisons, and 
 creepmg thmgs, that none of them would do any harm to Balder. When 
 this was done, it became a favourite pastime of the ^sir, at their meetings, 
 to get Balder to stand up and serve them as a mark, some hurling darts at 
 hnn, some stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle- 
 axes, for do what they would, none of them could harm him, and this was 
 regarded by all as a great honour shown to Balder. But when Loki beheld 
 the scene he was sorely vexed that Balder was not hurt. Assuming, there- 
 fore, the shape of a woman, he went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga 
 That goddess, when she saw the pretended woman, inquired of her if she 
 knew what the yEsir were doing at their meetings. She replied, that they 
 were Arownig darts and stones at Balder without being able to hurt him. 
 
 '"Ay,' said Frigga, 'neither metal nor wood can hurt Balder, for I 
 have exacted an oath from all of them. ' 
 
 "'What!' exclaimed the woman, 'have all things sworn to spare 
 Balder ? ' ^ 
 
 '"All things,' replied Frigga, 'except one little shrub that grows on 
 the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought 
 too young and feeble to crave an oath from. ' 
 
 " As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and, resuming his natural 
 shape, cut off the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were 
 assembled. There he found Hodur standing apart, without partaking of 
 the sports, on account of his blindness, and going up to him said, ' Why 
 dost thou not also throw something at Balder ? ' 
 
 Because I am blind,' answered Hodur, 'and see not where Balder is, 
 and have, moreover, nothing to throw with.' 
 
 " 'Come, then,' said Loki, 'do like the rest, and show honour to Balder 
 by throwing this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm toward the place 
 where he stands. ' 
 
 " Hodur then took the mistletoe, and, under the guidance of Loki, 
 darted it at Balder, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless.'' 
 — Edda. 
 
504 NOTES 
 
 NOTE 8, PAGE 138. 
 Tristram and Isenlt. 
 
 " In the court of his uncle King Marc, the king of Cornwall, who at 
 this time resided at the castle of Tyntagel, Tristram became expert in all 
 knightly exercises. — The king of Ireland, at Tristram's solicitations, pro- 
 raised to bestow his daughter Iseult in marriage on King Marc. The mother 
 of Iseult gave to her daughter's confidante a philtre, or love-potion, to be 
 administered on the night of her nuptials. Of this beverage Tristram and 
 Iseult, on their voyage to Cornwall, unfortunately partook. Its influence, 
 during the remainder of their lives, regulated the affections and destiny of 
 the lovers. — 
 
 "After the arrival of Tristram and Iseult in Cornwall, and the nuptials 
 of the latter with King Marc, a great part of the romance is occupied with 
 their contrivances to procure secret interviews. — Tristram, being forced to 
 leave Cornwall, on account of the displeasure of his uncle, repaired to 
 Brittany, where lived Iseult with the White Hands. — He married her — 
 more out of gratitude than love. — Afterwards he proceeded to the dominions 
 of Arthur, which became the theatre of unnumbered exploits. 
 
 "Tristram, subsequent to these events, returned to Brittany, and to his 
 long-neglected wife. There, being wounded and sick, he was soon reduced 
 to the lowest ebb. In this situation, he despatched a confidant to the queen 
 of Cornwall, to try if he could induce her to follow him to Brittany, etc." — 
 DuNLOP's History of Fiction. 
 
 NOTE 9, PAGE 177. 
 
 That son of Italy who tried to blozo. 
 Giacopone di Todi. 
 
 Note 10, page 183, 
 Recalls the obscure opposer he otitiveigh' d. 
 Gilbert de la Porree, at the Council of Rheims, in 1 148. 
 
 note II, page 184. 
 Of that unpitying Phiygian sect zuhich cried. 
 The Montanists. 
 
 NOTE 12, PAGE 184. 
 
 Monica. 
 See St. Augustine's Confessions, book ix. chapter il. 
 
NOTES 505 
 
 NOTE 13, PAGE 189. 
 My Marguerite smiles tipon the strand. 
 See, among " Early Poems," the poem called A Memory -Picture. 
 
 NOTE 14, PAGE 213. 
 
 The Hunter of the Tanagraan Field. 
 
 Orion, the Wild Huntsman of Greek legend, and in this capacity 
 appearing in both earth and sky. 
 
 NOTE 15, PAGE 214. 
 
 O^er the stai-redden^ d western straits. 
 
 Erytheia, the legendary region around the Pillars of Hercules, probably 
 took its name from the redness of the West under which the Greeks saw it. 
 
 NOTE 16, PAGE 273. 
 
 The Scholar-Gipsy. 
 
 "There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by 
 his poverty forced to leave his studies there ; and at last to join himself to 
 a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the 
 insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love 
 and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had 
 been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a 
 couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They 
 quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies ; and he gave them an 
 account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them 
 that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken 
 for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could 
 do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others : 
 that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed 
 the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give 
 the world an account of what he had learned." — Glanvil's Vanity oj 
 Dogmatizing, 1661. 
 
 NOTE 17, PAGE 281. 
 
 Thyrsis. 
 
 Throughout this poem there is reference to the preceding piece, The 
 Schola}-- Gipsy. 
 
5o6 NOTES 
 
 NOTE 1 8, PAGE 287. 
 
 Young Daphnis tvith his silver voice doth sing. 
 
 Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was said 
 to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had been carried off 
 by robbers, ami to have found her in the power of the king of Phrygia, 
 Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in 
 reaping corn, and to put them to death if he overcame them. Hercules 
 arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon himself the reaping-contest 
 with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song con- 
 nected with this tradition was, like the Linus-song, one of the early plaintive 
 strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn - reapers. 
 Other traditions represented Daphnis as beloved by a nymph who exacted 
 from him an oath to love no one else. He fell in love with a princess, 
 and was struck blind by the jealous nymph. Mercury, who was his father, 
 raised him to Heaven, and made a fountain spring up in the place from 
 which he ascended. At this fountain the Sicilians offered yearly sacrifices. — 
 See Servius, Comment, in Virgil. Biicol., v. 20, and viii. 68. 
 
 NOTE 19, PAGE 294. 
 
 Ah ! "ivhere is he, %vho should have come. 
 
 The author's brother, William Delafield Arnold, Director of Public 
 Instruction in the Punjab, and author of Oakfield, or Fellowship in the 
 East, died at Gibraltar on his way home from India, April the 9th, 1859. 
 
 NOTE 20, PAGE 295, 
 
 So moonlit, sa^a me once of yore. 
 See the poem, A Summer Night, p. 257. 
 
 See Note 19. 
 
 NOTE 21, PAGE 295. 
 
 My brother! and thine early lot. 
 
 NOTE 22, PAGE 299. 
 
 / sa7u the meeting of tivo 
 Gifted 7uomen. 
 
 Charlotte TVonte and Harriet Martineau. 
 
NOTES 507 
 
 NOTE 23, PAGE 302, 
 
 Whose too bold dying song. 
 
 See the last verses liy Emily Bronte in Poems by Currer, Ellis, ami 
 Acton Bell. 
 
 NOTE 24, PAGE 317, 
 
 Goethe, too, had been there. 
 See Harzreise iin Winter, in Goethe's Gedichte. 
 
 NOTE 25, PAGE 325. 
 
 The author of Obermann, Etienne Pivert de Senancour, has little cele- 
 brity in France, his own country ; and out of France he is almost unknown. 
 But the profound inwardness, the austere sincerity, of his principal work, 
 Obermann, the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, and the melan- 
 choly eloquence of many passages of it, have attracted and charmed some 
 of the most remarkable spirits of this century, such as George Sand and 
 Sainte-Beuve, and will probably always find a certain number of spirits 
 whom they touch and interest. 
 
 Senancour was born in 1770. He was educated for the priesthood, 
 and passed some time in the seminary of St. Sulpice ; broke away from the 
 Semmary and from France itself, and passed some years in Switzerland, 
 where he married ; returned to France in middle life, and followed thence- 
 forward the career of a man of letters, but with hardly any fame or success. 
 He died an old man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be placed 
 these words only : ^ternitc, deviens mon asile ! 
 
 The influence of Rousseau, and certain afi^nities with more famous and 
 fortunate authors of his own day,— Chateaubriand and Madame de Stael,-^ 
 are everywhere visible in Senancour. But though, like these eminent 
 personages, he may be called a sentimental writer, and though Obermajin, 
 a collection of letters from Switzerland treating almost entirely of nature 
 and of the human soul, may be called a work of sentiment, Senancour has 
 a gravity and severity which distinguish him from all other writers of the 
 senthiiental school. The world is with him in his solitude far less than it 
 is with them ; of all writers he is the most perfectly isolated and the least 
 attitudinising. Ilis chief work, too, has a value and power of its own, 
 apart from these merits of its author. The stir of all the main forces, by 
 which modern life is and has been impelled, lives in the letters of Obermann ; 
 the dissolving agencies of the eighteenth century, the fiery storm of the 
 French Revolution, the first faint promise and dawn of that new world 
 
5oS NOTES 
 
 which our own time is but now more fully bringing to light, — all these are 
 to be felt, almost to be touched, there. To me, indeed, it will always 
 seem that the impressiveness of this production can hardly be rated too high. 
 Besides Ohermaun there is one other of Senancour's works which, for 
 those spirits who feel his attraction, is very interesting ; its title is, Libres 
 Meditations cfiiti Solitaire lucouiiu. 
 
 NOTE 26, PAGE 326. 
 
 Behind are the abandon'' d baths. 
 
 The Baths of Leuk. This poem was conceived, and partly composed, 
 in the valley going down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards the 
 Rhone. 
 
 NOTE 27, PAGE 332. 
 
 Glion 1 Ah, twenty years, it cuts. 
 
 Probably all who know the Vevey end of the Lake of Geneva, will 
 recollect Glion, the mountain-village above the castle of Chillon. Glion 
 now has hotels, pensioiis, and villas ; but twenty years ago it was hardly 
 more than the huts of Avant opposite to it, — huts through which goes that 
 beautiful path over the Col de Jaman, followed by so many foot-travellers 
 on their way from Vevey to the Simmenthal and Thun. 
 
 NOTE 28, PAGE 333. 
 
 The gentian-flower' d pass, its croivn 
 With yellow spires aflai)ie. 
 
 The blossoms of the Gentiana httea. 
 
 NOTE 29, PAGE 333. 
 
 And walls where Byron came. 
 
 Montbovon. See Byron's Journal, in his Works, vol. iii. p. 258. The 
 river Saane becomes the Sarine below Montbovon. 
 
 NOTE 30, PAGE 429. 
 
 And the hind, chance-arrived Wanderer. 
 
 Poias, the father of Philoctetes. Passing near, he was attracted by the 
 concourse round the pyre, and at the entreaty of Hercules set fire to it, 
 receiving the bow and arrows of the hero as his reward. 
 
NOTES 509 
 
 NOTE 31, PAGE 462. 
 
 And that curst treachery on the Mount of Gore. 
 
 Mount Hoemus, so called, said the legend, from Typho's blood spilt on 
 it in his last battle with Zeus, when the giant's strength failed, owing to the 
 Destinies having a short time before given treacherously to him, for his 
 refreshment, perishable fruits. See Apollodorus, Bibliotheca^ book i. 
 chap. vi. 
 
 NOTE 32, PAGE 468 
 
 Ye Sun-born Virgins! on the road of truth. 
 
 See the Fragments of Parmenides : 
 
 KovpaL 5' oSbv ijyefjiovevov, 
 
 rfKiades Kovpai, irpoXnrovcrai. oibfiara vvkt6s, 
 els (pdos ... 
 
 NOTE 33, PAGE 479. 
 
 Couldst thou no better keep, O Abbey old, 
 The boon thy dedication-sign foretold. 
 
 " Ailred of Rievaulx, and several other writers, assert that Sebert, king 
 of the East Saxons and nephew of Ethelbert, founded the Abbey of West- 
 minster very early in the seventh century. 
 
 " Sulcardus, who lived in the time of William the Conqueror, gives a 
 minute account of the miracle supposed to have been worked at the con- 
 secration of the Abbey. 
 
 "The church had been prepared against the next day for dedication. 
 On the night preceding, St. Peter appeared on the opposite side of the 
 water to a fisherman, desiring to be conveyed to the farther shore. Having 
 left the boat, St. Peter ordered the fisherman to wait, promising him a 
 reward on his return. An innumerable host from heaven accompanied the 
 apostle, singing choral hymns, while everything was illuminated with a 
 supernatural light. The dedication having been completed, St. Peter 
 returned to the fisherman, quieted his alarm at what had passed, and 
 announced himself as the apostle. He directed the fisherman to go as 
 soon as it was day to the authorities, to state what he had seen and heard, 
 and to inform them that, in corroboration of his testimony, they would find 
 the marks of consecration on the walls of the church. In obedience to the 
 apostle's direction, the fisherman waited on Mellitus, Bishop of London, 
 who, going to the church, found not only marks of the chrism, but of the 
 tapers with which the church had been illuminated. Mellitus, therefore, 
 
5IO NOTES 
 
 desisted from proceeding to a new consecration, and contented himself 
 with the celebration of the mass." — Dugdale, Monasticon AnglicafiiDii 
 (edition of 1S17), vol. i. pp. 265, 266. See also Montalembert, Les 
 ^Moines d' Occident, vol. iii. pp. 428-432. 
 
 NOTE 34, PAGE 482. 
 
 71ie char/fi'd babe of the Eleiisinian king. 
 
 Demophoon, son of Celeus, king of Eleusis. See, in the Homeric 
 Hymns, the Hymn to Demeter, 184-298. 
 
 NOTE 35, PAGE 483. 
 
 That Pair, whose head did plan, whose hands didfo7'ge 
 The Temple in the pnre Parnassian gorge. 
 
 Agamedes and Trophonius, the builders of the temple of Apollo at 
 Delphi. See Plutarch, Consolatio ad ApoUoniiim, c. 14. 
 
 NOTE 36, PAGE 493. 
 StoVnfrom Aristophanes. 
 See The Birds of Aristophanes, 465-485. 
 
 NOTE 37, PAGE 495. 
 
 Of Robin'' s reed. 
 
 ^ " Come, join the melancholious croon 
 
 O' Robin's reed." — Burns, Poor Maine's Elegy. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 
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