F]TITUTII'llſ. III'll ſºlº ;II'ſ ſiſ" [. - C C C C C T C C Cº. C. C ||||Illillſ||||Illlllllllllllllll -º-º-- Jº 3.4% - Cº. a’s i k- ty : ºf KXGICYºº YICT iſſºr. Yūtū’ī. Sº ń. r - - ** → - . . . . [.. *s. & grº- * § --~ 2:/ºš * > * , Yºjºngwrº.nº MN …” - * - : º – ^ - * * NA - º t * . º. Aſ , |S} N S S.YN ... A N_---- N *Miijiwºuis IIAIN"| ... IIIL IO Arººrvatºrſ Hæ | [. º Fº *. - d : : immºniº 3. §: Iſſi: -4; N 376 s AVO VV A2AA/O V. PORTRAITS. By AUGUSTA WEBSTER, Third Edition. FCap. 8vo. 5s SELECTIONS FROM THE VERSE OF AUGUSTA WEBSTER. Pott 8vo. 4s. 6d. MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON. SELECTIONS FROM THE VERSE OF A U G U STA WF. BSTE R SELECTIONS ". . .--------------------> T H E V E R S E OF AUGUSTA WEBSTER 31.0 nt. On MAC MILL AN AND CO. A N D N E W Y O R. K. I 89.3 A 2' rights reserved CO N T E N TS From Blanche Lisle, 1860. Thinking of Thee From Lilian Gray, 1864. The Sea-Maid's Song. From Dramatic Studies, I866. With the Dead . From A Woman Sold, and Other Poems, 1867. Bartimaeus Pilate In the Storm Dreaming . Never Again . * * e g The Old Year Out and the New Year In Going gº A March Night . The Lake . On the Shore In the Sunshine . How the Brook Sings. On the Lake PAGE I5 I8 3I 33 34 35 39 4O 4I 43 44 44 45 vi CONTENTS From Portraits, 1870. The Manuscript of Saint Alexius. Circe e e º º The Happiest Girl in the World . An Inventor º ſº e e w Yu-Pe-Ya's Lute, 1874. From A Book of Rhyme, 1881. MARJORY (English Rispetti) : The Rivulet Spring and Summer The Violet and the Rose . The Primrose Linnet and Lark The Bees in the Lime The Cornflower The Flowing Tide . The Whisper . . . tº The Heart that Lacks Room The Lovers . . The Nightingale The Storm Baby Eyes The Bindweed The Heather . The Pine Late Roses The Brambles We TWO We TWO PAGE 46 68 76 86 93 I4I I42 I42 I43 I43 I44. I44 I45 I45 I46 I46 I47 I47 I48 I48 I49 I49 I 50 . I 50 I5 I I5I CONTENTS vii - - PAGE MARJORY-(continued). The Apple Orchard - º g e . I 52 The Snows . - • * º º . I 53 The Holly . º - º & e . I53 The Graveyard • - - º º . I 54 The Frozen River . º º º * . I54 The Daughter - - e & e . I55 We TWO º - - & º e . I55 We TWO ſº o º © * e . 156 The Flowers to Come . e e º . I56 Farewell . º - - - º e . I 57 Not to Be . º • • e º ſº . I 58 Where Home Was . º - º º . I 59 Siste Viator - - º - s e . I6I A Song of a Spring-Time . * & & . I63 A Summer Mood º - º e e . I64 Not Love . . e e º e e e . I66 My Loss . & e & * o g . I68 Poulain the Prisoner . • - e º . I69 The Swallows . - º e e º ... I'7I The Brook Rhine º º º e & . I73 Question and Answer . - e e º . I 74 Autumn Warnings . - e e * . I75 The Skylark's Song . & & & e . I77 White Rose and Red . - e o e . 178 From The Auspicious Day, A Drama. 1872. “Where found Love his yesterday?” . e ... I'79 “Dear love, good-night '' . -> º º . I 80 The Wendulph Ballad & e e * . I 81 viii CONTENTS From Disguises : A Drama, 1879. ‘‘Tell thee truth, sweet ; no " “Dearest, this one day we own " ‘‘Day is dead, and let us sleep" From In a Day: a Drama, 1882. “Once a sea-nymph loved a boy” “Joy that's half too keen and true' p From The Sentence : a Drama, 1887. Rispetti . tº & © “Pluck the rose part blown” “Sing-song, sing-song, little river” Love's Riddle The Flood of Is in Brittany Tethered Songs of Birds At Sorrento . In the Pamfili-Doria Gardens . The Moment “The Common Fate of all Things Rare" The Campagna PAGE I83 I84 I85 I86 187 I88 I88 I89 I90 I93 I95 I98 I99 2O2 2O4. 2O6 Note.—The poems which are not from published volumes have appeared in the Cornht!! Magazine, the English //lustrated Magazine, or Good IVords. THINKING OF THEE THE Sunset crimsons on the heights, Flushing the cold snow with its kiss, The crags are rich with yellow lights— I am all lost in silent bliss, Thinking of thee. The red light pales along the range And glooms to mournful violet, The dying glow grows sad and Strange— My eyes with some stray tears are wet, Thinking of thee. Fall on her, tell her, dying glow, How I am dreaming of her here, And kiss for me her Snowy brow— Love, I am weak with hope and fear, Thinking of thee. THE SEA-MAID'S SONG “OH, love me ! love me !” The sea-maid sings on the pebbly shore— “Love me ! oh, love me!” The tears they gather, the tears run o'er ; She looks to the sea, she looks to the hill, But no one comes, and the night is still— “Oh, love me ! love me !” “Oh, love me ! love me !” Singing So Sadly, singing so long— “Love me ! oh, love me ! I would give true love, so deep, so strong, To him who would give true love to me.” Nought on the hill, and nought on the sea— “Oh, love me ! love me !” “Love me ! oh, love me !” Singing so long, and singing so late— “Love me ! oh, love me ! My heart is lone, I weep while I wait.” She looks to the sea, she looks to the hill, But no one comes, and the night is still— “Oh, love me ! love me !” WITH THE DEAD There is a tradition at Rome that a man who spied out the place in the Catacombs where the Christians met in Secret for worship, and went stealthily there in order to discover and denounce them, lost his way among the vaults and has been wandering there ever since, THE hour has come, my hour of yearly rest From the long madness while I grope my way With eager hands through these black clueless vaults, For ever tracking my unceasing steps To the same sharp angles and the same low niches, From day to night not knowing day from night, Through day and night not knowing any rest, Not knowing any thought Save that slow horror, That breathless agony of hope more keen With hopeless pangs than utter hopelessness, Not knowing that I am, not knowing aught Save that I wander, chill with creeping dread, Seeking in vain through darkness big with death An egress into life, while my worn limbs Shiver with terror and my palsied lips Tremble too much to call upon the gods. 4. WITH THE DEAD And now I rest A dreadful rest, accursed, Made weary with despair and furious With the old hate and the old bitter love : Because I must, despite myself, remember. Oh me ! this added curse of memory That burns like hissing iron through my soul, This deadliest undying memory ! And I undying ! Heavens ! is there no taunt No curse so loathsome to this angered Power Who holds me here, that I might hurl it at him And rouse such flame of wrath as must perforce Smite me to ashes with its shrivelling breath P Oh, but to cease to be to cease to know ! My throat is choked ; I writhe in agonies, Fierce agonies of thought ; my life and soul Are all one pain—Oh, but to cease to know ! I rave in vain. For who should hear me thus, One live among the dead, who shriek for aid Out from this darkness where the gods look not ? To cease to know 2 yea, I shall cease to know In a little while. The blood chills at my heart, And I grow faint and shudder at the foretaste— In a little while and the horrible cold dread Will have fallen on me; I shall be again Groping my endless way among the tombs. In a little while ! Oh back, ye eager hours, Why will ye press so to defraud my rest ? My rest my rest Oh, rest that is all pain The hours are slow enough for so much pain. For till the glow of this mysterious light WITH THE DEAD 5 Glimmering unearthly o'er the worn gray slab– Woe woe its lettering burns into my brain, I see it though I turn away my eyes, “LUCILLA A SWEET SOUL ASLEEP IN CHRIST. AND GLAUCON LOVING HER MORE LOVING CHRIST’’— Till that pale ghastly glow, like the void rays That look back to the sun from dead men's eyes, Fades sudden in the darkness whence it came, And the fear-anguish once more drives me on, I, waiting here, perforce must have in mind That which these Christian fools would call my sin. My Sin P my glory. Do ye sleep, ye gods, The guardians and the worshipped of great Rome, That ye will yield me to the vengeful might Of this new demon whom these heaven-accursed Would set above you mocking at your thrones, This new-found god whose anger I have earned Because I warred against him, having care To keep the honours of your temples pure ? Are ye asleep, great gods, or are ye wroth That in my love for her I would have saved One who had dared to mock you with her scorn ? I would have saved, Lucilla. But thy fear Of thy new god was stronger than thy fear Of even death. Thyself didst choose to die, It was not I who sent thee with the herd I hounded from their earths to glut the mart Of creatures for our shows. It was not I. Oh child, thou knowest I would have had thee live To love me—Oh ! the tender maiden limbs 6 WITII THE DEAD Strained on the rack wrenched by the torturer Oh gods ! that death !—The panther's dripping jaws Their white teeth clotted with— But I did love thee. Oh best and fairest Oh, my love, my light, When saw I love or light except in thee P What music was there but when thou didst speak P What beauty was there save what was in thee ? What joy or hope was there in all the earth That was not thou ? What more could the gods give 2 And yet not giving thee what had they given P I would have laid my whole life in thy hand And found no aim, no will, but to work thine ; I would have died for thee ; I would have sinned Against all laws of heaven or earth, but so To bring thee one Small pleasure ; would have met All agony, yea even this doom, for thee ; All things have done for thee, all things endured, Save but to yield thee, thee who wast my all. And only this thou wouldst yes, I dare front Thy pale face rising on me through my dream With its accusing eyes and answer thee : Thou madest me suffer more than I did thee. “LUCILLA A SWEET SOUL ASLEEP IN CHRIST,” What is this Christ, that he can give thee sleep Which is not death 2 Sleep ! shall I call on him That he may give me sleep? Sleep !—but ſhe sleeps, “GLAUCON MUCH LOVING HER MORE LOVING CHRIST.” WITH THE DEAD 7 And shall I sleep with him, I wake with him, The hated, hated that she did not hate P Shall I ask mercy from this cross-hung god Whom Glaucon loved 2 Gods of our city, no Asleep, Lucilla P. Once I saw thee sleep, The Smile of a pure dream upon thy lips, - Thy light breath heaving thy fair breast as winds In a mild moonlight Surge a sleeping sea, And but to look on thee was to be calm, And, for a moment, happy. Now what means The foolish word asleep 2 That thou art there In the clammy earth, a nothing, thou who wast My all. Would I could feel thee what thou art And know thee only as the dead are known Or else forgotten. But my memory throbs With such a living sentience that to think On the once themes is to be my once self. And I am driven to think of them. And they, They are thou, Lucilla, thou art made my curse. I must re-live it all—the sudden love, The months of longing, and the fever waking When through my dreams I knew my one life-hope, Thy love, was stolen by that boy-beauteous Greek Whose false voice whispered music in thine ears That lured thee from the hymnings of our gods. Through all my soul there stirs the bitter past, Through all my soul there stirs the happy past More bitter than the bitter by the touch Of that great bitterness that curdles all Its sweetness into gall. I see thy face Set in the glimmer of that lustrous hair Rippling all over into dappled waves, 8 WITH THE DEAD Some like the autumn bramble's browning leaf, And some all shimmering as with burnished gold ; I see thy child-like eyes, blue as the sky, Dark as the purple thundercloud, their whites All latticed o'er with little azure veins; I see the soft pink pallor of thy cheek, Thy sweet slow smile—Lucilla Oh, forgive Oh fade, strange light, and let my mind again Lose this sharp knowledge of the sad foregone. Ah me ! I must remember. So my love Grew a great madness; till thy startled glance Would shrink from mine in fear and thy dear hand Would tremble as I touched it—not with love. No, that was all for him—Oh, hate thou him, If thou canst hate, Lucilla, for thy death ; Call it his deed not mine. Yea, but for him It had not been. Yea, but for him, thy love, My curse upon him | I had not been thus: And, who can tell ? I might have slept with thee, My soul with thine in Christ, or with me thou Have wandered godlike in the happy fields. So my strong hate of him through love for thee Grew ever, flaming through my veins like fire, Till all my life was but as one black hate, Till even love for thee seemed like a hate, Thyself half hateful that thou couldst love him. My heart burned in me like a poisoned wound At speech of him, at inward thought of him.— And how could I once cease to think of him P Thy name upon my lips was as a Curse, A thousand deepest curses, hurled on him ; WITH THE DEAD 9 My burning lids at night were scorched with sight, I saw thy Smile on him. And in my ears Was ever sound of thy low voice that spoke That sweet sweet word of love I heard it speak, Once while I listened to thine every breath . And not to me. My fitful fevered sleep Was mad with dreams of passion and despair, Yea, mad, far worse than all, with dreams of hope That made the waking sudden misery ; And in the days I writhed, my aching brain Grew dizzy with its torment. Oh, those days That waking to an utter hopelessness, That dreary sickening loneness at the heart ; And yet to love her, have no wish save her And he had brought me this. Was not love hate 2 Could I love thee and not hate him, thy love 2 They say that love can tame the roughest tongue To soft-voiced sadness, gentle cadences ; Oh, false there is such power alone in hate. Hate gave it me, and I could blend my voice To well-put words of doubt and half belief And trembling hope to find in that sweet creed A happy haven for my broken soul. And thou didst trust me, oh thou guileless ; yea, Thou leddst thy convert to the secret vaults Where prayers were made to the forbidden god. And the fond idiots prated brotherhood, And Glaucon, I was Glaucon's brother too ! And so the poor fools let me come and go Holding their lives in my hand. IO WITH THE DEAD They perished : well, What scathe P Rome is well rid of such a scum— Why did they mock our gods, and flout our lives With their fine preachments P But she perished too, Lucilla But I meant it not. I dreamed, Knowing thy tender spirit that would shrink From even talk of pain to aught that feels, Knowing thy timid spirit that would quail At the light terrors its own dread had shaped In the vague shadows of a darkling eve, I dreamed that thou wouldst cleave unto the grace My care had made thy right and buy thy life At price of one small homage to the gods. Alas! I thought, and gloried in my heart, Thou wouldst have rested in my shielding arms Thy weakness and thy fears, too true to doubt My truth to the vain faith I swore thy god And thee, who hadst forgotten thou to me Wast more than truth could give. I thought that death Should part thee from that Glaucon through all time, And lo, it weds thee to him through all time : Thou art with him in death, and I, alone, Look on thy tomb and am thy murderer. And yet it had not been if, even then When thy clear voice scorned at the rites of Jove, I had been by thee. But this agony Held me a madman in the place of tombs. The Sunshine burst out through a ridge of cloud WWITH THE DEAD I I And flashed a promise on me where I watched The answer of the gods; without a bleat The victim fell ; the haruspex laughed content Reading the entrails “See, the gods approve. Go, prosper in thy deed.” Prosper I went Heading my band along the darksome vaults, They fearless but I feared not knowing why. And then in the long cavern's outer gloom, Fronting the dusk arch of the chamber vault Where their trapped prey were sure, I stayed their haste, Saying, “It fits that I should go before Alone ; because these Christians must not know Who led you to their den ; but pass ye on In a short half hour where I shall enter now : For I will seem to pray before their cross.” Thee I could see, Lucilla, by the cross, But swiftly came an awful flame of light— Then darkness. And I rushed with a great dread Through the black maze that gave me no return, Seized by my everlasting doom. How then, How comes it that I know that which I know P Was my freed spirit borne among the clouds, By some strange power, away from my void frame, Or did I see it as a god might see, Being far off but having mystic sight 2 Woe woe I look upon the place of shows Red with thick pools, ghastly with mangled limbs And shapeless dead. I hear the buzz of tongues, The murmur of a huddled multitude I 2 WITH THE DEAD Mocking the death-pangs, mocking the death- prayers, Of bleeding forms that call upon their Christ. I hear the eager cry that urges on The crouching lions glutted with their prey, Gazing with sullen eyes upon the crowd, “Loose more, loose more ”—the call rings in my €21 S- - “Loose more ; these make no sport. There are victims yet.” I see her, a fair maiden robed in white, Standing calm-eyed amid the place of blood, Standing amid the corpses not afraid, Her hand firm clasped in his all hateful hand— Lucilla //7's Lucilla—never mine. I hear the echo of her quiet voice, Oh, shuddering hear, “I will not serve nor pray These dream-born gods but I will rather die : My Lord will take me to his rest of love.” I hear the hum of anger through the throng, I hear low whisperings of pity grow, And voices call on Glaucon to stand forth And save his dainty damsel and himself Bending with her one moment to great Jove ; And his strong words peal like a trumpet-blast “Yes, I love her ; but more do I love Christ.” And then—I will not see—Oh! save her | save her Drag them off her Am I powerless to reach her, And yet behold 2 And I metast gaze on this— Out of Some dream P A dream that will return For ever and for ever ! WITH THE DEAD I3 Oh the curse Is my own earning. Rightly am I doomed. Her blood, his blood, the blood of many dead Is on my soul. But did she pray for me 2 Could even her gentleness so well forgive P It was as if in a deep pulseless hush Stiller than sleep I heard within my heart While dying she prayed softly to her god “Oh Lord, forgive him, lead his soul to thee,” And knew she prayed for me, and loved her prayer, While for a moment quivered at my heart A yearning for that rest of love in Christ, And a quick impulse stirred me to fall down And call upon her god as she had called. But he replied, that Glaucon, “Lord, forgive.” And I cried fiercely, clamouring out my wrath, “Thou Christ, if thou hast any power to hear, Hear me, not him—hurl all thy wrath on me, I will not be forgiven at his prayer. If thou canst hear, hear me.” Then I awoke, And knew myself as one without a Soul Urged by the furies through these endless vaults. But this long hour of thought P Why came it first P After what length of days 2 I cannot judge, Having in that long fear no breathing time, Going on and on and on, through ceaseless turns, In the dead murk and in the ghastly glimmer I4 WITH THE DEAD Of the far daylight Straggling through the shafts, Going on and on and on towards escape That never may be reached, my mind a blank To all save terror and that one vain hope. It came. I found me as I find me now Within the place of prayer where that swift flame Seared me for ever from the lot of men, And an unnatural radiance even as now Came from the darkness, falling on that tomb— LUCILLA A SWEET SOUL ASLEEP IN CHRIST, AND GLAUCON LOVING HER MORE LOVING CHRIST. And it seemed borne upon my silent mind— Or did she whisper it from that still tomb 2– That there should be to me each year a space Of rest and memory enforced beside Her resting place, that so I might call back My prayer and “wash away ” (the words seem so) “My sin in weeping and a Saviour's blood, And fall asleep in Christ.” Yea, I would sleep, Oh, sleep ! if I could sleep—yea, sleep in Christ Whom my gods loathe—yea, sleep with her in Christ. But Glaucon whom I hate—Oh never rest Be mine with him, be mine through Glaucon's god. Hear me, not him, thou Christ. The radiance pales— Is dead. Oh gods, my madness drives me on Darkness all dark —I know not what I say. BARTIMAEUS BLUE happy sky, Sweet lights of day, Round hills that lean against the air, Clear grass blades Shining in my way, How beautiful is everywhere ! I cannot see all that I would There is so much on every side, This glorious earth is very wide, And so much beauty to it given. Dear Lord, the earth is wondrous good, It must be very like thy heaven. I see I see I Look the great field, A full bright lake of yellow ears So sunlike that my eyes new healed See through a golden mist of tears Look, the broad fig-tree over-head, Oh cool green brightness through the leaves | What a fair web the spider weaves | Look where 'tis knit across the dock. And who could find a richer red Than the flushed poppy's on that rock P BARTIMAEUS Beautiful beautiful everywhere ! Ah now I see that when I most Moaned for lost sight in dim despair I but half felt what I had lost. Oh I sight is happier than I knew : I had forgotten more, I find, What it was like not to be blind Than I believed. What long ago Was green so green and blue so blue 2 Did I laugh thus to see them so P Oh darkness gone oh dreary days No human face, no world, no light ! Large darkness meeting my strained gaze, Vague darkness making sleep of sight ! And all around things wax and wane, And change and growth come over all, But the dull eyes see but their pall. And in the dark life seems so still ; Days come and go but you remain With vacant night and drowse your fill. Oh, weariness of darkness gone, Broken as feverish last sleeps break Because Some Sunbeam on us shone And we start up and are awake He was the sun that shone on me. He looked and I could feel the light, He spoke and once more I had sight, I saw the hills, I saw the sky, I saw the sunlight on the tree— And I saw Him and did not die. BARTIMAEUS 17 I saw Messiah’s very face, My daylight seemed to break from Him, And I stood rooted to the place, Trembling and cold in every limb. And then I loved Him and was strong. He spoke it “Faith has made thee whole.” Light in my eyes | Light in my soul And I can love Him, and I see Oh Lord, the darkness was so long. Now I have sight—and I saw Thee . Break into Song, Oh Zion, shout. Christ is among us, Christ the Light. Darkness is gone, and sin, and doubt. Oh golden time ! the blind have sight. Light, light is on us, there is day. From the glad earth a ringing voice Bounds through my heart “Rejoice, rejoice: ” Behold, the day-spring from on high: Rejoice, the night has passed away, Jesus of Nazareth comes by. I8 PILATE Pilafe. Foolishness foolishness Fye, you weary me. You are so Small, you women, cannot peep Over the fence next to you ; so self-willed, You'll not trust other's eyes who see a world Stretched out beyond it. “Dearest,” says the man, “I see some certain hills and valleys there ; I’ll draw them in my picture of the world.” “Not so * the woman says, “there's nothing more Than this green yard we stand in : map it out And that’s the world.” And so she'll make her roads Run straight to little points within the hedge, And never thinks there may be curves to take To reach great points outside. Arocſa. And does that mean A woman thinks a judge is to be just, And a man thinks a judge is to resolve What policy were spoiled if he were just 2 Az/aſe. It means a man, a ruler as I am, Must look beyond the moment, must alloy Justice with prudence. Innocence is much To save a man, but is not everything Where a whole province is at stake for Rome. How many lives think you had cost this life Refused to these hot zealots P In one word PILATE 19 Sum up the answer—war. You tender soul Who weep so for this one man dead, what tears, What cataracts of tears would wear the sight Out of your frightened eyes if I had been, What, by the Gods, I longed to be, mere just, Had, starving them of their sweet blood-draught, roused The wild dog lurking in each several man Of your dear Jews, these stubborn sullen Jews Who are ready any moment to spring up And flesh their teeth in Roman throats 2 Aye, think— Bloody rebellion loosed ; the ready cry “Insult to Moses’ law'” howled through the land, Maddening these tiger tribes ; the Roman sway Tottering and rent as by an earthquake's throes ; Our Romans hacked and maimed and trampled, Snared In ambushes and Onslaughts in the dark. And then the vengeance these your hero Jews, Whose myths and hymns so take you, trodden out Like reptiles underneath the heel; not one, But hundreds, crucified ; rapine and fire And slaying everywhere. Then, by and by, The province settled in an angry peace, Half our Jews dead, the other half grown dumb For utter fear, and Rome Supreme again, Caesar bethinks him whence the mischief came : “Our procurator—What to save one man Who preached, he thought, a fine philosophy, He put a slight upon the famous law He was bidden touch so gingerly, and set The land in that fierce uproar ! Call him home 2O PILATE And let him answer it.” You’d blame me then In sadder fashion, Procla. Aye, I know. You women do it. Always 'tis a fault, Never an evil fortune. A man dies, You're wretched, but you tell him while he dies It was his fault. Azocſa. Alas ! Have I deserved This bitterness P Az/aſe. Because you harp and harp On one cross theme—that necessary death. You know it vexed me sharply. Let me be. The past is past, the dead are dead, and groans And “would I had not ”s will not make not done That which was not done scarce a minute back. Fate's self can never say “the past is not,” Only the coming Swerves for fate or gods; And how can a man’s Sorrow touch it, then P A rocła. He may find good from sorrow for ill deeds. Pilate. What good P Will sorrow lengthen a man's days - Or give him wealth or triumphs P Sorrow eats Into the heart like a wasp into the fruit, Eats up the pith within you, leaves you like The Dead Sea dust-fruits, proper to the sight For customary use, but inwardly Unserviceable ashes. Do you think I’ve vexed Apollo or some fire-breathed God Who'll dart a plague on me unless I bend And offer hecatombs 2 No, no, the wrong PILATE 2 I Is but against my nature and the man Who died not having sinned ; so there is none, Nor God, nor man, to whom I can atone. Nor see I how my sorrowing would help. Proc/a. I know it. Yet, if Jesus were divine— Pilate. What then, you Nazarene 2 Pyroc/a. Why then 'twould be As if you had vexed Apollo. You would bring A sacrifice to make his anger cease. Pilate. My child, this Jesus, if he were divine, Was a philosopher. Such would not snuff Our reeking altar Smokes with much delight. What sacrifice could he have P Ayroc/a. I have heard He used to say the sacrifice to him Was sorrow for ill-doing. P:/aſe. Said he that 2 If a poet, now, could have his pick of Gods To put in heaven, he'd make him one for that. My Procla, I have heard of many things Most noble and most touching that man taught, And I believe that he, though of mean state, Not tutored, as I think, in subtle lore Of the wise Greeks nor of our reasoning Schools, Would yet have left his stamp upon the world As deep as any sage’s, would have raised A school of teachers of the highest flight Who might perhaps have learned for us some things 22 PILATE We vaguely yearn to know of, found perhaps Something to take for real and hold fast In the confusion of philosophies And shifting dulled traditions of our Gods That let us wander on and make no sign— For what are we to them or they to us 2– Something at least to take for starting point Amid the coil of labyrinths that twist And fret and Cross and bring us back again To where we were, the labyrinths that seem To wreath and puzzle round a gaping void Where truth, we’re told, should be, a starting point To find the clue from, and perhaps the goal. . . . Which our philosophers put out of count, As if the work was to make labyrinths More than we have, and see where they might end. For him, he seemed, if he had not seen truth, At least to think he had ; and that is much. And if I could have saved him, but for this That he might reason with me, I had done it. And I, whom the Jews call a cruel man, At least love justice as a Roman should, And that man’s innocence (I tell you this That you may cease to make my trouble worse) Weighs on me like my guilt, though I indeed Absolve myself from share in dooming him. But there was no way left ; you know I tried To save him and I failed. No more of this. Now never vex me with his name again, Unless you’d have me loathe you as I loathe The murderous Jews who dragged their victim from 11162 By threats of Caesar. PILATE 23 Azoc/a. No, you’ll love me still. I will not fret you, you are grieved enough. But you will have his name forced on you yet— They say he's risen. Pz/aſe. Pretty simpleton, You look as awestruck, draw your breath as quick, As if you were no wiser than the geese That cackle in the back lanes of all towns. Risen, my baby | I have heard this talk. And do you think death but an actor’s mask To be thrown off and there’s the man alive P I would he could be risen. I should laugh To see the Jews' scared faces. More than that, I should be thankful, sleep more easily ; And you'd smile all the sweeter. But the dead Lie Stark and helpless, then rot into earth, And there's an end. That’s the deep sadness, child, Which all our hearts, outface it as we will, Faint at and whimper at through all our thoughts, That the dead are really dead and not asleep, And so there is no rising. Nay indeed If they should rise, what body could they wear 2 Is there not loathsome mildewing decay That eats the putrid flesh P My fond fair wife, Let us take life as softly as we can So hard a toil, and gild it with all joys, And not nurse Sorrow on it, as you’d do, Because of evil chances ; for so soon As it is given us foul death begins To nibble at it, and one day he gmaws The heartstrings and we go back to the earth, 24. PILATE And there’s nor joy nor Sorrow nor fond hope, For we are nothing. Procła. Do you think indeed There is no soul ? Azłaże. I know there is a Soul, Since there's a body and the body moves And feels and breathes, though 'tis such reeking dung When something’s gone, the something that is soul. But that dies first, gasps into nothingness, And after that the body dies, and fats The earth it came of Nay, if the soul lived As part of the great breath we call the air And so a part of life and every life, What life were that to us to call it ours ? We die, my Procla, and to die is death. Procla. Those Jewish wondrous writings which I love And you call glorious phantasies allow Another sense to death—which One should come To show men plainly, so that none should die. Oh husband, if this Jesus were the man, Or god, who was to show it ! Az/aſe. Aye, indeed, That were a parlous loss | But they can hope And dream without a teacher, and what more Could any teach them than to hope and dream P And now, dear Procla, leave me, I have work, Letters and long reports to write for Rome. Go to your tapestries—a fitter use, PILATE 25 And fairer, for your wits than these sad thoughts, Which, saddening us, may make us sooner die, But cannot soften death. Go, dear. Proc/a. I go. But as for tapestries, the needle flies And thought flies quicker. Sorrow will not die Upon the needle's point. Goodbye awhile. Pilafe. Goodbye, be merry, and forget this talk. [AExit Procla. Aye, so one says forget. She may forget : Women are but bird-minded, flying quick And eager from one tree-perch to the next, And sometimes lighting on a thorny bough, By chance, but not for long. A day or two And she'll forget the prophet, be content With her dear Jewish legends. But, for me, Her sobbings and her talk will vex une, long Past her remembering them. I’m strangely moved Indeed these several days I have not lost The sense of shame that shook me when he looked With quiet eyes at me, standing condemned By my allowance. Wonderful weird man If gods indeed would take men's shapes, I'd say I saw the god in him. It is past thought That any, even haters like the Jews, Could hate him. Well, they did, and murdered him. But I am guiltless of his blood. I went To the utmost verge of prudence—nay, beyond— To check the infuriate mob. Yes, by the gods, No light task 'twould have been to clear myself For my part in the mischief, if there'd grown A riot from the trial, and that seemed like 26 PILATE Before I yielded. They are hard at Rome On luckless governors. Aye, aye, my Jews Had made a rare case of it : for the man, Though to our Roman sense most innocent Of all save too much wisdom for their wits, Was doubtless somewhere tangled in the toils Of their fastidious laws. Why, he had washed At the wrong time—or had not washed, which was it P He said the Scribes were pedants and the priests Rank hypocrites . . . which only we may say, And which we’re bidden not say to the Jews; He told the mob their God was, after all, More than their Moses; and, most heinous sin, He healed their sick on sabbaths. By their law He ought to die; their rulers urged that loud. Never let any say I was unjust. “The Son of God” he took for name, they said: Belike one of their Syriac metaphors Which, like hot-tempered kestrels, overfly The quarry aimed at : but, if he did mean To boast a mystic kindred with some source Of life and thought divinely different From the every-day plain sires who made our lives, I’d never mock his claim until I knew Its secret import. Not if the title was Of his own taking. If the sheepish herds, That flock around each new teacher, all asweat With running and jostling for the nearest place, To Stare, and wonder what he means, and cry “Oh the rare teacher l’’ till the next one comes, So dubbed him, why, 'tis but the ancient tale : The multitude, Self-conscious, thinks a man PILATE 27 Must be a fool and base, and when it finds One who is neither, or at least not both, Is sure by that his father is a god, Or he's a god himself, or going to be. But Jesus if he said I am the Son Of a divine one, or of the One God, Implied some esoteric subtlety With a great import—for I looked on him And heard him speak, and his was no crazed Soul, Fired from its own dank heat like ill-housed ricks ; And no impostor, Sane, would in Such stead Have kept so obstinate a courage. Truth ! He claimed to know Truth, which no man yet knew. Was that his meaning 2 Truth is real life, Such as the gods might have, and he had reached To Truth and so was as one near the gods, Or near the great One God—which possibly Is but a name of life. But why waste thought To beat out the philosophy or creed He would have taught, from the disfiguring husks Rough rumour gives as grain f The man is dead ; Guilty or innocent, wise or possessed, He sleeps the silent sleep which ends all hope, And we may bawl our questions at his door, He'll make no answer. Dead philosophers Are just as useful to the living world As are dead lions, or dead rats . . . they help To make good soil. As for the coins they leave, Of thought, for us to heir, why, ninety-nine 28 PILATE Out of each hundred stamp their own images On all their dies, and so the coins mean nought, Save to disciples who will let them pass As money 'twixt themselves, still bickering The while about their values. If by chance We take the mint of one man for some worth, Then in a trice we’re rich with counterfeits Yielding base metal to the assayer's tests. Let the Sage live and give us his own gold, That’s something : we are all disciples then After a fashion. For at least we’re sure That what we hear him speak he speaks—or thus, The sounds he makes have such results on ears Which are our own, and so we say we’re sure, Though in true sense we’re sure of nothing. Aye, We're sure of nothing. That’s the wretched void Which makes all thinking sad and like the wind That with much blustering breaks itself a way And passes on to nowhere. We live now, And life means a great hurrying on to death ; And then we die, and death means nothingness ; And weep, or scoff, or reason at it, still Two facts so bald as these are all we have For fruit of all our pains—and those we had Taking no pains at all. All other things, As how we live, and why, and whence, remain A fretting mystery. Like shipwrecked men We try to float upon a sea of doubts : We’d swim for shore if there were any shore, But the only ground at hand to give us rest Is the loathed home of dead things underneath. PILATE 29 This Jesus, now—How Strangely he has seized Upon my mind I cannot lose the sense Of his sad look fixed on me sovereign With patient high rebuke—He seemed to wear A quiet on him, as if he did rest, As if he somehow would have given rest To those who learned of him. But he is dead ; And I half feel as if in killing him They had refused the last hope of the world For any comfort in the heavy gloom That death and doubt throw on it. They / say we. I am accomplice ; gloze it as I will With fair and true excuses, in my heart It rankles a great shame and bitterness. I killed him, I, the unjust and coward judge Who cringed before the passion of a mob And was their tool. Gods ! 'twas a hideous deed, A dastardly foul deed, to let him die I’m sick at it, I’m weary like a man Who carries crimes on him he dares not name Even to his next and dearest lest they'd turn And loathe him. Every creeping silent hour Since I beheld him haled forth to the cross Has dragged an age of thought with it, and what I know not how to name except as dread. And yet what do I dread 2 But more and more, Like a poor baby shuddering in the dark And peopling loneliness with awful shades, I feel as if I could not be alone Because I tremble. Somewhere there must be A terror near, or why should I be scared 2 There's all my reasoning. The baby Cries, 3O PILATE And some one helps it, lights it safe to bed : The man must hold his peace, or they’ll say “mad ‘’ And chain and lash him long before he’s mad With trying to make out his bugbear’s shape. Nay, I’ll not peer for mine. I could not bear Poor Procla’s fancies and I sent her hence, To be in peace, but my own fancies are Like monster shadows, hers thrown hideously On lurid mists. What can I never now Trust myself with myself? Must there still come This madman’s mood upon me, as if guilt Were more than Man can bear who yet bears death With pleasantness if any one be near To give him honour for it 2 Ah, they say Through all his anguish he would still look down With an ineffable strange pitying, As if 'twas those below who died, not he ; They say through all he—Nay, no more of this. The crime sits hard enough on my wrung mind Without these useless broodings to swell out Its vampire bulk. I know too certainly I shall be haunted with it all my days, As if the Furies clung to me. But I Refuse the guilt, I did not will the doom ; Let the Jews look to it, they took his death On them and on their children. But if aught Could purify me I’d give this right hand The water should have cleansed from the just blood To purchase my redemption. * IN THE STORM 3 I Well, 'tis senseless. To weep past evil is a vainer thing Than to shake drops of dew upon the fire. I'll think no more of it—were’t possible I’d never think again. There’s much to do ; These letters should be sent to Rome at once. IN THE STORM A WILD rough night: and through the glooming grey One sees the blackness of the headland grow, One sees the whiteness of the upflung spray, The whiteness of the breakers down below. A wild wild might: and on the shingly rim The furious Sea-Surge roars and frets and rives; And far away those black Specks growing dim Are tossing with their freights of human lives. And all the while upon the silent height The strong white star beneath the starless sky Shines through the dimness of the troubled night, Shines motionless while the vexed winds hoot by. Oh steadfast light, across dark miles of sea How many Straining eyes whence sleep is chased Are watching through the midnight storm for thee Large glimmering through the haze to the grey waste 32 IN THE STORM And in the night, fond mothers, Scared awake, And lonely wives, pushing the blind aside, See thee and bless thee for their sailor’s sake, And thank God thou art there, the dear ship's guide. Oh Strong calm Star, so watching night by night, And hour by hour, when Storm-winds are astir, They find thee changeless with thy patient light, A beacon to the Sea-tossed wanderer. Oh strong and patient Once upon my life Shone such a star, and, when the trouble wave Reached me and I grew faint with tempest strife, Through all I saw that hope-Star and was brave. Oh my lost star ! my star that was to me Instead of Sunlight that the happy know ! Oh weary way upon life's trackless sea And through the gloom there shines no beacon glow. DREAMING THE quivering ripples all dancing now, Tossing each other the glow, A hundred lights on the lowest bough Flickering to and fro, A humming murmur of tree and stream, And the voices of wild birds glad, And I lie lost in a languid dream, Too happy not to be sad. A happy dream of a Sweet Spring hour In the arch of an avenue Where the chestnuts are dropping a snowy shower And the Sunbeam lies on the dew, And a voice is answering very low, In mine a timid hand lies, And a tangle of golden hair aglow Droops shadows on downcast eyes. And I should be conning a learned book, (Study makes a man grow wise) But I lie tranced by the spell of the brook, Lulled into sweet reveries, Lost in a dream of a leafy aisle And two lovers whispering there, Lost in a dream of a Sunny Smile And the glitter of golden hair. NEVER AGAIN NEVER again. This shivering rose, that sees Its dwindled blossoms droop and fall to earth Before the chillness of the autumn rain, Will bud next summer with more fair than these : But when have love’s waned smiles a second birth P Never again, Never again. Never again. Oh dearest do you know All the long mournfulness of such a word P And even you who Smile now on my pain May Seek Some day for love lost long ago, And sigh to the long echo faintly heard Never again, Never again. Never again. The love we break to-day May linger in my heart unto the last; And even with you some memory must remain, But ah no more. The sunlight died away Will wake again, but never wakes the past: Never again, Never again. 35 THE OLD YEAR OUT AND THE NIEW YEAR IN RING, then, ring loudly, merry midnight bells, Peal the new lord of days blithe welcoming— What though your Sweet-scaled tones be also knells Be knells the while for the old fallen king Resting his dying head upon the Snow P Ring out the old year, for the new year ring. Mock him with laughing voices, bid him go ; Let him make haste to rest among the dead, He is no more a lord for life to know. Ring in the coming year; his power has fled, He has no blessing and no Sorrow more. Ah well; yet should no tear for him be shed 2 Surely some gift of good to men he bore, He too was greeted as an honoured guest ; Ah fickle ! do we joy his reign is o'er 2 Should we so vex him, as he sinks to rest, Greeting with glad acclaim his passing sigh 2 He droops into his grave unmourned, unblest ; 36 THE OLD YEAR OUT AND NEW YEAR IN With dying ears he hears the joyous cry That bids his rival take his crown and reign ; The mirth of music and of Songs laughs by ; He hears men merry at his dying pain, “He breathes his last, laugh him a gay good- bye.”— And yet he did not live with us in vain. But what is this to me 2 Well, let him die. Did he bring any joy or good to me? He taught me tears, shall tears now flood mine eye? But I among the rest make jubilee, (Here in the midnight, sitting all alone, Far in my heart from any thought of glee) And, triumphing to see him overthrown, I say “Yes, die; make haste to thy far flight, Let the new days reap that which thou hast sown.” For thou hast sown ; and if thy stormful might Has crushed the buddings of the former years, Ah well ! their fields of promise were too bright, Too bright—oh childish folly of vain tears, To weep for weeds that were no more than fair, And dwarfed the fulness of the golden ears — Too bright with cornflowers and the crimson flare Of idle poppies, and with purpled chains Of trailing vetch too frail its weight to bear. THE OLD YEAR OUT AND NEW YEAR IN 37 Well, thou hast broken them with thy strong rains And buried them to death beneath thy Snows— What though with them have sunk the swelling grains f For nought can perish quite ; the crimson glows Will be more faint, the purples pale away, But harvest wealth will wave in closer rows. The buried blooms give life from their decay, And strength and fulness to the aftergrowth, Out from their graves it climbs to perfect day. So comes a richer fruit. Why am I wroth With thee, old year 2 And yet I am content: Now in that thought, now this, and doubting both. I say “Haste hence ; I joy thy life is spent, I shall breathe freer when thy reign is o'er ; Let the young lord of hopes make his ascent.” I say “Oh dying year, my heart is Sore For thee who hast become a part of me, I grieve that I shall see thy face no more.” And all the while the death-chills creep o'er thee Lying on thy bleak couch 'mid snow and rain; A moment now, and thou hast ceased to be. Hark! hark the music of the merry chime ! The King is dead God’s blessing on the King ! Welcome with gladness this new King of Time. 38 THE OLD YEAR OUT AND NEW YEAR IN Oh merry midnight bells, ring blithely, ring, Wake with your breathless peal the startled night, High in your belfry in mad frolic swing. Laugh out again, Sweet music and delight, In happy homes a moment hushed to hear The midnight strokes boom out the old year's flight. See, he is gone for ever, the old year, Why should we vex our hearts with sad farewells? Let the dead sleep, bare not his shrouded bier. Ring on, ring yet more gladly, merry bells, Peal the new lord of days glad welcoming— What though your happy chimes be also knells 2 39 GOING THE ripples break upon the beach, And sway the shadow of the heights ; The long slant beams that shoreward reach Are fretted in a thousand lights. But on the shore a stillness dreams, In the blue sky the hill-tops sleep, And through the haze of golden gleams The quiet shadows show more deep. Oh silent hills, oh sleeping shore, Soon shall I lose you in the grey Of stealthy evening Creeping o'er, Of evening darkening o'er the bay. Oh silent hills, oh sleeping shore, The waning light will come again, But I shall look on you no more, For me morn wakens you in vain. Sleep on, fair shore and Sun-loved hills— I seek the land where I was born ; I seek the grey north with its chills; I shall not look on you at morn. 4O A MARCH NIGHT WHITE moonbeams trembling through the night Upon the wind-stirred lawn, and swayed By sudden gusts in tossing light On bare March boughs along the glade, Shine clear upon the surge-lashed head, Shine clear upon the rock-set bay : The sea has had enough of dead, And the brave ships plunge on their way. Wild river flying from the wind On, past the quiet village homes With their long furrowed fields behind, To leap into the mad sea-foams, Wail echoing to the cruel sea, Wail for us that it spare its prey: Mothers are weeping on bent knee, And the frail ships toss on their way. Fierce whirlwinds warring on our plain With the strong trees that heave and crash, Hurling away the pelts of rain, Shrill shrieking through the rattling sash, Faint weary from thy rage, and die : Far off the billows writhe in spray, We waken at thy voice and sigh, And the dear ships plunge on their way. 4 I THE LAKE I SHE said no word, but looked on him, And then he knew that she was won ; And all the world grew far and dim, And who but they beneath the sun ? And “Oh my love,” and “Oh my own,” And “Leave the little hand in mine : ” While from below the lake's long moan Came upwards from the shore's low line “Oh love, through all a stormy life That brought not rest nor any bliss, While angry in the hard world’s strife, I looked for such an hour as this.” “Oh love, through all a cold hushed youth, I never dreamed such joy in store.” And so they plighted lovers' truth : And the grey lake moaned on the shore. II She stood upon the silent hill And watched the creeping shadows grow : And “Surely he must love me still ; ” And “I would give the world to know.” And “It was here we said we loved : ” And “Love, through all I love thee more.” While slow the creeping shadows moved, And the dim lake sighed on the shore. 42 THE LAKE And slow and singly over head The white stars looked on her alone : And “Oh my love, they make me wed, And not one word to claim thine own l’” And “Not one word, love, not one word l’’ And “Oh my love, if thou wert dead | * While through the pines the night-winds stirred, And the dark lake moaned in its bed. III He watched the sunlights on the lake, The shadow of a yellow cloud : And “It was here my love I spake,” And “ It was here our love we vowed.” And “Women love the man that’s near, And more than love count wealth and show : ” While from the sky a lark sang clear, And the blue lake plashed light below. And “So soon dead And yet I would It had been sooner ; for she seemed So good—What then P he calls her good, Her husband, dreams her what I dreamed.” And “Oh dead love . * And “Oh lost love Dead with a baby on thy breast !” And the glad lark trilled on above, And the lulled lake basked into rest. 43 ON THE SHORE THE angry sunset fades from out the west, A glimmering greyness Creeps along the Sea, Wild waves be hushed and moan into your rest, Soon will all earth be sleeping, why not ye P Far off the heavens deaden o'er with sleep, The purple twilight darkens on the hill, Why will ye only ever wake and weep P I weary of your sighing, oh, be still. But ever ever moan ye by the shore, While all your trouble surges in my breast. Oh waves of trouble surge in me no more, Or be but still awhile and let me rest. 44 IN THE SUNSHINE CAROL it merrily out, blithe birds, Trill from the branches, chirp from the eaves, Whisper it cheerily, waving leaves, Chirrup it, grasshopper, shrill to green earth, Chime, all day’s voices, in love and mirth— My joy is too full for words. Laugh it in Sparkles, quivering brook, Plash it, clear fall, in your treble showers, Breathe it in perfume, fresh-scented flowers, Smile, Smile all my gladness, tender sky, Speak, all day's glories—I cannot, I, She must learn it all in a look. Murmur it softly, far-off tide, Surge it lovingly, billowing corn— I who have sighed for the day I was born, Have no joy words for the thoughts that rise— Well, she must read them all in my eyes; She will look in them now, my bride HOW THE BROOK SINGS THE long low Sunbeams eastward fall, Long yellow glories lie Between the trees, on the ivied wall, On the brooklet singing by. HOW THE BROOK SINGS 45 The brook is singing low to me— Yozº cannot hear what it says— Its voice is rich and glad with the glee, With the love of happy days. Ah the shadows have dimmed its glow ! Yet still it sings to me Of joy and love that were long ago, And joy and love that shall be. ON THE LAKE A SUMMER mist on the mountain heights, A golden haze in the sky, A glow on the shore of sleeping lights, And shadows lie heavily. Far in the valley the town lies still, Dreaming asleep in the glare, Dreamily near purrs the drowsy rill, Dreams are afloat in the air. Dreaming above us the languid sky, Dreaming the slumbering lake, And we who rest floating listlessly Say, love, do we dream or wake P 46 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS THERE came a child into the solemn hall Where great Pope Innocent sat throned and heard Angry disputings on Free-will in man, Grace, Purity, and the Pelagian creed— An ignorantly bold poor child, who stood Showing his rags before the Pope's own eyes, And bade him come to shrive a beggar man He found alone and dying in a shed, That sent him for the Pope, “not any else But the Pope's self.” And Innocent arose And hushed the mockers, “Surely I will go : Servant of servants, I.” So he went forth To where the man lay sleeping into death, And blessed him. Then, with a last spurt of life, The dying man rose sitting, “Take,” he said, And placed a written scroll in the Pope's hand, And so fell back and died. Thus said the scroll . Alexius, meanest servant of the Lord, Son of Euphemianus, Senator, And of Aglaia, writes his history, God willing it, which, if God so shall will, Shall be revealed when he is fallen asleep. THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 47 Spirit of Truth, Christ, and all Saints of Heaven, And Mary, perfect dove of guilelessness, Make his mind clear that he write utter truth. That which I was all know : that which I am God knows, not I, if I stand near to Him Because I have not yielded, or, by curse Of recreant longings, am to Him a wretch It needs Such grace to pardon : but I know That one day soon I, dead, shall see His face With that great pity on it which is ours Who love Him and have striven and then rest, That I shall look on Him and be content. For what I am, in my last days, to men, 'Tis nothing ; scarce a name, and even that Known to be not my own ; a wayside wretch Battening upon a rich lord’s charity And praying (some say like the hypocrites), A wayside wretch who, harboured for a night, Is harboured still, and, idle on the alms, Prays day and night and night and day, and fears Lest, even praying, he should suddenly Undo his prayer and perish and be great And rich and happy. Jesu, keep me Thine. Father and mother, when ye hear of me, (For I shall choose so sure a messenger Whom God will show me) when ye hear these words, And Claudia whom I dead will dare count mine, Bidding her pray she be Christ’s more than mine, 48 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS Believe I loved you ; know it; but, beloved, You never will know how much till at length God bids you know all things in the new life. Alas, you have had little joy of me : Beloved, could I have given drops of blood In place of your shed tears, the cruellest wounds Had been my perfect joys : but both my love And your distress needs were my cross to bear. Forgive me that you sorrowed. And be glad Because you Sorrowed and your Sorrow was Holy to God, a sacrifice to Him. Know now, all men who read or hear my words, That I, Alexius, lived in great delights Of a dear home where they who looked on me Looked with a smile, and where I did but smile To earn sweet praises as for Some good deed : I was the sunlight to my mother’s eyes, That waked their deepest blueness and warm glow; I was my father's joy, ambition, boast, His hope and his fulfilment. It may be I grew too strong a link betwixt their hearts And this poor world whose best gifts seemed to them Destined for me, grew, when they looked on Heaven, A blur upon their sight, too largely near, As any trivial tiny shape held close Will make eclipse against the eye it fills: And so, maybe, for their Sake, not for mine, God took me from them, me, their only son, For whom they prayed and trebled pious deeds And took thought in this life. THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 49 I grew by them, Learning all meet for my estate on earth, But learning more, what they taught more, of God, And loving most that learning. And at times, Even from childhood, would my heart grow still And seem to feel Him, hear Him, and I knew, But not with ears, a voice that spoke no words Yet called me. And, as ignorant children choose “I will be emperor when I am big,” My foolish wont was “I will be a saint : ” Later, when riper sense brought humbleness, I said “When I am grown a man my lot Shall be with them who vow their lives to Christ.” But when my father thought my words took shape Of other than boy’s prattle, he grew grave, And answered me “Alexius, thou art young And canst not judge of duties; but know this, Thine is to serve God living in the world.” And still the days went on, and still I felt The silent voice that called me : then I said “My father, now I am no more a child And I can know my heart; give me to God : ” But he replied “God gives no son save thee To keep our fathers’ name alive, and thus He shows thy place and duty : ” and, with tears, My mother said “God gives no child save thee; Make me not childless.” And their words seemed God’s More than my heart’s, theirs who had rule on me. E 50 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS But still my longing grew, and still the voice : And they both answered “Had God need of thee To leave thy natural place none else can fill, There would be signs which none could doubt, In O1. We Nor thou thyself.” And I received that word; Knowing I doubted since they bade me doubt. And still the days went on, and still the voice : And then my father said “The bride is chosen, If thou wilt have her; if not, choose thyself.” And more and more I prayed “Give me to God:” And more and more they urged “Whom gives He us Save thee to keep our name alive P whom else To stay us from a desolate old age And bring us children prattling at our knees P.” And more and more they answered “Show to us How He has called thee from thy certain path Where He has set thy feet P” Wherefore I said “I will obey, and will so serve my God As you have bidden me serve Him, honouring you:” And they two blessed me and we were agreed. And afterwards Euphemianus laughed, “He asks not of the bride ; but, boy, art pleased 2 'Tis thy fair playmate Claudia, fair and good.” I, who asked not because I nothing cared, Was glad in afterthinking : for the girl Had been my playmate, and of later time I knew her beauty with familiar eyes And no more feared it than I feared the grace Of useless goddesses perfect in stone THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 51 Lingering dishonoured in unholy nooks Where comes no worship more ; so that I mused “The damsel brings no perilous wedding gift Of amorous unknown fetters for my soul ; My Soul shall still be spared me, consecrate, Virgin to God, until the better days When I may live the life alone with Him :” So was I comforted. But, in the hour When all the rite was done and the new bride Come to her home, I sitting half apart, My mother took her fondly by the hand And drew her, lagging timidly, to me, And spoke “Look up, my daughter, look on him : Alexius, shall I tell you what I have guessed, How this girl loves you ?” Then she raised her head A moment long, and looked : and I grew white, And sank back sickly. For I suddenly Knew that I might know that which men call love. And through the tedious feast my mind was torn With reasonings and repentance. For I said “But I may love her,” and kept marshalling forth Such scriptures as should seem to grant it me : Then would an anguish hurl my fabric down While I discerned that he who has put hand Upon the plough must never turn again To take the joyaunce granted easy lives. And by and by I stole away and went, Half conscious, through the darkling garden groves, Amid the evening silence, till I came 52 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS To a small lonely chapel, little used, Left open by I know not what new chance, Where there was patterned out in polished Stones Peter denying Christ. I hastened in, And threw me on the floor, and would have prayed But in a rush of tears I fell asleep. And there I dreamed : meseemed the easy years Had slipped along, and I Sat, pleased and proud, Among my ruddy children, and I held My wife's smooth hand, who but so much had changed As to grow lovelier in her womanhood; And facing us a carved and marble Christ Hung on a Cross and gazed with Its dumb eyes, I looking on It: and I turned my head To smile to Claudia, and then looked again ; Behold Its right arm moved, and then was still, And a low voice came forth, “Alexius, come.” And I replied “Oh Lord, I am content; But lo, my father.” Then my father stood, Meseemed, beside me, leading in his hand A sturdy urchin, copy of himself, And answered “Son, my ears do hear thee called ; And now I have this son of thine : go forth.” And once again the voice, “Alexius, come.” And I replied “My Lord, I am content ; But lo, my mother.” THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 53 Then my mother stood, Meseemed, beside me, and her arm was wound Round my wife's neck, and clinging to her skirt A baby boy and girl that teased and played, And clamoured for her kisses; so she stood, And answered “Son, my ears do hear thee called ; And now this daughter hast thou given me, And now I have these sons of thine : go forth.” And louder then the voice, “Alexius, come.” And I replied “Dear Lord, I am content; I come.” Then Claudia's hand grew tight in mine, And I looked on her face and saw it so As when my mother bade her look on me, And I replied “Oh Lord, I were content; But lo, my wife.” And still again the voice ; And still again her hand that drew mine back ; And I replied “My wife : I cannot come.” And still again the voice, “Alexius, come,” Loud and in wrath. And I replied “My wife : I will not come.” And with that word I woke. I was in darkness, and the door was locked, (Doubtless while I, asleep or tranced, lay dumb Some one had sought me there and had not found, 54 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS And so had gone, unconscious, prisoning me); I groped my way toward the altar steps, And thanked my God, and prayed. When morning broke I heard without two voices, as it seemed, Of holy pilgrims talking, and one said “The youth Alexius surely has fled forth To serve God safelier ; ” the other said “Then doth he well; for now that better part Shall none take from him, he shall be all God’s And only God’s, not father's, mother’s, son’s, Nor any fond fair woman’s.” Then they went. But I was still there prisoned. Day moved on And brightened and then waned and darkness came Broken by one white moonbeam for an hour; That seemed a promise, and, in that good hope, I prayed, then slept. But when morn grew again, And no deliverance came, but frequent steps And voices passing, I fell scared with doubts If, keeping silence, as from enemies, And by my silence dying, I should be Self-murdered or God’s martyr; and I thought How, maybe, at the last my ſainting voice Should vainly cry too late and I should pass With none to give God’s comfort. But I thought “If God wills even that, then let it be.” But when the noon sun glowed I heard a hand Touch at the door, and crouched me in a nook, THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 55 And scarce had crouched when Claudia passed by l'Ile With slow steps to the altar : she prayed long ; Praying, poor child, to have me given back, Claiming me back of Heaven, as if her right Could equal That right, Crying out for me By loving names, and weeping, that my heart Went out of me towards her, wondering, And yearned for her. But God was pitiful, So that I swerved not. When I heard her vow To pray there daily, I perceived through her Deliverance should come shortly ; and I planned To stand within the shadow the noon light Threw from a massive column by the door, And when she had passed in and hid her face Get me forth softly. But the flesh was weak, And when I waked next day the noon beams fell Full on the face of Peter where he wept Repenting ; Claudia was already there. I thought a moment should I not come forth, And charge her let none know, and go my way : But did she give one sudden startled cry, Womanlike, I had been betrayed : and then I feared her if she wept. May God forgive My weak heart then, my weak heart all my days, Which never was so strong as not to feel 56 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS Always the fall at hand, but then so weak That some few urgent tears and soft sad words Might, haply might, have bought me from my God. So she went forth, unconscious ; and I prayed Death should not come at night, with none at hand To minister beside me, and in faith I laid me down to wait what God should send. And in a little while she came again, And sought and found a gold and emerald pin (One of the gifts they made me give to her) Dropped from her loosened hair, then, kissing it, Passed out, and for a moment long forgot To make the door fast, turned back to the task, Then, murmuring “Why P For it is better thus, When whoso wills can enter in and pray,” Left it and went. Then, free, I made my vow To live unknown, unhonoured, with no ties No certain home, no aims, no rights, no name, An unregarded wanderer whose steps By whichsoever road they passed but passed To travel nearer Heaven. And for a sign I made a secret place and hid my ring Under the altar. You will find it there : At the right hand a cross upon an A Cut on the floor, so small you must look well, And near it, at the altar-base, a crack I found there in the chiselling (just behind THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 57 A cherub's wing) is closed with dust and earth ; There lies the ring. Give it me mine again, It and my name I take back for my grave, As I take back my kinsfolk and my friends To pray and mourn for me and give God thanks. That done, I got me forth, and saw none nigh, (The search near home being over, as it seemed) And with my best poor speed I found a copse Whose thick green tangles hid me: there I lay Till the cool nightfall came and patient stars Watched Earth asleep, as if they prayed for her ; And other eyes saw not save theirs, and those That look from Heaven, when I came sickly forth And dragged my limp and failing limbs along. I made my clothes in tatters; then I went And begged food at a convent for my life That else were flickered out : so they gave food, And they gave shelter: and at dawn I went, While none who could have known had looked on me, And hastening on my journey followed forth My fellow-ROman Tiber’s seaward strides, And reached the port. There, as I since have learned, Euphemianus had left men in wait While he searched otherwhere : but God ruled all. A little ship was just launched out to Sea, Her heel still caught upon the grating beach, The men were good and took the pilgrim in Who at the farewell moment called to them, And, in what while I know not, but it seemed 58 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS As short as in a dream are days and years, I saw my shores grow narrow purple clouds. And then (for I write truth though shaming me) I broke into such weeping that the men Felt whiteness in their cheeks, and, marvelling, Sent whispers to and fro, in doubt of me Lest witchcraft held me or my some deep crime Had set a curse demonaic ; and they Schemed If they should put back to be rid of me ; But one said “Tush, the youth weeps for his home ; At his age, maybe, Some of us could weep ; Let him alone.” A rough and grizzled man, Who after, at the haven, came and clapped A great hand on my shoulder, “Look, my boy, You keep your secrets safer : for I heard Of a hot hunt after a great man’s son, And when I saw you weep . . . Well, go your way, My tongue shall earn no wages by its blab. Maybe at your age I should have fled too, If yoked against my will ; but I am Old And preach go home again. Some say she's fair; And a fair woman, love her or not love, Is a fair woman : but, or fair or foul, Be wise, young sir, be wise ; never go starve Because your cake's not candied to your taste.” I said “Kind friend, I have no home to seek ; God gives me not a home till by and by,” And left him. So my pilgrimage began. But, oh vain heart of man can this be true Which I remember, that I, plodding on, THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 59 Whither I did not ask me, as God willed, Undoubting and ungrieving, yea, puffed up To feel my heart was numb of all regret, Carrying upon my lips (as men will burr A day long some persistent measured strain) For refrain-catch “Now all and only God’s,” Drew from my bosom, with my crucifix, A withered Crumpled weed, a clinging thing That, green and dainty, new brushed from its root, With one white flower-speck on it, trailed its sprays Athwart the purple hem of Claudia's Scarf The last time in the chapel, while she prayed ; It lay upon the floor when she was gone. A worthless grass, what good was it to me And lo, made fellow with my crucifix / Yet surely I had done it scarce aware, For now I gazed on it so stupidly As if a secret hand had placed it there To set a riddle so, nor could recall What thought I took it with. But see what Snares I fled from, flying Claudia ; suddenly The thing was at my lips, in such a kiss AS, maybe, lovers kiss on women's mouths, In such a kiss, howbeit, as brought Shame Almost in its own birth. I hurled the weed, The viperous thing, into the battling Surf That dragged and sucked the booming shingles down, Lashing the beach before a coming Storm ; I hurled it forth and went. It seems to me, Looking back now, as iſ that made an end. 6O THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS I think I had no temptings afterwards. Natheless my grief was bitter many times, Remembering home : but that I felt not sin, Because ’twas as a Soul among the dead Might sorrow never wishing to come back. And Claudia was not of my memories: Scarcely at all : a stray bad dream at night Would bring her to me, make me dream I wept Because I might not love her, but not dream That I did love ; in daytime she came not. Ten years I wandered : who cares know the whither P A pilgrim and alone I trod my way, No man regarding me. Alone with God : Whether in deserts or the throng of towns: Whether upon the mountain-tops whence Earth Shows sometimes so too exquisite for man As though the devil had leave to fashion it And Cozen us with its beauty ; or below, Where in the valleys one beholds the hills Grow nearer Heaven at sunset ; or, my ears Full of the hymn of waters, where the sea Breaks at one’s feet among the rough brown rocks; Whether in pain, in weariness, in fear, Or, thankful, taking comfortable rest ; Always alone with God. So for ten years : And in the later of them I had peace : So for ten years, and then, by what degrees I know not, (for the stupor crept like sleep, Slowly yet sudden on one at the last) THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 61 My peace became a blankness. And one day I sought to rouse me, questioning “Where is God P” And could not weep because I found Him not, Yea, could not rouse me. And my prayers were words, Like trite good-morrows when two gossips meet And never look for answers ; and my praise Was rounded like the Song the poet makes To one who never lived for him to love. I was my Pharisee to cheat myself And make myself believe me that God’s friend I had forgotten what it felt to be. So, when I saw this plainly, I took thought, Pondering how it should be that when I pined For thirst of human love I loved God more And felt His love more near me than when now My heart was swept and garnished, void for Him : At last I saw my need of quickening pain To stir the sluggish Soul awake in me, And knew I offered nothing to my Lord Offering Him that it cost me nought to give ; What good to turn to Him, “Lord, I leave all,” If all be noway precious P I arose And set my face to Rome, making all haste. On the forty-seventh day I saw the Sun Droop to the hill behind my father's house, And lo, while I toiled up the rude ascent, Our last slope of the Aventine, there came, Riding apart and grave, from the far side, 62 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS Euphemianus. When he reached the gate He entered not, but seemed to point me out To the servitors who followed with his hawks, And watched me coming upwards painfully. And when he saw me footsore and so spent He had compassion : ere my prayer was done, “Food, my good lord, and rest, for charity,” He bade them take me in. Six years ago : And now I die here. No one bade depart ; They gave me daily Scraps, and let me house In the shed for harbouring squalid wanderers That sleep a night and take their alms and go. None knew me ; who should know me P Gone away, Past ten years since, a comely petted boy, And now a half decrepit sickly wretch, A lean and shrivelled carcase, the ten years Writ twenty on my leathery wrinkled face, How was I their Alexius P Nay, they looked And saw the stranger in the beggars’ shed They called, for want of name, Old Lazarus. In the beggars’ shed with God : with God again Oh exquisite pain that brought so exquisite joy Even by instant peril to be lost Lo, I was saved. Oh blessed exquisite pain My heart awoke for anguish, and felt God. I saw my father pass out and pass in ; Sometimes he noted me and spoke a word THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 63 Or looked a careless greeting, oftenest not ; I saw him daily, and I learned his face How stern long Sorrow made it and how still, And, when some days he could not make a smile, I heard the servants whisper “Do you see P This is his lost son’s birthday,” or “the day His son fled forth,” or else “his baptism,” “Confirming,” “going to school,” all such home dates As parents count who watch their children grow : And he was changed, they said, cared not to see Friends’ faces greeting him, nor join in talk, But would be solitary ; changed, they said, Since that strange losing of his only child. My mother I saw not in the first days, For she came never forth, but sat and slept, And wakened querulous, and slept again. And Claudia tended her : I had not thought To find her here ; I looked she’d count me dead And marry her, ('tis known what women are) And was all startled when I saw her first : But only for the strangeness, after that She was no more to me than I to her, She might have Smiled to me, or in my sight, That dangerous Smile and I been no more moved Than if a babe had laughed as I passed by. Then a day came, a still and Sultry day When you might take count of each leaf that stirred And think the one shrill grasshopper too loud, My mother waked and heard a hymn I sang And took a whim to have the singer fetched ; 64 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS Only a whim, belike, for could my voice Bring back the Stripling’s voice she had thought sweet 2 They fetched me, I stood by her : ah my mother And she so changed nothing of her old self; The goodliness, the Sweetness, the delight, Gone, waned out from her, as the light of day Was waning from her eyes long dulled by tears. Ah, could I but have clung about her feet, Crying out “Mother, take thy son again * ! But yet for her it would have been too late. She talked to me, inconsequent grave talk Like children’s, whispered after when I prayed, And made me sing her hymns, so was content Longer than was her wont, then bade me go And come again to-morrow : ever since She calls me every day. And every day Is Claudia there. Over two thousand days, And every day I look on Claudia's face More wistful and more sweet, and every day Behold her patience, hear her wise grave words, And better know her all she is. What then P Have I not striven f have I not prevailed P And now death is at hand : Some few days Inn Ore And I shall lay me down and be at rest. There will be no farewell at last, I think ; | THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 65 They will not know of me that I lie sick And pass away ; and, even if they knew, Why should they come to close my dying eyes 2 The beggar Lazarus can die alone, As he has lived alone. My mother, though, Will lack me, ask for me, Claudia will send To bid me hasten, then the word will come “He died this morning,” and she will not weep, But say “Poor wretch : God rest the parted soul,” And turn to soothe my mother with some wile To make her never miss me: and maybe Euphemianus will not hear the news, Or will not note it if he ever hears. So I shall lie in the grave and they not care, But wait for lost Alexius to come home, And mourn for him, half hating him for their grief. Give me fruit, give me fruit, oh Christ ; give my earned fruit For all my sufferings: I have mine for me, But I claim theirs, give fruit for them I Smote. Have I written wildly P I will cancel nought : For I have written looking death in face, Thinking God bade me write: and words come so Must stand untouched. But surely this much grace My Lord hath given me, that they shall know. Behold, I make this paper, being forced As by the Spirit, and it comes on me That God doth choose His highest in the world To be the beggar's messenger ; he first, And I the last, so thereto is he called ; F 66 THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS Servant of servants. This which I have written Do I entrust to him, my testament : Some shall learn patience from it and to do What God bids and not doubt ; for all is good, All happy, if it be to do His will, The suffering ye may guess, but not the bliss Till ye have tasted it. And I desire That, having scanned the scroll, he shall, or then Or later as seems to his wisdom wise, Deliver all its words to them and her, My father and my mother and my wife, (Lo, this once in my life I call her so). I pray Thee, Lord, give the poor words the power To comfort them and strengthen ; and, I pray, Give the words power to strengthen and stir souls Which hear Thee call and pause to count with Thee. And now, oh Lord, let Earth be dim to me And Heaven come near mine eyes: the time is Short, And I am fain for Thee. Lord Jesus, come. Now, when Pope Innocent had read the scroll, He bade one with him enter in the house And call the lord Euphemianus thence, And Claudia, and Aglaia. So they came, Aglaia feebly leaning on the two, And questioning them who knew not; so they came; And the Pope pointed them to the dead man, “Behold, for this is one whom you should know.” Euphemianus gazed and was perplexed: THE MANUSCRIPT OF SAINT ALEXIUS 67 And the poor purblind mother gazed and peered, “Old Lazarus P no, yes, old Lazarus; Asleep or dead P Why is it 2 Is he dead P” But Claudia answered softly “Yes, I know ; I knew it ;” and then, suddenly, borne down By one strong gust of passion, flung herself Beside the corpse, her head upon its breast, Her arms clasped Straining round it, weeping out. And Innocent answered the father’s eyes, “This was Alexius, thy long lost son.” But yet the father, stricken dumb, looked doubt : Aglaia cried “My boy | Where is he, then P’’ And fretfully “This is old Lazarus : Where is my boy P show me Alexius.” Then Innocent bade peace, and read the scroll . Euphemianus, with his face hid down Between his hands, listened and never stirred ; And Claudia listened, weeping silently ; But Aglaia whispered always “Is it true F Is the tale of Lazarus or of my boy P I cannot understand.” And when 'twas read Euphemianus gazed upon his son, “Yet, did he well ?” he said. “He was our son, He was her husband ; how could it be well ? For look upon his mother, what she is.” But Claudia rose up tearless and replied “Alexius did all well : he knew God called.” And Innocent, not tearless, raised his hand And spoke “She answers wisely : he obeyed; He knew, being a very Saint of God : Let us bless God for him.” And they all knelt, But still Aglaia could not understand. 68 CIRCE THE sun drops luridly into the west ; Darkness has raised her arms to draw him down Before the time, not waiting as of wont Till he has come to her behind the sea ; And the smooth waves grow Sullen in the gloom And wear their threatening purple ; more and more The plain of waters sways and seems to rise Convexly from its level of the shores; And low dull thunder rolls along the beach : There will be storm at last, storm, glorious storm, Oh welcome, welcome, though it rend my bowers, Scattering my blossomed roses like the dust, Splitting the shricking branches, tossing down My riotous vines with their young half-tinged grapes Like Small round amethysts or beryls strung Tumultuously in clusters, though it sate Its ravenous spite among my goodliest pines Standing there round and still against the sky That makes blue lakes between their sombre tufts, Or harry from my silvery olive slopes Some hoary king whose gnarled fantastic limbs Wear rugged armour of a thousand years; CIRCE 69 Though it will hurl high on my flowery shores The hostile wave that rives at the poor Sward And drags it down the slants, that swirls its foam Over my terraces, shakes their firm blocks Of great bright marbles into tumbled heaps, And makes my pleached and mossy labyrinths, Where the small odorous blossoms grow like stars Strewn in the milky way, a briny marsh. What matter P let it come and bring me change, Breaking the sickly sweet monotony. I am too weary of this long bright calm ; Always the same blue sky, always the sea The same blue perfect likeness of the sky, One rose to match the other that has waned, To-morrow’s dawn the twin of yesterday's ; And every night the ceaseless crickets chirp The same long joy and the late strain of birds Repeats their strain of all the even month ; And changelessly the petty plashing Surfs Bubble their chiming burden round the Stones ; Dusk after dusk brings the same languid trance Upon the shadowy hills, and in the fields The waves of fireflies come and go the Same, Making the very flash of light and stir Vex one like dronings of the shuttles at task. Give me some change. Must life be only Sweet, All honey-pap as babes would have their food P And, if my heart must always be adrowse In a hush of stagnant Sunshine, give me, then, Something outside me stirring ; let the Storm Break up the sluggish beauty, let it fall 7o CIRCE Beaten below the feet of passionate winds, And then to-morrow waken jubilant In a new birth : let me see subtle joy Of anguish and of hopes, of change and growth. What fate is mine who, far apart from pains And fears and turmoils of the cross-grained world, Dwell like a lonely god in a charmed isle Where I am first and only, and, like one Who should love poisonous savours more than mead, Long for a tempest on me and grow sick Of rest and of divine free carelessness | Oh me, I am a woman, not a god ; Yea, those who tend me, even, are. more than I, My nymphs who have the souls of flowers and birds, Singing and blossoming immortally. Ah me ! these love a day and laugh again, And loving, laughing, find a full content ; But I know naught of peace, and have not loved. Where is my love 2 Does some one cry for me Not knowing whom he calls 2 does his soul cry For mine to grow beside it, grow in it 2 Does he beseech the gods to give him me, The one unknown rare woman by whose side No other woman thrice as beautiful Could once seem fair to him ; to whose voice heard In any common tones no sweetest sound Of love made melody on silver lutes, Or singing like Apollo’s when the gods Grow pale with happy listening, might be peered For making music to him ; whom once found There will be no more seeking anything 2 CIRCE 7 I Oh love, oh love, oh love, art not yet come Out of the waiting shadows into life 2 Art not yet come after so many years That I have longed for thee ? Come ! I am here. Not yet. For surely I should feel a sound Of his far answer if now in the world He sought me who will seek me—Oh, ye gods, Will he not seek me 2 Is it all a dream P Will there be never never such a man P. Will there be only these, these bestial things Who wallow in their styes, or mop and mow Among the trees, or munch in pens and byres, Or snarl and filch behind their wattled coops ; These things who had believed that they were men P Nay, but he will come. Why am I so fair, And marvellously minded, and with sight Which flashes suddenly on hidden things, As the gods see who do not need to look 2 Why wear I in my eyes that stronger power Than basilisks, whose gaze can only kill, To draw men’s souls to me to live or die As I would have them P why am I given pride Which yet longs to be broken, and this scorn, Cruel and vengeful, for the lesser men Who meet the smiles I waste for lack of him, And grow too glad P why an I who I am But for the sake of him whom fate will schd One day to be my master utterly, That he should take me, the desire of all, Whom only he in the world could bow to him. 72 CIRCE Oh Sunlike glory of pale glittering hairs, Bright as the filmy wires my weavers take To make me golden gauzes—oh deep eyes, Darker and softer than the bluest dusk Of August violets, darker and deep Like crystal fathomless lakes in Summer noons ; Oh Sad Sweet longing Smile—oh lips that tempt My very self to kisses—oh round cheeks Tenderly radiant with the even flush Of pale smoothed coral—perfect lovely face Answering my gaze from out this fleckless pool— Wonder of glossy shoulders, chiselled limbs— Should I be so your lover as I am, Drinking an exquisite joy to watch you thus In all a hundred changes through the day, But that I love you for him till he comes, But that my beauty means his loving it Oh, look a speck on this side of the Sun, Coming—yes, coming with the rising wind That frays the darkening cloud-wrack on the verge And in a little while will leap abroad, Spattering the sky with rushing blacknesses, Dashing the hissing mountainous waves at the Stal’S. 'Twill drive me that black speck a shuddering hulk Caught in the buffeting waves, dashed impotent From ridge to ridge, will drive it in the night With that dull jarring crash upon the beach, And the cries for help and the cries of fear and hope. CIRCE 73 And then to-morrow they will thoughtfully, With grave low voices, count their perils up, And thank the gods for having let them live, And tell of wives or mothers in their homes, And children, who would have such loss in them That they must weep (and may be I weep too) With fancy of the weepings had they died. And the next morrow they will feel their ease And sigh with sleek content, or laugh elate, Tasting delights of rest and revelling, Music and perfumes, joyaunce for the eyes Of rosy faces and luxurious pomps, The Savour of the banquet and the glow And fragrance of the wine-cup ; and they'll talk How good it is to house in palaces Out of the storms and struggles, and what luck Strewed their good ship on our accessless coast. Then the next day the beast in them will wake, And one will Strike and bicker, and one swell With puffed up greatness, and one gibe and strut In apish pranks, and one will line his sleeve With pilfered booties, and one Snatch the gems Out of the carven goblets as they pass, One will grow mad with fever of the wine, And one will sluggishly besot himself, And one be lewd, and one be gluttonous; And I shall sickly look, and loathe them all. Oh my rare cup ! my pure and crystal Cup With not one speck of colour to make false The entering lights, or flaw to make them Swerve My cup of Truth ! How the lost fools will laugh And thank me for my boon, as if I gave 74. CIRCE Some momentary flash of the gods' joy, To drink where / have drunk and touch the touch Of my lips with their own | Aye, let them touch. Too cruel am I ? And the silly beasts, Crowding around me when I pass their way, Glower on me and, although they love me still, (With their poor sorts of love such as they could) Call wrath and vengeance to their humid cyes To Scare me into mercy, or creep near With piteous fawnings, supplicating bleats. Too cruel ? Did I choose them what they are 2 Or change them from themselves by poisonous charms ? But any draught, pure water, natural wine, Out of my cup, revealed them to themselves And to each other. Change P there was no change ; Only disguise gone from them unawares: And had there been one true right man of them He would have drunk the draught as I had drunk, And stood unharmed and looked me in the eyes, Abashing me before him. But these things— Why, which of them has even shown the kind Of some one nobler beast P Pah yapping wolves And pitiless stealthy wild-cats, curs and apes And gorging Swine and slinking venomous Snakes, All false and ravenous and sensual brutes That shame the Earth that bore them, these they are. Lo, lo l the shivering blueness darting forth On half the heaven, and the forked thin fire Strikes to the sea, and hark, the sudden voice CIRCE 75 That rushes through the trees before the storm, And shuddering of the branches. Yet the sky Is blue against them still, and early stars Sparkle above the pine-tops; and the air Clings faint and motionless around me here. Another burst of flame—and the black Speck Shows in the glare, lashed onwards. It were well I bade make ready for our guests to-night. 76 THE HAPPIEST G [RL IN THE WORLD A WEEK ago; only a little week : It seems so much much longer, though that day Is every morning still my yesterday : As all my life 'twill be my yesterday, For all my life is morrow to my love. Oh fortunate morrow ! Oh Sweet happy love A week ago; and I am almost glad To have him now gone for this little while, That I may think of him and tell myself What to be his means, now that I am his, And know if mine is love enough for him, And make myself believe it all is true. A week ago; and it seems like a life, And I have not yet learned to know myself: I am so other than I was, so strange, Grown younger and grown older all in one ; And I am not So Sad and not so gay ; And I think nothing, only hear him think. That morning, waking, I remembered him, “Will he be here to-day ? he often comes ; And is it for my sake or to kill time P” THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD 77 And, wondering “Will he come P” I chose the dress He seemed to like the best, and hoped for him ; And did not think I could quite love him yet. And did I love him then with all my heart P Or did I wait until he held my hands And spoke “Say, shall it be P” and kissed my brow, And I looked at him and he knew it all P And did I love him from the day we met P But I more gladly danced with Some one else Who waltzed more smoothly and was merrier : And did I love him when he first came here P But I more gladly talked with some one else Whose words were readier and who sought me 1]].OTC. When did I love him 2 How did it begin P The small green spikes of Snowdrops in the Spring Are there one morning ere you think of them ; Still we may tell what morning they pierced up ; June rosebuds stir and open stealthily, And every new-blown rose is a Surprise ; Still we can date the day when one unclosed : But how can I tell when my love began P Oh, was it like the young pale twilight star That quietly breaks on the vacant sky, Is sudden there and perfect while you watch, And though you watch you have not seen it dawn, The star that only waited and awoke. 78 THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD But he knows when he loved me ; for he says The first time we had met he told a friend ‘The sweetest dewy daisy of a girl, But not the solid stuff to make a wife ; ” And afterwards the first time he was here, When I had slipped away into our field To watch alone for sunset brightening on And heard them calling me, he says he stood And saw me come along the coppice walk Beneath the green and sparkling arch of boughs, And, while he watched the yellow lights that played With the dim flickering shadows of the leaves Over my yellow hair and soft pale dress, Flitting across me as I flitted through, He whispered inly, in so many words, “I see my wife; this is my wife who comes, And seems to bear the sunlight on with her : ” And that was when he loved me, so he says. Yet is he quite sure ? was it only then P And had he had no thought which I could feel ? For why was it I knew that he would watch, And all the while thought in my silly heart, As I advanced demurely, it was well I had on the pale dress with sweeping folds Which took the light and shadow tenderly, And that the sunlights touched my hair and cheek, Because he'd note it all and care for it 2 Oh vain and idle poor girl’s heart of mine, Content with that coquettish mean content THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD 79 He, with his man's Straight purpose, thinking “ wife,” And I but that 'twas pleasant to be fair And that 'twas pleasant he should count me fair. But oh to think he should be loving me And I be no more moved out of myself The Sunbeams told him, but they told me nought, Except that maybe I was looking well. And oh had I but known | Why did no bird, Trilling its own sweet lovesong as I passed, So musically marvellously glad, Sing one for me too, sing me “It is he,” Sing “Love him,” and “You love him : it is he,” That I might then have loved him when he loved, That one dear moment might be date to both 2 And must I not be glad he hid his thought And did not tell me then, when it was soon And I should have been startled and not known How he is just the one man I can love, And only with some pain lest he were pained, And nothing doubting, should have answered « NO.” How strange life is I should have answered « No.” Oh can I ever be half glad enough He is so wise and patient and could wait ! He waited as you wait the reddening fruit Which helplessly is ripening on the tree, And not because it tries or longs or wills, Only because the sun will Shine on it : But he who waited was himself that Sun. 8O THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD Oh was it worth the waiting P was it worth P For I am half afraid love is not love, This love which only makes me rest in him And be so happy and so confident, This love which makes me pray for longest days That I may have them all to use for him, This love which makes me almost yearn for pain That I might have borne something for his sake, This love which I call love, is less than love. Where are the fires and fevers and the pangs P Where is the anguish of too much delight And the delirious madness at a kiss, The flushing and the paling at a look, And passionate ecstasy of meeting hands P Where is the eager weariness at time That will not bate a single measured hour To speed us to the far-off wedding-day ? I am so calm and wondering, like a child Who, led by a firm hand it knows and trusts Along a stranger country beautiful With a bewildering beauty to new eyes If they be wise to know what they behold, Finds newness everywhere but no surprise, And takes the beauty as an outward part Of being led so kindly by the hand. I am so cold : is mine but a child’s heart, And not a woman's fit for such a man P Alas am I too cold, am I too dull, Can I not love him as another could P And oh, if love be fire, what love is mine That is but like the pale subservient moon Who only asks to be earth’s minister 2 And oh, if love be whirlwind, what is mine THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD 81 That is but like a little even brook Which has no aim but flowing to the sea, And sings for happiness because it flows P Ah well, I would that I could love him more And not be only happy as I am ; - I would that I could love him to his worth, With that forgetting all myself in him, That Subtle pain of exquisite excess, That momentary infinite sharp joy, I know by books but cannot teach my heart : And yet I think my love must needs be love, Since he can read me through—oh happy strange, My thoughts that were my secrets all for me Grown instantly his open easy book — Since he can read me through and is content. And yesterday, when they all went away Save little Amy with her daisy chains, And left us in that shadow of tall ferns, And the child, leaning on me, fell asleep, And I, tired by the afternoon long walk, Said “I could almost gladly sleep like her,” Did he not answer, drawing down my head, “Sleep, darling, let me see you rest on me,” And when the child awaking wakened me Did he not say “Dear, you have made me glad, For, seeing you so sleeping in your peace, I feel that you do love me utterly ; No questionings, no regrettings, but at rest.” Oh yes, my good true darling, you said well— “No questionings, no regrettings, but at rest : ” G 82 THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD What should I question, what should I regret, Now I have you who are my hope and rest ? I am the feathery wind-wafted seed That flickered idly half a merry morn, Now thralled into the rich life-giving earth To root and bud and waken into leaf And make it such poor Sweetness as I may ; The prisoned seed that never more shall float The frolic playfellow of summer winds And mimic the free changeful butterfly ; The prisoned seed that prisoned finds its life And feels its pulses stir and grows and grows. Oh love who gathered me into yourself, Oh love, I am at rest in you, and live. And shall I for So many coming days Be flower and sweetness to him 2 Oh pale flower, Grow, grow, and blossom out and fill the air, Feed on his richness, grow, grow, blossom out And fill the air and be enough for him. Oh crystal music of the air-borne lark, So falling nearer nearer from the sky, Are you a message to me of dear hopes 2 Oh trilling gladness flying down to earth, Have you brought answer of sweet prophecy P Have you brought answer to the thoughts in me 2 Oh happy answer and oh happy thoughts And which is the bird’s carol, which my heart’s 2 My love, my love, my love | And I shall be So much to him, So almost everything : THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD 83 And I shall be the friend whom he will trust, And I shall be the child whom he will teach, And I shall be the servant he will praise, And I shall be the mistress he will love, And I shall be his wife. Oh days to come, Will ye not pass like gentle rhythmic steps That fall to Sweetest music noiselessly P But I have known the lark’s song half sound sad, And I have seen the lake which rippled sun Toss dimmed and purple in a sudden wind ; And let me laugh a moment at my heart That thinks the summer-time must all be fair, That thinks the good days always must be good : Yes, let me laugh a moment—maybe weep. But no, but no, not laugh ; for through my joy I have been wise enough to know the while Some tears and Some long hours are in all lives, In every promised land Some thorn-plants grow, Some tangling weeds as well as laden vines : And no, not weep ; for is not my land fair, My land of promise flushed with fruit and bloom P And who would weep for fear of scattered thorns f And very thorns bear oftentimes sweet fruits. Oh, the black storm that breaks across the lake Ruffles the surface, leaves the deeps at rest— Deep in our hearts there always will be rest : Oh, summer storms fall sudden as they rose, The peaceful lake forgets them while they die— Our hearts will always have it summer-time. 84 THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD All rest, all summer-time. My love, my love, I know it will be so ; you are so good, And I near you shall grow at last like you ; And you are tender, patient—Oh, I know You will bear with me, help me, Smile to me, And let me make you happy easily ; And I, what happiness could I have more Than that dear labour of a happy wife P I would not have another. Is it wrong, And is it selfish, that I cannot wish, That I who yet so love the clasping hand And innocent fond eyes of little ones, I cannot wish that which I sometimes read Is women's dearest wish hid in their love, To press a baby creature to my breast P Oh is it wrong P I would be all for him, Not even children coming 'twixt us two To call me from his service to serve them ; And maybe they would steal too much of love For, since I cannot love him now enough, What would my heart be halved 2 Or would it grow P But he perhaps would love me something less, Finding me not so always at his side. Together always, that was what he said ; Together always. Oh dear coming days Oh dear dear present days that pass too fast, Although they bring such rainbow morrows on That pass So fast, and yet, I know not why, Seem always to encompass so much time. And I should fear I were too happy now, And making this poor world too much my Heaven, THE HAPPIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD 85 But that I feel God nearer and it seems As if I had learned His love better too. So late already The sun dropping down, And under him the first long line of red— My truant should be here again by now, Is come maybe. I will not seek him, I ; He would be vain and think I cared too much ; I will wait here and he shall seek for me, And I will carelessly—oh, his dear Step— He sees me, he is coming ; my own love 86 AN INVENTOR Not yet ! I thought this time ’twas done at last, The workings perfected, the life in it; And there's the ſlaw again, the petty flaw, The fretting Small impossibility That has to be made possible. To work | So many more months lost on a wrong tack; And months and months may so be lost again, Who knows 2 until they swell a tale of years Counted by ſailures. No time to sit down With folded arms to moan for the lost toil, For on, on, glide the envious treacherous hours That bring at last the night when none can work ; And I’ll not die with my work unfulfilled. It 7/27/sº perform my thought, it 7/27/s? awake, This soulless whirring thing of springs and wheels, And be a power among us. Aye, but how P There it stands facing me, compact, precise, The nice presentment of my long design, And what is it f an accurate mockery, AN INVENTOR 87 And not my creature. Where's my secret hid, The little easy secret which once found Will show so palpable that the pleased world Shall presently believe it always knew P Where is my secret P Oh my aching brain Good God, have all the anxious ponderings, All the laborious strain of hand and head, All the night watches, all the stolen days From fruitfuller tasks, all I have borne and done, Brought me no nearer solving f Stolen days ; Yes, from the little ones and grave pale wife Who should have cvery hour of mine made coin To buy them Sunshine. Stolen ; and they lack all Save the bare needs which only paupers lack : Stolen; and cheerlessly the mother sits Over her dismal blinding stitchery And no quick Smile of welcome parts her lips, Seeing me come ; and quiet at their play The children crowd, cooped in the unlovely home, And envy tattered urchins out of doors Their merry life and playground of the Streets. Oh, if it were but my one self to spend But to doom them too with me! Never a thought Dawns first into thc world but is a curse On the rash finder ; part of heaven’s fire Filched to bestow on men, and for your pay The vulture at your heart. What should one choose 2 Or is there choice P A madness comes on you, 88 AN INVENTOR Whose name is revelation : who has power To check the passion of it, who in the world 2 A revelation, yes; ’tis but a name For knowledge . . . and there perishes free-will, For every man is slave of what he knows ; It is the soul of him, could you quench that You leave the mere mechanic animal— A sentient creature, true, and reasoning, (Because the clockwork in it’s made for that) But, like my creature there, its purport lacked, So but its own abortive counterfeit. We have our several purports ; some to pace The accustomed roads and foot down rampant weeds, Bearing mute custom smoothly on her course ; Some difficultly to force readier paths, Or hew out passes through the wilderness ; And some belike to find the Snuggest place, And purr beside the fire. Each of his kind ; But can you change your kind P the lion caged Is still a lion, pipes us no lark’s trills ; Drive forth the useful brood hen from the yard, She’ll never learn the falcon's soar and swoop. We must abye our natures ; if they fit Too Crossly to our hap, the worse for us, But who would pray (say such a prayer could serve) “Let me become some other, not myself” P And yet, and yet—Oh, why am I assigned To this long maining battle P Why to me This blasting gift, this lightning of the gods Scorching the hand that wields it P Why to me? A lonely man, or dandled in the lap AN INVENTOR 89 Of comfortable fortune, might with joy Hug the strange serpent blessing ; to the one It has no tooth, for gilded hands make gold Of all they touch, the other . . . is alone, And has the right to suffer. Not for them Is doubt or dread ; but I—Oh little ones Whose unsuspecting eyes pierce me with Smiles Oh Sad and brooding wife whose silent hopes Are all rebukes to mine ! Come, think it out ; Traitor to them or traitor to the world ; Is that the choice P Why then, they are my own, Given in my hand, looking to me for all, And, for my destined present to the world, Being what it is some one some fortunate day Will find it, or achieve it ; if the world wait. Well, it has waited. Yet 'twere pitiful That still and still, while to a thousand souls Life’s irrecoverable swift to-day Becomes the ſutile yesterday, the world Go beggared of a birthright unaware, And (as if one should slake his thirst with blood Pricked from his own red veins, while at his hand Lies the huge hairy nut from whose rough bowl He might quaff juicy milk and knows it not) Spend out so great a wealth of wasted Strength— Man upon man given to the imperious Unnecessary labour. How were that, Having made my honest bargain with the world To serve its easier and accepted needs For the due praise and pudding, keeping it, Like a wise servant, not to lose my place, 90 AN INVENTOR To note the enduring loss and adding up Its various mischiefs score them as the price Of my reposeful fortunes P Why, do this And each starved blockhead dribbling out his life On the continued toil would be //ly drudge, And not one farthest corner of our earth Where hurrying traffic plies but would have voice To reach my ears and twit me guilty to it. But then, the wife and children: must they pine In the bleak shade of frosty poverty Because the man that should have cared for them Discerned a way to double wealth with wealth And glut the maw of rank prosperity ? Traitor to them or traitor to the world : A downright question that, and Sounds well put, And one that begs its answer, since we count The nearer duty first to every man ; But there's another pungent clause to note. . . That's traitor to myself. Has any man The right of that P God puts a gift in you— To your own hurt, we’ll say, but what of that ?— He puts a gift in you, a Seed to grow To His fulfilment, germinant with your life, And may you crush it out P And say you do, What is your remnant life 2 An empty husk, Or balked and blighted stem past hope of bloom. Well, make the seed develope otherwise And grow to your fulfilment wiselier planned : But will that prosper ? may the thistle say “Let me blow smooth white lilies,” or the wheat “Let me be purple with enticing grapes”? God says “Be that I bade, or else be nought,” AN INVENTOR 9I And what thing were the man to make that choice? For me I dare not were it for their sake, And, for their sake I dare not ; could their good Grow out of my undoing P they with me And I with them we are so interknit That taint in me must canker into them And my upholding holds them from the mire : And So, as there are higher things than ease, We must bear on together they and I. And it may be to bear is all our part. I have outpast the first fantastic hopes That fluttered round my project at its birth, Outgrown them as the learning child outgrows The picture A's and B's that lured him on ; I have forgotten honours, wealth, renown. I see no bribe before me but that one, My work’s fruition. Yes, as we all who feel The dawn of a creative thought, discern In the beginning that perfected end Which haply shall not be, I saw the end ; And my untried presumptuous eyes, befooled, Saw it at hand. How round each forward Step Flocked the delusive and decoying dreams And I seemed while I sowed still hurrying on To touch the sudden fruit, the ripe choice fruit To be garnered for my dear ones, mine for them : But long since I have learned, in weariness, In ſailures, and in toil, to put by dreams, To put by hopes, and work, as the bird sings, Because God planned me for it. For I look Undazzled on the future, Sce the clouds, And see the sunbeams several not one glow : 92 AN INVENTOR I know that I shall find my secret yet And make my creature here another power To change a world’s whole life ; but, that achieved, Whom will the world thank for it 2 Me perhaps ; Perhaps some other who with after touch, Shall make the springs run easier : I have read The lives of men like me who have so sought, So found, then been forgotten, while there came An apter man (maybe but luckier) To add or alter, gave another shape, Made or displayed it feasible and Sure, And then the thing was his . . . as the rare gen) Is not called his who dug it from the mines, But his who cut and set it in a ring. It will be as it will be : I dare count No better fortunes mine than from first days The finders met with, men who, howsoe'er Seekers and teachers, bring the world new gifts, Too new for any value. Well, so be it: And now—No I am over weary now, And out of heart, too : idleness to-night ; To-morrow all shall be begun again. That lever, now, if–– Am I out of heart 2 To work at once, then I’ll not go to rest With the desponding cramp clutching my heart : A new beginning blots the failure out, And sets one's thoughts on what’s to be achieved, Letting what’s lost go by. Come, foolish toy, That should have been so much, let's see at least What help you have to give me. By and by We'll have another like you, with the soul. 93 YU-PE-YA2S LUTE FRIENDS are many, but who hath a friend ? Stars are many, Özzá who hath a star 2 Ariends and stars smile fair from afar, Aºriends azzd stars have their coverse áo zvezd. Once a star came down from its sky, Zoving a mazz àoo well to séay lone ; Sometimes friend hath met friend and known AHeart was 707th heará to live or to die. Płear the tale of Yu-Pe-Ya's lute— Friend for friend in an ancient day. Thousands of years have faded away But the perished chords shall never be mule. YU-PE-YA, born where Yng-Tou’s halls and fanes Look from their slopes upon a Sea of plains, Smooth wave on wave of greenness dimpling forth To reach the cloudy mountains of the north, Born in the shadow of her white-boled pines Beneath the stillness of whose bosky lines The yellow roofs 1 flash singly, each a sun, And two young rivers answer as they run With scattered brightness as of stars thick strown, Yu-Pe-Ya, who for his first lore had known The story of his house's vanished power, 94 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE Nursed by long years and broken in an hour Like some centennial aloe Snapped by wind, Went forth in youth from Yng-Tou, left behind The meads and vineplots and the waterglens And skyward hills of Tsou and journeyed thence To wealth and greatness. And when years were gone He came to his youth's land, but not as one Who, early tired, or master of his aims, Flies to his home and the remembered names And oft-trod paths and all the child loved best. He came a stranger and half royal guest, Envoy from Tsin’s great monarch. So he dwelt Under the white-boled pines again, and knelt Beside his fathers’ graves. And all his heart Clave to the land wherein he had no part. And while he yet relearned familiar ways, Lo, it was time : four months had shed their days Like blossoms that fall softly and leave fruit: His king recalled him. Then he made his suit To Yng-Tou’s lord and prayed him, “Not again, O king, may I behold bright Yng-Tou’s plain And taste the Sweetness of my natural air, I know no home in this dear land and fair That was my fathers', and, its limits past, My backward yearning looks must be my last That ever linger on it; not when laid In the still sleep can my returning shade Behold it ghostly, I shall have my grave In the far southern land. And this I crave, Send me not thitherward by the beaten road That in too short a time has passed abroad YU-PE-YA’S LUTE 95 Out of thy realm, but let me journey down On the great river that from town to town, Through meadow miles, 'twixt gorges of the hills, Sweeps through the land’s whole length and ever fills Its widening channel deeper till it gains The double lake beyond these snow-topped chains And through their sleepy waters breaks its way To where Tsou’s outer wall of mountains, grey With dusky hollows, parts to make it room Amid the silence of their verdurous gloom. Let me, so floating onward from her reach, Be with my motherland, hear her still speech And answer with farewells and, greedy-eyed, Learn all her face like one who sits beside Dead beauty which before the coming night, No longer his, shall be done down from sight Into the earthy home without a door, And cons each line and shaping o'er and o'er To have the likeness of his lost more true : Let changeless shores my far-off boyhood knew Bring me my boyhood’s thoughts, its hopes, its dreams, Fed with new memories, like Summer streams Grown faint with miles of journeying from their hills Where they were born to which young freshet rills Leap down the heights they left by longer ways And brim them full. Give me forgotten days: Give me my birthland mine to bear with me And see it when my eyes may no more see.” So the great river bore him Smoothly down Through the whole length of Tsou, from town to town, 96 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE Through meadow-miles, betwixt the chasmy sides Of gorges in the hills. And oftentides The stars waned out ere well he knew 'twas night, And oftentides the sudden Scarlet light Of sunset seemed to follow on the noon While he sat rapt and watchful. Then, too soon, Came the last day that aught he gazed upon Should wear his birthland’s name. Behind him shone Tsou's sunny-coloured peaks of Snow ; the grove That leftward slanted from dun heights above To fringe the river with its streaky blaze From flushing maples 'mid the serried maze Of oaks and glittering larches and grey domes Of silvery willows—the Small peering homes Amid their bowers where the right bank lay low, An emerald crescent—the drowned fields ablow With flaky roods of lilies,” stars afloat Amid their sombre leaves—all he could note Of rock and brake and flower and tangled wreath Of leafy bines, the waters underneath, The skies above, were Tsou’s. But on ahead In their blue Smoothness the twin lakes were Spread. And then he took his lute, that second heart Which seemed to share his pulses and be part Of the pent heart within him and expound In living rhythms and Sweet articulate sound Its mute dim longings and to himself reveal Some secret of himself he could not feel YU-PE-VA’S LUTE 97 Until the music spoke it; the delight Of exquisite solitudes when, taking flight Some brief sweet while from life's loud talk and press, He stole the restful joy of loneliness; The nearest love he had, nearer and more Than wife or babes, for ever to him it bore The Sweet and subtle echoes of his thought And Sudden answers to the things he sought, Like Soul to equal soul when each one shares The other’s fulness as it ill were theirs, The tender darlings of the guarded bowers, Women and children playing with their flowers, To share men's sorrowful wisdoms learned without On the rough ways in toils and pain and doubt : He took his priceless lute, the lute whose name From age to age had won an added fame While Time still bettered what the maker’s skill Had left so best that none hath heard, nor will, In any land its fellow, and its tone Was like Some spirit's singing at Heaven's throne ; He took his priceless lute and listening sang A tender song that like a farewell rang. And yet, because a sorrow or a bliss Will scarcely speak itself the thing it is, But shapes its truth into a half disguise And, like some painter who will make the eyes, The Smile, he lives by, in an altered ſace, Or like the lapwing flitting past the place She has no thought to leave, will part conceal The thing it tells, part what it hides reveal, No farewell trembled on his tongue at all, He sang but of the summer and its fall. H 98 YU-PE-VA’S LUTE “Too soon so fair, fair lilies ; To bloom is then to wane ; The folded bud has still To-morrows at its will, Blown flowers can never blow again. Too Soon so bright, bright noontide ; The sun that now is high Will henceforth only sink Towards the western brink; Day that’s at prime begins to die. Too Soon So rich, ripe Summer, For autumn tracks thee fast ; Lo death-marks on the leaf | Sweet Summer, and my grief; For Summer come is summer past. Too Soon, too soon, lost Summer; Some hours and thou art o’er. Ah death is part of birth : Summer leaves not the earth, But last year's summer lives no more.” And from the resonant hill came back again Confused and multiple his last long Strain, Voice dimly echoing voice along the shore, As he passed on, Mo more, no more, 7to more. And ere they ceased the barge had floated by And reached the widening bay, and all the sky Lay low before his keel in the clear deeps That stretched far forth to Tsin’s blue shadowy steepS. YU-PE-YA’S LUTE 99 Night came amid wan stars. At either side Embattled blackness gloomed on the black tide New pent between. Then grew from ridge to ridge, Spanning the stream, a dappled argent bridge Of beamy clouds, and the round moon arose Over a barren Scarp, and floating Snows Glimmered through all the heaven, and then grew black Suddenly, for the lurid tempest wrack Of the swift summer storm lowered over all And a new darkness came, and the slow fall Of drop by drop, and then the stifling rain Rushing like fire, and, roaring through the chain Of Stony peaks, the dense tumultuous boom Of meeting thunders, and from out the gloom The Swift and Snaky barbs and the blue glare Of ravenous lightnings bursting through the air, And the sharp shriek of winds and hiss of waves. The captain said “My lord, the tempest raves, Then will have passed ; but meanwhile death lurks here Among the foams and rocks, and if we steer To left or right what matter P a leaf blown Upon the waters, hither and thither thrown, Is our stout ship to-night. Must we tempt fate, Or anchor in this sheltered creek and wait P” “Anchor,” he said. And when the moored barge lay In the embosomed nook, tired of the fray Of earth and skies and of the watch he kept And of his thoughts, he laid him down and slept. IOO YU-PE-YA’S LUTE Light and deep quiet waked him. Not a Sound Save where Small ripples plashed, and from the ground The chirp of ceaseless crickets, and a breeze That came and went among the Cypresses, Sighing a moment with them but too weak To stir their trailing branches.” The still creek Beamed silver underneath a silver sky Where, larger after storm and risen high, The clear and solitary moon moved slow Whitening the silent air. Long to and fro In the unrest of summer nights he tossed, Then rose and burned the scented balms, whose cost Gold trebly weighed against them Scarcely told, In the bejewelled bowl—so they of old Bade reverence the lute, before the hand Shall touch its hallowed chords, with odours bland Of some sweet incense. “I will rest in thee : ” He said, “one strain of thine and I shall be Lapped in a happier calm than dreams can know;” And thrilled the Strings to music soft and slow Like fountain ripples. But the unfinished strain Broke suddenly; a shiver as of pain Crept through the unwilling lute, and then, while still Unconsciously his fingers sought their will Of answering sound, the few forced notes were sighs, And a chord Snapped. As when on a sudden dies A spent-out lamp and the Strange presence there Of instant night appals us unaware, The silence fell. YU-PE-YA’S LUTE IOI But then the sign he knew, And, bending o'er the wounded lute, “Oh true, Oh ever loving ! Does there, then, lurk hidden Some master of the lute to judge unbidden, Stealing my music into greedy ears P” He said : then pondered, “Nay, for whoso hears Among these desolate wilds can ill have fed A learner's Soul on music and have read Its costly lore and gained its difficult skill. What then P Is some dense thicket of the hill Covert for crouching robbers while they wait Like the motionless eager pard their time to Sate Their blood-greed at a bound P” and in this mind Bade search be made along the banks to find What evil-doers cowered in their dark lair Beneath the clustered junipers, or where The matted copse left space or the tall throng Of river-reeds a shelter. But ere long A voice gave answer, “Make not search, my lord, For ambushed foes. Here is no robber horde : But the poor woodman carrying home his load, Whom the quick tempest stayed upon his road, Heard the air sweet with sound and in surprise Lingered to judge thy lute's rich harmonies.” “Brave folly l’’ quoth Yu-Pe-Ya. “Do ye mark 2 This boor that hews his wood from dawn to dark Will judge the subtle lute ” and carelessly Bade harm him not but let him homeward hie. IO2 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE But the man heard, and answered, grave and clear, “Ill said, my lord; unworthy words I hear For such as thou to speak. And art thou, then, A master minstrel yet wilt measure men By only rich and low P But I who, born A peasant of these mountains, think no scorn To toil from dawn to dark and hew my wood, Bid thee remember wisdom's brotherhood : ” Then rose from out the shadow of a rock And took the jagged path the wild goats' flock Had broken round the hill, and turned not back, Nor lingered with his load. Up the steep track Yu-Pe-Ya watched him lessening till, when now A step or two should carry him round the brow, Lost out of sight, “After him, men,” he cried, “Yu-Pe-Ya prays him turn and here abide Some while in converse—say it, and that indeed I know him for no common rustic. Speed Quick ere ye lose his trace : ” then turned and Went Silently to his cabin, as discontent At his own will. With breathless speed they ran, And climbed the difficult track, and reached the l]].2.1] Just ere too late. “So be it, if my lord will; ” He said, “for I would hear that perfect skill Upon that perfect wondrous lute once more.” But they looked scornfully on the garb he wore, The peasant’s leafy thatch of palm-bracts twined 4 For cloak and hood against the rains and wind, The plaited Straw-shoes, and the belt untanned YU-PE-YA’S LUTE IO3 Whence hung the axe, and in his tawny hand A pointed Staff to prop his load and stay His heavy steps. And all along the way They schooled him how to bear him : “So, and so, Look and reply ; and first, when thou shalt go Before his presence, bow thee till thy face Has touched the floor, nor lift thee from the place Until he bid.” And listening he forbore To answer them till on the deck once more Roughly they warned him then bade enter where Their lord awaited him. “Nay, have a care, Good friends,” he said, “lest ye should too much lack The courtesy ye teach. And now stand back While seemly I prepare,” and leisurely Doffed his smirched outer gear and laid it by, And wiped the earth-clods from his shoes, then, dressed In the blue homespun cap” and scanty vest Of the poor mountain peasant, went sedate Before Yu-Pe-Ya Seated in his state. And deep obeisance made he, but as one Who honouring looks for honour, nor fell prone And did the servant’s homage rightly owed By lowly men to princes, but abode, His reverent greeting done, erect and still, Waiting reply. Yu-Pe-Ya liked it ill; But yet, since he had made the man his guest, He could not drive him forth, but mused how best Pass by his boldness till its cause he knew, And would not claim nor yet resign his due. IO4 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE “Good friend,” he said, and waved his hand in the air, “Thou art excused thine homages. Sit there, And answer freely ; ” then, perplexed, delayed, Scanning his garb and mien before he said, “But art thou he who spoke P And didst thou lange A boast by hazard or by ignorance, Or dost thou claim in sober truth for thine The secrets of the lute, the art divine Of princes and of sages P” “It was I Who spake erewhile,” the woodman made reply, “And so much lute-craft have I as to love The ancient song that reached me in the grove.” “What song P” Yu-Pe-Ya asked. He smiled, “The lay Of Yen-Oey perished in his summer day, The lay Ni-Chan,9 the holiest, made, and wept For the young brother Sage that earlier slept ; The song thy lips forbore but sweet and low Thy clear lute uttered. Are the words not so P “So soon asleep ! Now must the coming years Weep ignorantly their loss they cannot know, And life miss ever what hath never been : We weep to-day, let theirs be sadder tears Who have not seen thee near as we have seen, Who shall but learn a hope died long ago. Alas for flowers untimely winds have broken, YU-PE-YA’S LUTE IO5 That should have scattered seed of following flowers | Alas for ruin of unbuilded towers Alas for ripening words that die unspoken But let them weep with sadder tears than ours Who shall but learn a hope died long ago, A world's hope long ago.” But the strain stayed not to the final close : When the sweet refrain’s cadenced minor rose With ‘let them weep,” the shivering lute refused ; The fifth chord shrieked and snapped.” “Yet one long used By a customary chance to every note And married word might come to know by rote An intricate air, and be but so possessed Of its true worth as the numb page, impressed With some choice sentence, of that wealth it owns” Yu-Pe-Ya thought ; then, in the careful tones Of one who knows not whom he speaks with yet, He said, “Too rare the times when I have met And talked in equal hours with one of those Whom we call master minstrels; one who knows The answering rhythms, the complex harmonies, The difficult skill, knows the deep mysteries And far traditions of the lute ; who hears As lovers see, to whom each look appears Familiar long and yet a fresh surprise Teaching new beauty to accustomed eyes. And if thou be of these ’tis well. Yet how May I discern thee, save thou answer now Some question put to try thee ?” Ioô YU-PE-YA’S LUTE “At thy will,” The woodman said, and Smiled. Then with the skill Of but a master did Yu-Pe-Ya try The woodman’s lore, he with like skill reply, And the immortal history told aright Of him who, praying in the silent night, Beheld the five white flames droop slowly down, The Souls of the five planet stars, and crown An Ouchang tree with light, and understood Heaven’s gift to Earth in that one tree of the wood The Phoenix lights on coming from the gods, The one tree of the world in whose green rods The body of the lute grows on and on Through air and rains and ripening of the Sun Until the perfect moment when, maybe, One comes who knows the signs, hews down the tree, Measures and parts, refusing less or more, So in a middle third finds the true core Whence (as man's soul came not from more or less But out of equalness) from cqualness The lute’s Soul, Sound, is born and is a part Of the body grown in the tree which must by art Be shaped and carven, yet which surely grew : A lute before the gods, though no man knew, While the green leaves were on it and the moss. And then the chords he named of joy, love, loss, Of hope, and wonder, that shrill chord of grief That, thinking on his son, the maker chief In the stillness of his dungeon gloom first strung, YU-PE-YA’S LUTE Io? And the strong chord of triumph which first rung When Wou-Wang bade a thousand minstrels vie To shout his victory to earth, Seas, and sky. And the lute’s times he told ; the ill hours when Its voice must be forborne by reverent men ; The fair hours for its wooing ; when alone, And when among the listeners, or as one Who tells close secrets to the friends that know, The player's hand should set the lute aglow With living music and the pulse of sound. And still he answered. “Yet might one be found,” Yu-Pe-Ya mused, “who, feeding full on books, As a hungry pool Sucks in its nursing brooks And sends no freshening streamlets forth again, Has gathered many words of many men, Adding their wisdoms to his witlessness.” He said, “Methinks I cannot call thee less Than trebly learned. Yet, (the tale is old And thou wilt know it) once when Ni-Chan told A secret to his lute the notes were heard By Yen-Oey and he knew each hidden word : But is there one like Yen-Oey to-day, And has indeed Yu-Pe-Ya found him P” ( C Play ;” The woodman spake, “and iſ, like beaded pearls Strung on a hidden thread, whose coils and curls Tend one way variously and do but show To take of their free selves the way they go, The wantoning notes intangibly obey Some one informing thought, I dare essay An easy riddle with its answer told.” IO3 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE Yu-Pe-Ya took the lute, and clear and bold The loud notes pealed, while overhead the crew Were still and waited for the words. “What clue, Woodman, hast thou now touched, on which have ITUII] The beaded pearls P” he said, the strain being done. The woodman answered him, “I knew a thought That rose up from the valley clefts and sought The naked hill-tops near the stars: I heard From far below the waves of sighs that stirred The upmost belts of pines where, after night, A weary wind went dying. And the light Of sanguine dawn was there ; else, solitude.” Yu-Pe-Ya spoke not back, but marvelling viewed The rough-clad guest, and touched the lute once ITY OTC. The woodman answered him, “The distant roar Of leaping waters left behind, the sweep Of a resistless river, strong and deep, Onward and onward with an even might Along its silent levels; and in sight, Far off, before it a dim infinite sea : And lo, Yu-Pe-Ya, know we what shall be 2 Or can we tarry on the way we wend With its so certain yet uncertain end ?” And mutely earnest, gazing in his eyes, Yu-Pe-Ya paused awhile like one who tries A question in himself and scarce can tell If faith or doubt be more impossible. YU-PE—YA’S LUTE IO9 Then “Yet,” he said, “oh master, hear again : Canst thou know this?” And ’twas the fitful strain He made at noonday where the lilies shone. The woodman said, “I knew one passing on 'Mid beauty that makes Sad, and too fair joys, Since he must lose them. And I heard the voice Of Summer birds, leaves merry on their trees, Bright waters rippling ; and yet under these Dim whispers of farewell. And the sweet pain Of present ecstasy, knowing it must wane, Thrilled in my heart; and then the long regret Of one who going ere mightfall gazes yet On home or mother or the friend he had. Delight was all, and all delight was sad.” At that Yu-Pe-Ya rose. “Oh joy l’” he cried ; “My guardian gods have sent thee to my side. Thou wondrous master minstrel, man inspired, I thank the gods for thee,” and sudden, fired With transport as of lighting unaware On some dear long-lost kinsman, held him there Clasped in his greeting arms. And then they two Exchanged the answering reverences due By the fixed rites when stranger equals meet, And named their names. And in the upper seat Yu-Pe-Ya placed Tse-Ky, and called for wine And drank the cup of honour to him. “Thine, Tse-Ky, a boon to give me ; ” made he prayer, “Stay with me these few hours while in the air The night stars rule until to-morrow be. Let us hold converse, thou and I, thus, free From hankering ears that know not and the Scan I IO YU-IPE-YA’S LUTE Of judging ignorances, and man to man Take thought aloud. For me too soon will break The morrow that divides us.” So they spake Through the still night together. Twice ere day The captain came : “The clouds have rolled away; Shall we put off?” and “A light breeze blows fair; Shall we start now P” Yu-Pe-Ya bade forbear, And turned him to Tse-Ky. And still their speech Waxed yet more earnest ; and both seemed to teach And both to learn the things they most had known, As though 'twere not to know to know alone And each had missed the other heretofore. And all the while Yu-Pe-Ya wondered more. At length he said, “What fate or whim, Tse-Ky, Controls thee thus amiss 2 Thou who shouldst be, In palaces and Schools and city ways Where'er renown is loudest and sweet praise Of thankful eyes most numerous, named and known Our newest glory perfect and alone, Why art thou here, a peasant hewing wood P” He said, “My hatchet singly earns the food Of father and of mother old and spent : They toiled, I toil in turn and am content.” “Right, noble friend,” Yu-Pe-Ya Said ; yet sighed “'Tis pity on a star that ſar and wide Should flash its glories, lost away from sight Of the large world that would have loved its light, Uselessly shining in a pathless haze.” YU-PE-YA’S LUTE I I I “Not so :” Tse-Ky spoke back, “the lost star’s rays Behind the mist make light in one poor spot, One lowly home where else the light were not. Trust me, Yu-Pe-Ya, while those dear ones live My joys are with them here: I would not give My daily cares for them in change to win My place among the princes of great Tsin, Not to be throned to-morrow in the halls Of counsel and of judgment where the walls Glow with the gilded titles of the wise.” Yu-Pe-Ya, seeing him with thoughtful eyes, Grasping his ready hand, “Friend, friend well found, I dare not blame thy choice. Oh nobly bound To an ignoble fortune, thou hast won My closest heart thy lower. If the sun, Who presently with his unwelcome glow Will scare the kindly night and see me go To life that knows thee not, see thee remain A drudge among these wilds, yet not in vain Have we two met who never more shall be As though the other were not. Far from thee I shall remember, ‘Would he praise or chide P’ Thou in the toilsome days, and lone beside The old folks dozing, weary with their age, In winter evenings, brooding o'er the page Thou hast forgot to turn, wilt think, ‘Ah well, The world holds onc who knows me.” We shall tell Our counted years from now, as women do From when their firstborn came.” II 2 YU-PE-VA’S LUTE At that there grew The silence of full hearts till, pouring wine, Yu-Pe-Ya Spake, “The eastward moon gives sign Of morning and farewells to be, but now Drink to me, talk again. What springs hast thou Who yet maySt go by springtime P” “Since my birth Have twenty-seven springs renewed the earth And made my spring brown Summer now.” | “Why then,” Yu-Pe-Ya Said, “I pass thy years by ten. Elder and younger brother meet to-night. Oh brother, let it be ; let troth and rite Seal our adoption perfect and avowed.” Tse-Ky half Smiled; “Some little night-born cloud Bedims Yu-Pe-Ya’s vision : with the day Will come the keen-eyed waking. Brothers, nay. My lord, I am a woodman and no more, Thou art a prince and ruler ; this night o'er We go our unlike ways and are apart.” “And does Tse-Ky then in his inmost heart So measure men by only rich and low P And having known me does he scorn me so As count me but the puppet of my state P Yet judge me rather as a man whom Fate, Dowering loose-handed with her common dross He could have spared, has left for lifelong loss Not to have ever known an equal friend. And now, if she have brought him but to lend YU-PE-YA’S LUTE II.3 These few brief hours, then take, I would, Tse-Ky, I had not seen thy face.” So, with the plea Of a great heart that cries towards its twin, Yu-Pe-Ya urged him. And they plighted kin, Burning the incense, promising the vow ; And took them witnesses. And “Brother, now " The woodman said, they two alone once more, “The place of honour that was mine before, Being thy Stranger, is no longer meet; Let me, the younger, take the second seat,” And meekly placed himself. And each of them Wondered like one who finds a priceless gem And, so made rich past count, thinks, “What had been If I had glanced aside and had not seen P” And scarce can feel his joy for its surprise. Yu-Pe-Ya then : “Ah brother, in the skies The stars are not alone, and join their song ; But in the crowded world a life-time long The singer goes his solitary way And has not found his fellow.” And this lay He sang for gladness, and the lute's Sweet chords Spoke softer than the voice of loving words. “Seeds with wings, between earth and sky Fluttering, flying ; Seeds of a lily with blood-red core Breathing of myrrh and giroflore : Where winds drop them there must they lie, Living or dying. II.4 YU-PE-VA’S LUTE Some to the garden, some to the wall, Fluttering, falling ; Some to the river, some to earth : Those that reach the right soil get birth ; None of the rest have lived at all.— Whose voice is calling : ‘Here is soil for winged seeds that near, Fluttering, fearing, Where they shall root and burgeon and spread. Lacking the heart-room the song lies dead : Half is the song that reaches the ear, Half is the hearing 'P Oh, the soil and the heart and the hearing found ! My Song in thy heart, the seed in the ground !” And presently, “No father guards his girl, No husband the young wife, the secret pearl Hidden within our home, with such a zeal, As I this lute whose strings may never feel Another hand than mine ; never till now ; But, brother who art worthy, take it thou, And let me hear thy heart in its dear voice.” “Ah, no,” he said, “when I would most rejoice, Most Sorrow, or most hope, I not like thee Can breathe aloud, as the wind-harp on the tree Answers all gales with sweetness to their kind, Of air-born music; but my tongueless mind Within the secret silences of thought Accepts the urging voices ever brought To him who listens in this world of ours YU-PE-YA’S LUTE II 5 From all things—sky, and river, and Small flowers, And gossip birds, and these dusk hills that brood Beneath the cloud-wracks, and the murmuring wood ; From stir of toil, from children’s causeless glee, From books, from mine own heart, from Heaven maybe ; Knows them, and has no answer save to know.” Fingering the lute, “Such tongueless mind, I trow, Speaks itself more than to man’s tongue belongs ; The heart that sings not has the Sweeter songs; And, whoso sang them, they are thrice thine own,” Yu-Pe-Ya Said : then, in the sudden tone Of one who finds the thought he did not seek, “Nay, and shall one like thee indeed not speak, If he keep silence, yet in many a voice Of minstrel men who in his strength rejoice As the blossoms in the root's strength where it lies Deep under earth, and they shine in the skies— Of minstrel men beside him who declare (He and themselves aware or unaware) His thought by theirs, and most repeat him then When most they are themselves? Brother, ah when Shall they who need thee in our distant plains Have found thee in thy mountains P” “There remains The day that is to come,” Tse-Ky replied. “Yea 1" said Yu-Pe-Ya, “by and by is wide To the halt traveller who asks for now.” II6 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE “And yet,” the other said, “men scarce allow Now’s self so clearly theirs as by and by : To-day is always gone, to-morrow nigh.” From the respondent lute a prelude rang, Lingering, then firmer, and Yu-Pe-Ya Sang : “Waiting, waiting. 'Tis so far To the day that is to come : One by one the days that are All to tell their countless sum ; Each to dawn and each to die— What so far as by and by ? Waiting, waiting. 'Tis not ours, This to-day that flies so fast : Let them go, the shadowy hours Floating, floated, into Past. Our day wears to-morrow’s sky— What so near as by and by ?” “Is the strain mine or thine P” he said ; and then Struck the still quivering chords and sang again : “A bird and flower upon the tree, Sweet peony 7 and oriole, Each of them a perſect soul, Song and sweetness manifest : The bird and flower we love the best Side by side on the tall tree. ‘Flower who art sunlight and fire, flower who art perfume and joy, YU-PE-YA’S LUTE I 17 Sweetest of sweet, Ah for the gift withheld ! Ah for the given gift's alloy Why must thy spirit exhale only in beauty and breath P Ah for the voice thou hast not I by thy side on the tree, Telling the world of love, pain, and all raptures that be, Raptures of laughter and life, raptures of tears and death, Singing my heart to heaven, singing to earth at my feet ; Silence in thee.’ ‘Bird who art dew-drops and flame, bird who art rapture and Song, Swcctest of sweet, Lo thcre’s a voice part mine, Songs that to me too belong, Songs that grew of my growth, voice that has breathed my breath. Bird that while I sit mute singest beside on the trec, Hast thou ever a song taking no perfume of me f Give forth my sweetness in Song ; bird, thou art singing for both, Singing our hearts to heaven, singing to earth at our fect ; My voice in thce.” On the tree-top side by side, Sweet oriolc and peony ; Music rings through carth and Sky, I I8 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE Sweet and sweet in sweetness lost : The flower and bird we love the most, On the tree-top side by side.” And while he sang a tremulous flickering blush Shook through the pallid east: and the wide flush Of fiery dawn had set the clouds aflame When he made end. From the red verge up came The Smouldering sun and brightened to round gold; And on and on to where, grown white and cold, Tired stars died singly round the moon's thin ghost, The daylight leaped and moon and stars were lost Into their flooded sky, and everywhere The morning world stood clear against the air. On deck the wakened crew began to stir, And calls and tramplings and the thud and whirr Of loosening canvas jarred and shook the beams: Even so have exiles, roused from better dreams, Wearily waking on the cabin bed, Heard the rough din of starting overhead. Tse-Ky arose, and would have given goodbye : Yu-Pe-Ya took a cup and brimmed it high With scented wine : “Ah, yet a moment long. Pledge me this Cup ; ” and gave, and, grasping Strong His brother's hand, he gazed with yearning eyes, And felt the dizzy pang of that surprise Which is in every parting, when at last We know that come we in the moments past Saw far remote by all the infinite Of moments counted then. “Oh the despite Of such a meeting !” sighed he, “since ’tis o’er. YU-PE-YA’S LUTE II.9 And oh the wasted night ! for so much more I should have learned of thee, I should have told ; And now we part Ah brother l’ In his hold The golden cup was trembling, down his face Did the rebellious tear-drops slowly chase, One after one, and mingle in the draught, But nothing spake Tse-Ky, till, the cup quaffed, He kissed Yu-Pe-Ya’s hand : “Farewell, my lord ; Brother, farewell ; ” and with no other word Made reverence and turned him round to go. Yu-Pe-Ya said, “I will not lose thee so. Share but my voyage, then. So few days still And the great town is reached; and at thy will This ship shall bring thee back.” “It may not be : ” The woodman answered, “they have need of me, My father and my mother.” “Yet to go Some little day or two, no more than So, Then by their side to serve them as before ? Oh friend, go to them, ask them. Twere no more Than to have flown a moment from the nest, As the nest's guardian flies that loves it best, And bring new gladness with the Swift return. Wilt thou not ask, Tse-Ky P” He said, “I yearn As a caged bird might yearn for room to fly To now go forth with thee. But friend, put by I2O YU-PE-YA’S LUTE The idle tempting : old they are and lone, Having but me ; they must not feel me gone.” Then spake Yu-Pe-Ya, “Yes, it may not be : Thou hast said well. But I return to thee. Not soon ; but when 'tis Summer and next year, When this ripe month of leaves and gold is here Scattering red rose-bays on thy hills as now, Watch down the river for the carven prow Where my devices glitter. Trust me not If half the month be waned ere in this spot I moor my bark and hail thee on thy strand Waiting as I wait till our welcoming hand Can grasp the other's, thou beside me thus And the great river throbbing under us, And all to-day be come to us again Save but this parting.” And the brothers then Changed last farewell at length : yet even at last, And while Tse-Ky in patient sorrow passed, And gave no backward look, beyond the door, Again Yu-Pe-Ya stayed him : “One word more. Yield me my brother's due our bond has made, Nor scorn me in my gift,” and sudden laid Two golden ingots in his hands. Perplexed, Tse-Ky a moment pondered, but the next He looked upon Yu-Pe-Ya: “Brother, yes.” Then gained the deck and donned his leafy dress And girt his axe, and in his hand he took And poised the mountain staff; then, with one look Answering Yu-Pe-Ya where he followed him, Strode to the prow and from its outer rim Leaped on the shore, and climbed a little height, And sat to watch the ship pass out of sight. YU-PE-YA’S LUTE I2 I And so Yu-Pe-Ya went his way alone. And earth and skies were fair, but there was gone A beauty from them and from the fresh air A something of its fragrance ; and the glare Of noonday vexed him, and the dusk seemed chill. And ever he mused, “If he were with me still How would he praise this loveliness with me,” And in the joy he had must yet more see The joy he lacked that left all incomplete. So reached he the last port; and then, to meet His king that waited for him, rode amain Through the long highways of the corn-clad plain To the great royal city. And the roar Of thousand welcomes shook the streets and bore His name into the skies, and any man Who saw him pass felt taller by a span And told his neighbours after as a thing Scoring to his more merit; and the king So greeted him as never heretofore One not a king, and the wrought ring he wore Put on his hand and gave him from his side His jewelled sword whereof the sheath was dyed In royal colours, and he made yet more His riches and the honours which he bore. Then, dwelling in his city, in his home Amid the wonted splendours, where would come The thronging Suppliants and the guests elate And singers and grave Sages, proud to wait If he should lend a moment long his ear, Where, did he speak, a hundred longed to hear, And, did he listen, a hundred longed to speak, I22 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE He (as, when out-door airs have long been bleak, In rooms the captured summer still embowers, We sicken of the breath of house-born flowers And yearn for some one blossom of the spring Green from its hedgerow where the wild birds sing) Yearned for the far-off voice, the heart not there, And needed but Tse-Ky. The trees grew bare ; And then grew rough with buds; and by and by Had spread athwart the woods their canopy; And now Yu-Pe-Ya, on a prosperous day When the king's heart was glad, chose time to pray Leave for his journey, and, at first denied, (For the king loved him ever at his side) Told of his bond-tie with the peasant man Whose home was 'mid the steeps of Niao-Ngan In the wild confines of Tsou's farthest shire, And of his promise and his heart’s desire. So the king gave him leave. And “Tell Tse-Ky,” He said, “there wait him for the love of thee, And for his worth thou say'st, welcome and grace The day that he shall look upon my face.” Because Yu-Pe-Ya said, “When to the last His duty is fulfilled and they have passed Into the sleep that needs no watcher by, Who are too old to change their wonted sky And are too old to lack him in their home And having lost him live, then will he come.” And like a man who in some alien clime Perforce has waited wearying for the time When he might seek his home, and, hurrying there YU-PE-YA’S LUTE I23 Sees every landmark never yet so fair And longs but to have passed it, making haste Yu-Pe-Ya now in joy the way retraced He came last summer sorrowing. But the tide Pushed at his vessel; from the opposing side The river breeze blew steady. Then at length, A rugged giant sleeping in his strength Among his lesser brethren, the black height Of Niao-Ngan loomed in the pallid light Before the day-break reddens; and the wood And the brown headland where Tse-Ky had stood Shone near before them in the evening Sun ; And as night fell the little creek was won. And all was still. “Tse-Ky,” Yu-Pe-Ya cried, “Tse-Ky, my brother, hither l’ But none replied, And nothing stirred along the darkening shore. And on he waited till the grey dusk wore Into void blackness ere, with the long sigh Of one constrained to let a hope go by, He owned unto himself, “He hath not come : ” And went, and in the cabin’s blazoned dome Sat lonely in his chafed and wondering mood, Unwont to not have had the thing he would. But when the uprisen moon ere long had rent The blackness round the stars and straight it went And there was lustre of a silver day, He came upon the deck and, bidding lay The pile of silken cushions at the prow Where fell the shadow of a cypress bough, Rested and watched the stillness; and him-seemed As though he lived again that night, or dreamed, I24 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE Wherein he knew Tse-Ky. And he was here, LO ! on the very night of all the year, Told by the tale of circling moons and days (So careful chance had willed it), but his gaze Was vain along the shore, vain on the hill, Asking Tse-Ky. “Why doth he linger still P Or hath he then forgot 2 " he inly cried : And then : “My brother hath not well espied My flag and my devices ; and there go So many passing vessels to and fro On this broad river-road, how should he note Mine in the many ? Let the sounds but float Of my remembered lute through the still air Into his woods; and maybe reach him there While now he wanders looking down the stream Time upon time to see my sails, agleam In the white moon-ray, pressing hither to-night; And instant he will know the voice aright And rush to me as, boisterous leaping out, River to river after ended drought: ” Then called his pages, and with speed they brought An ivory table with the casket wrought Of scented woods and set with precious jade Wherein the lute was locked, then by it laid The golden censer breathing perfumed clouds. But when, unfolded from its broidered shrouds, The lute was wooed to speak, the strings denied Their vibrant resonance and but replied With muffled whispers, save when one long wail Rang from the chord of Wen-Wang. Then he, pale YU-IPE-YA’S LUTE I25 And chill with sick surprise, dropped in his lap The voiceless lute, and thought. “Some woeful hap,” He mused, “withholds my brother : the lute II].O2L11S And will not call him ; and its tremulous tones Are a great Sorrow’s ; and that long shriek rang From the sixth chord, the grief chord of Wen- Wang. Surely my brother mourns. Ah, in his home, Taking an easy booty, Death has come ; Tse-Ky sits guardian by the sacred bed Of father or of mother lying dead. Oh, leal and loving, couldst thou choose but break Thy faith to me for such thy duty's sake P Now let the slow night hasten and pass by And longed-for morning dawn into the sky, Morning when I shall reach thee and be glad.” And Sorrowing because his friend was sad Yet must he hush a little mingling thought Too much like joy, springing to mind unsought (As an unwelcome weed that yet is fair), Because Tse-Ky was robbed of half the care That held him in his wilds, and when we see One yellow leaf of two drop from the tree We look not for the other long to cling. And, fain for sleep to hide the stars and bring By ignorance of night a speedier day, He sought his couch. But all the hours he lay Troubled and eager, counting how they went Slower and slower and night was never spent. I26 YU-IPE-YA’S LUTE Then when at last the first wan glimmer crept Athwart dark skies where the sunk moon had slept He started with the throb of one released From some long bondage on a sudden ceased ; And rose and clad himself alone in haste In simple garb. And in his belt he placed A purse that held in gold ten acres' worth, Thinking “Where death comes oftenest comes there dearth. Tse-Ky may need it for the present stress.” Then he went forth ; and from the obsequious press Of prompt attendants waiting sign or look One little favourite page alone he took To follow him and bear the lute. And so The two were landed on the beach below ; And up the track along the steep they went And turned into the wood : and pungent scent Of the warm pines, and Sweet exuberant air Of morning on the hills, and everywhere Unclosing blossoms and birds' wakening joy And insects’ hum and twitter, filled the boy With heady glee, and scarce he could restrain His steps to measure nor his voice refrain From little glad exclaimings; and well pleased Yu-Pe-Ya marked, for his own heart was seized With even such a lightness, and he smiled And loosed the blithesome prattle of the child With playful questions. So they followed on Some while their winding pathway, and anon Came on a small green plot of cultured land Girdled with mountains ; thence to either hand YU-PE-YA’S LUTE 127 Eastward and westward the cleft pathway went By a low hill that jutted prominent, Like a headland in a Sea. “And now, which road P” Yu-Pe-Ya cried, perplexed, and there abode Pondering in vain to choose the likeliest ; For if the village stood to east or west Was nought to show him. Where a great stone lay In the shadow of a cliff upon the way He sat to wait if any would pass by And tell him whitherward his steps should hie To reach the woodman's home. And from the right Soon a white-bearded peasant came in sight, Leaning upon his staff and moving slow As one that drags a burden on, although None bore he save the toy that lightly hung Upon his arm, the little basket strung Of shining reeds. And, when he had come close, For homage to his years Yu-Pe-Ya rose And bent his head before him ere he brake His courteous silence; and the old man spake, First making calm and seemly reverence, And asked his need. And, when he heard, “From hence These parted roads” he answered “round the hill In one like aim and, east or west, go still By equal distance only to Tsy-Hien. But half our few huts stand in the ravine, Half on the ledge above : by this way go To the high village, that best gains the low.” I 28 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE “Aye P” quoth Yu-Pe-Ya, musing: “How to tell If in the high or in the low he dwell ?” And the old man, not loth to talk a while, Noted his dubious mood with a quaint Smile And “Nay,” he said, “if chance or choice be guide And guide amiss, small evil need betide ; A clamber down or up a rugged lane And wrong comes right with little loss or pain. But, Stranger sir, if it shall please you, speak His name you look for : trust me where to seek. I have lived very long, sir; only three Among our village folk Count years with me, And all the others I might almost say I have dandled on my knees or taught to play; Man, woman, child, no Soul is living here But knows me and I know. Aye, many’s the year I’ve been among them—time to know them all— I am old enough to stand by and see fall Good timber to the axe that I had known Saplings just to my breast ere I was grown ; And look, that moss-caked bridge o'er which you Came, I saw it making. Sir, what is his name P” “A woodman named Tse-Ky,” Yu-Pe-Ya Said. The old man looked on him : “My son is dead,” He answered slowly; and then hid his face And wept aloud. But, rooted in his place, Yu-Pe-Ya stood and spoke not. And “My son . " The old man sobbed, “Ah me ! what had I done To lose thee ere I died Sir, this Tse-Ky Was my one child, the light of life to me YU-IPE-YA’S LUTE I29 And to my wife, our joy, our help, our stay ; But he is gone. A stranger came this way, Passing along the river, a year since In the Summer time, a great and learned prince, And lighted on Tse-Ky and so they knit A solemn friendship, and in pledge of it Yu-Pe-Ya gave my son a gift of gold. And he bought books, and, toiling as of old To earn our bread, all day, he through the night Was lost in study, and the morning light Would oftenest find him watching. Thus ere long And ere we ignorant parents saw aught wrong, Being unlettered ſolk, he sapped his strength, So fell into a wasting and at length He died.” At that Yu-Pe-Ya gave a cry, Piercing as though torn forth by agony Of Some great wrench by torture, and he sank, Quivering and white, upon a ploughed-up bank, With tightening fingers clutching in the moulds, And gasped for tears that came not. As beholds A child, who witless sets the sluice-gates wide Of his father's garden weir, the sudden tide Rush forth he knows not why and breaking bounds Dash at the hedge and waste the flowery grounds, The old man saw, and wondered “Who is this 2 What grief have I awaked P” “Himself it is, The Lord Yu-Pe-Ya’s self,” into his ear Whispered the little page. Then he drew near And would have soothed him while he held his head K I3O YU-PE-YA’S LUTE Leaned on his bosom ; but Yu-Pe-Ya Said “Comfort me not, but tell me more of him. Alas my brother when the twilight dim Grew dimmer while I called thee, did my cries But vex thy patient ghost P When my strained eyes In the pale moonlight sought thee, wast thou there, Helpless beside me, dumb and bodiless air P Oh me disloyal to chafe at thy delay And doubt and seek excuses for thy stay As though blot of unfaith on thee could lie How knew I not thy death P But thou to die Old man, how long ago P” Then ere could come The peasant’s answer, “Stay,” he said, “thy home Is childless; let me for my brother’s sake Be called thine other son, and henceforth take The name of father from me. He, meseems, Will know, and gentlier dream the dead man’s dreams, Trusting ye both to me, whom his true arm No more can labour for and fend from harm. Now, father, tell me all.” “What shall I say, Who knew not till the end ?” spake Lao-Pay, The white-haired peasant. “But the night he died He spake to us mute watchers by his side— Father and mother, scarcely even at last Perceiving it must be—“Dears, it is past. My life has not been long and could I choose I yet would live, part that you might not lose The due and happy service I have done YU-PE-VA’S I,UTE I31 And live your last days lone, without a son : Part for some hopes I had. But now I lie, The struggle and the bitterness gone by, Patiently in Death’s arms and am content. Give me farewell, for I am well-nigh spent And sleep is coming. Bury me where the hill Curves and looks down the river; so I still Shall keep the tryst, waiting Yu-Pe-Ya there.” And, sir, we buried him as was his prayer; 'Tis near the pathway, underneath a pine— A long way sooth for these old limbs of mine ; But since it pleased him. And he there has slept A hundred days; and now the tryst is kept, For he was lying there as you came by Hard by the pathway. Aye, ’twas young to die; But who can tell the future ? He is dead Who should have closed my eyes, and I instead Go my Sad way to my son's grave to light These gilded papers in the mourner's rite.” “And I will go with thee,” Yu-Pe-Ya cried. And they together, slowly, side by side, Went riverward ; and the old man still talked, Telling his pitiful story as they walked, Pleased to be heard and weeping o'er his dole. And so they came to their fond errand’s goal, And saw a Solitary earthed-up tomb, Where now the little weeds began to bloom, Beneath a Sombre pine that singly stood In a slant blossomy jungle of the wood ; And far beneath the silver furlongs shone Of the great river winding on alone. I32 YU-PE-VA’S LUTE “Tse-Ky,” Yu-Pe-Ya cried, “see, I am here, Tse-Ky, my brother Through the impatient year Did never I know more worth in any day Than for a stepping-stone upon my way To this day, and was this day to be so P Do we thus keep the tryst P” And his strong woe Broke like a tempest o'er him. And where near Poor folk were gathering faggots did they hear The strangling Sobs, and, Curious and amazed, Came and stood not far off and, whispering, gazed, Shouldering each other in a bashful row, And “Lo, a stranger of the towns !” and, “Lo, His goodly dress | Some rich great man, maybe. What ails him to cry out on our Tse-Ky P” Then Lao-Pay unrolled the golden leaves Wherewith the living tells the dead he grieves,8 And with him knelt Yu-Pe-Ya, and they prayed And set the leaves aflame, and weeping paid Their sad memorial homages. And now Yu-Pe-Ya took the lute; “Speak for me, thou,” He said, and with shrill Sweetness pierced the skies And made the echoes song. In glad surprise The faggot-gatherers heard, then praised the strain And blithely took them to their task again, Cracking loud jests; Save one young child that wept And asked its mother, as it closer crept And clung upon her gown, “What have I done P Why does the music scold me P” Then when none Were left beside Yu-Pe-Ya Save the lad, YU-IPE-YA’S LUTE I33 His page, and Lao-Pay, “My heart was Sad As never yet,” he said, “the while I played, And all the sorrow that upon me weighed Sounded more plain to me in my lament; Meseemed that never yet my mind’s intent So thrilled my lute and spake articulate, And it so wailed for me and his young fate That wept I not for grief then must I weep For hearing such a grief. And, lo, they leap With boisterous antics as though I had rung Some jig to tug their heels, and every tongue Wags merry out of tune as loosed by wine ! What should it mean P. Has then this skill of mine Grown naught for anguish, and do my marred ears, Hearing alone the sound of inward tears, Take merry notes for sighs and but betray My Senseless fingers, bidding them gainsay My piteous will and mock me with ill mirth P” Said Lao-Pay “No coin has greater worth Than what the land ’tis spent in has to sell : No words, whate'er their wisdom, more can tell Than what the hearer’s wisdoms understand. Here in our desert and unscholared land We count all tunes are merry and for sport, And work is over hard and time too short For us to sit and learn to find a sense In notes and chords and hear more difference Than loud and soft and galloping and slow. Myself, sir, in my young days, long ago, I was a sort of judge and might have guessed, I34 YU-IPE-YA’S LUTE But now my ears are dull, and like the rest I could have thought “Here’s mirth on hand, maybe, And helped it with a laugh, were 't time for glee, Though sooth the strain to me seemed sad, but then I am sad myself, and ’tis the way with men To reckon of without by what’s within.” But the page went and hushed their jocund din, And they went deeper in the wood, and left A silence after them. Forth from his cleft A lizard stole and thought himself alone Close at Yu-Pe-Ya’s foot ; on the flat stone Where roughly painted shone the dead man's name, In the still shade, a little wren, that came Inquiring from her copse, perched confident, Turning her neck and gazing, as intent, On one and on the other of the twain Who sat too still to fright her. Then again Yu-Pe-Ya waked his lute, and, “Hear, Tse-Ky,” He said, “Yu-Pe-Ya’s dirge he makes for thee.” “Dead, my belovèd This small purple weed That grows upon thy grave shall have its time To ripen and to wane, to bloom and seed; But thou, strong doer, might'st not wait thy deed, But thou, oh noblest, might'st not wait thy meed : Dead in thy prime ! Gone, my belovèd I that held thine hand Left sudden in a joyless waste alone ! I tossing on life’s Sea, and thou to stand Hidden in the shadows of the silent strand. YU-PE-YA*S LUTE I35 Thou Seeing me from where I may not land Gone from me, gone ! Sleep well: but what for me who still must wake P Dream joys : but what for me who can but weep P Oh darkened days where never dawn shall break | Oh weary troth-plight I with sorrow make But thou, rest peaceful; care not for my sake. Dear, sleep thy sleep.” Then, kissing the poor lute, he sighed “Fare- well ; I need thee not ; he is not who could tell The thing thou wouldst have said ; lie in his grave. Farewell, I need thee not ; I will not have A friend except him dead, not even thee.” And, lifting it and calling on Tse-Ky, Dashed it against the mound : the gold and jade And Carved and Scented woods and gems inlaid Lay in a thousand shreds ; in one long shriek The strings had rent apart. Afraid to speak The old man saw aghast and fingered o'er The tatters that should be a lute no more, And sighed and shook his head and muttered low “The pity of it ! The pity of it, though 1” Yu-Pe-Ya Said “Now will I go my way. Old man, I dare not see thy home to-day, My heart would break : but I will find thee there Ere many weeks be gone. Thou art my care, Thou and his mother. Spend this gold, and think I36 YU-IPE-YA’S LUTE Tse-Ky hath given it thee. And buy a brink About the grave of some few feet of ground, That it be only ours, and fence it round That no foot tread too near nor careless hand Touch where he lies but we alone may stand, We whom he loves, beside him, many a day Coming to tend his grave. And let them lay Here at his feet, into the earth, this wreck That was the lute we loved.” Then on his neck He fell and kissed him as a son. “I go ; ” He said to him, “and give thee farewell so From son to father : for when I shall come *Twill be to carry to another home My parents whom my brother gives to me, And we shall hide in silence and be free, And the loud world forget Yu-Pe-Ya’s name. For I am weary ; and no more the same Are joys or honours as in years gone by ; And hopes and nobler joys—lo, there they lie To moulder with Tse-Ky. Now must the king Release me from my greatness and I bring A worn-out life back to my native earth : Since in the fair dear land that gave me birth Will I seek out some hushed untrodden nook Where we may dwell and my tired eyes shall look Upon the hills and plain my boyhood knew. Farewell.” And almost he was lost to view Adown the winding path amid the wood Ere well the old man knew him gone, who stood, YU-PE-YA’S I,UTE I37 While the quick page went leaping down the hill To reach his master, dazed and fingering still The fragments of the lute and, all in vain Trying to piece them, murmured still again “The pity of it ! The pity of it though I’’ Till in a while two specks passed far below, Yu-Pe-Ya and the boy, towards the beach, And dipped below the cliff. And in the reach, That lay all wide and flashing in the sun, Presently came a ship and glided on Adown the river, motionless and swift, Like a strong Swan taking the current’s drift. I38 YU-PE-YA’S LUTE THIS Chinese tale is to be found in the C/oza de Conſes ef Mouzelles fraduits du Chinois Žar Théo- dore Pavie. (Paris, Ziórairie de B. Duffrat, 1839.) I have followed with some approach to precision its incidents and careful details of Chinese etiquette : their quaint and important simplicity being to me one of its great attractions. But I do not profess to give any portrait of “Le Luth Brisé” with its prim high-pitched style, con- triving as it does to combine the ultra-prosaic with the ultra-poetic, and telling its story oftenest with a minute realism whose gravity is delightfully ludicrous, sometimes with fine quick touches and with naïve and almost unintentional pathos. I need hardly say that I am responsible for all that may be considered “nineteenth century.” I have not sought to avoid that kind of anachronism : which indeed I do not own for anachronism at all. The time of action is placed in an epoch so vague and so remote that it has no date, or rather it comes back into the present of every day human Inature. t I must plead guilty to having invented all my geography and topography except the names. A. W. 'YU-PE-YA’S LUTE I39 NOTES NOTE I, page 93, line 7. The yellow roofs ſlash singly, each a szzzz The effect of the roofs of glazed yellow tiles on the temples and palaces of some of the Chinese towns is de- Scribed as singularly glittering and dazzling. NOTE 2, page 96, lines I6 and I7. • the drowned fields abſow With Žaſſy roods of lilies Waterlilies, which are valuable both as ornamental flowers and as edible roots, are grown along the rivers in flooded fields enclosed by embankments. See Fortune's Wan- derings in China. NOTE 3, page Ioo, lines 4-6. cypresses . . . &railing &razzches The weeping cypress, a frequent and favourite tree in China. I have seen it stated that this cypress and not the willow is the weeping tree of the famous willow pattern. NOTE 4, page IO2, lines 27 and 28. The peasant's leafy thatch of palm-bracts twined For cloak and hood against the rains and wind The peasants of the north of China make of the bracts of a species of palm hats and a cloak called Soe. In some I4O YU-PE-YA*S LUTE southern parts of China similar garments are made from bamboos and broad-leaved grasses. " Le Luth Brisé,'' M. Pavie's translation, says that Tse-Ky ** portait sur sa tête un bonnet d'écorce de bambou et sur toute sa personne des vêtements d'herbe tressée ; '' but I have assumed that Yu-Pe-Ya's journey was through northern scenery. NOTE 5, page Io3, line I7. Zzz the blue homespun cap Chinese civility would forbid him to uncover his head. NOTE 6, page Io4, lines I 5 and I6. The lay /Vi-Chazz, the holiest, made, and zvepé For the young brother sage that earlier slept M. Pavie makes Tse-Ky quote the dirge said to be com- posed by Ni-Chan (Confucius) upon the premature death of Yen-Oey in these words : " Quelle douleur ! Yen-Oey est mort à la fleur de l'âge. A cette pensée les hommes sentent leurs cheveux blanchir, Et comme il se contentait de sa vie misérable au fond des rues pauvres et obscures, Il a pu conserver la renommée d'un sage accompli pen- dant des siècles infinis.'' NOTE 7, page II6, line 2I. Szveet peony The Moutan or tree peony, of which the fragrance and beauty are lauded to the skies by Chinese writers. NOTE 8, page I32, lines I 5 and I6. the golden leaves VVherezvith the living tells the dead he grieves The sycee paper burnt by the Chinese at the tombs of their dead in worship of the gods. I4I ENGLISH R IS PETTI M A R J ORY SPRING THE RIVULET OH clear smooth rivulet, creeping through our bridge With backward waves that cling around the shore, And is thy world beyond the dim blue ridge More dear than this, or does it need thee Imore ? Oh lingering stream, upon thy ceaseless way Glide to to-morrow ; yet ’tis fair to-day : Beyond the hills and haze to-morrows hide ; To-day is fair ; glide lingering, ceaseless tide. I42 MARJORY SPRING AND SUMMER And summer time is good ; but at its heat The fair poor blossoms wither for the fruit, And song-birds go that made our valley Sweet With useless ecstasies, and the boughs are mute. And I would keep the blossoms and the song, And I would have it spring the whole year long : And I would have my life a year-long Spring To never pass from hopes and blossoming. THE VIOLET AND THE ROSE The violet in the wood, that's Sweet to-day, Is longer sweet than roses of red June ; Set me Sweet violets along my way, And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon. Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two P Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through P Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose 2 Why dies one sweetness when another blows P SPRING I43 THE PRIMTOSE Dear welcome, Sweet pale stars of hope and spring, Young primroses, blithe with the April air; My darlings, waiting for my gathering, Sit in my bosom, nestle in my hair. But, oh the fairest laughs behind the brook, I cannot have it, I can only look : Oh happy primrose on the further beach, One can but look on thee, one cannot reach. LIN NET AND LARIK Oh buoyant linnet in the flakes of thorn, Sing thy loud lay ; for joy and song are one. Oh Skylark floating upwards into morn, Pour out thy carolling music of the sun. Sing, sing ; be voices of the life-ful air, Glad things that never knew the cage nor snare: Be voices of the air and fill the sky, Glad things that have no heed of by and by. I44 MARJORY SUMMER THE BEES IN THE LIME AMID the thousand blossoms of the lime, The gossip bees go humming to and fro: And oh the busy joy of working time ! And oh the fragrance when the lime trees blow ! Take the sweet honeys deftly, happy bees, And store them for the later days than these : Store, happy bees, these honeys for the frost, That sweetness of the blossom be not lost. THE CORN FLOWER A field-plant in my sheltered garden bed, And I have set it there to love it dear; It makes blue flowers to match skies overhead, Blue flowers for all the while the summer’s here. Sky-blooms that woke and budded with the wheat, Ye last and make the livelong summer sweet : Spread while the green wheat passes into gold, Sky-blooms I planted in the garden-mould. SUMMER I45 THE FLOWING TIDE The slow green wave comes curling from the bay And leaps in Spray along the Sunny marge, And steals a little more and more away, And drowns the dulse, andlifts thestranded barge. Leave me, strong tide, my Smooth and yellow shore ; But the clear waters deepen more and more : Leave me my pathway of the sands, strong tide ; Yet are the waves more fair than all they hide. THE WHISPER Someone has said a whispered word to me; The whisper whispers on within my ear. Oh little word, hush, hush, and let me be ; Hush, little word, too vexing sweet to hear. And, if it will not hush, what must I do P The word was “Love”; perchance the word was trule : And, if it will not hush, must I repine P I am his love ; perchance then he is mine. I46 MARJORY THE HEART THAT LACKS ROOM I love him, and I love him, and I love : Oh heart, my love goes welling o'er the brim. He makes my light more than the Sun above, And what am I save what I am to him P All will, all hope, I have, to him belong ; Oh heart, thou art too small for love so strong : Oh heart, grow large, grow deeper for his sake ; Oh, love him better, heart, or thou wilt break | THE LOVERS And we are lovers, lovers he and I : Oh Sweet dear name that angels envy us; Lovers for now, lovers for by and by, And God to hear us call each other thus. Flow softly, river of our life, and fair; We float together to the otherwhere : Storm, river of our life, if storm must be, We brunt thy tide together to that sea. SUMMER I47 THE NIGHTINGALE From the dusk elm rings out a changing lay ; The human-hearted nightingale sings there. Why not, like little minstrels of the day, Sweet voice, fling only raptures on the air P 'Tis that he's kin to us and has our woe, Something that’s lost or something yet to know : 'Tis that he's kin to us and sings our bliss, Loving, to know love is yet more than this. ' THE STORM Storm in the dimness of the purpled sky, And the sharp flash leaps out from cloud to cloud : But the blue lifted corner spreads more high, Brightness and brightness bursts the gathered shroud. Aye, pass, black Storm, thou hadst thy threatening hour ; Now the freed beams make rainbows of the shower: Now the freed sunbeams break into the air ; Pass, and the sky forgets thee and is fair. I48 MARJORY BABY EYES Blue baby eyes, they are so sweetest Sweet, And yet they have not learned love's dear replies; They beg not smiles, nor call for me, nor greet, But clear, unshrinking, note me with surprise. But, eyes that have your father’s curve of lid, You'll learn the look that he keeps somewhere hid: You'll Smile, grave baby eyes, and I shall see The look your father keeps for only me THE BIND WEED In all fair hues from white to mingled rose, Along the hedge the clasping bindweed flowers; And when one chalice shuts a new one blows, There's blooming for all minutes of the hours. Along the hedge beside the trodden lane Where day by day we pass and pass again : Rosy and white along the busy mile, A flower for every step and all the while. MARJORY I49 ALJTUMN THE HEATHER THE leagues of heather lie on moor and hill, And make soft purple dimness and red glow ; No butterfly may call the blithe wind chill That brings the ruddy heather-bells a-blow. The song-birds half forget the world is fair, And pipe no lays because the heather's there : Oh foolish birds that have no joyous lay, With hill and moor a garden-ground to-day ! THE PINE The elm lets fall its leaves before the frost, The very oak grows Shivering and sere, The trees are barren when the summer's lost : But one tree keeps its goodness all the year. Green pine, unchanging as the days go by, Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky: My shelter from all winds, my own strong pine, 'Tis spring, 'tis Summer, still, while thou art mine. I5O MARJORY LATE ROSES The swallows went last week, but ’twas too soon ; For, look, the Sunbeams streaming on their eaves; And, look, my rose, a very child of June, Spreading its crimson coronet of leaves. Was it too late, my rose, to bud and blow f For when the Summer wanes her roses go : Bloom, rose, there are more roses yet to wake, With hearts of sweetness for the summer’s sake. THE BRAMBLES So tall along the dusty highway row, So wide on the free heath the brambles spread ; Here's the pink bud, and here the full white blow, And here the black ripe berry, here the red. Bud, flower, and fruit, among the mingling thorns; And dews to feed them in the autumn morns : Fruit, flower, and bud, together, thou rich tree And oh but life’s a happy time for me ! AUTUMN I5I WE TWO The road slopes on that leads us to the last, And we two tread it softly, side by side ; 'Tis a blithe count the milestones we have passed, Step fitting step, and each of us for guide. My love, and I thy love, our road is fair, And fairest most because the other’s there : Our road is fair, adown the harvest hill, But fairest that we two are we two still. WE TWO We two, we two the children’s smiles are dear— Thank God how dear the bonny children’s Smiles — But 'tis we two among our own ones here, We two along life's way through all the whiles. To think if we had passed each other by ; And he not he apart, and I not I And oh to think if we had never known ; And I not I and he not he alone ! I 52 MARJORY THE APPLE ORCHARD The apple branches bend with ripening weight, The apple branches rosy as with flowers; You'd think red giant fuchsias blooming late Within this sunny orchard ground of ours. Give us your shade, fair fountain trees of fruits; We rest upon the mosses at your roots: Fair fountain trees of fruits, drop windfalls here ; Lo, ripening store for all the coming year. . MARJORY I53 WINTER THE SNOWS THE green and happy world is hidden away; Cold, cold, the ghostly Snows lie on its breast; The white miles reach the shadows wan and grey 'Neath wan grey skies unchanged from east to West. Sleep on beneath the snows, chilled, barren, earth ; There are no blossoms for thy winter dearth : Break not nor melt, fall still from heaven, wan SnowS ; Hide the spoiled earth and numb her to repose. | THE HOLLY 'Tis a brave tree. While round its boughs in vain The warring wind of January bites and girds, It holds the clusters of its crimson grain, A winter pasture for the shivering birds. Oh patient holly, that the children love, No need for thee of smooth blue skies above : Oh green strong holly, shine amid the frost ; Thou dost not lose one leaf for sunshine lost. I 54 MARJORY THE GRAVEYARD They sleep here well who have forgotten to-day, They weep not while we weep, nor wake each 1]] OIIT To bitter new surprise as mourners may That knew not in their rest they were forlorn. Calm graveyard, 'tis more pleasant to sit here Than where loud life pretends its eager cheer: Calm graveyard where he waits and I shall be, Thou hast the spot of earth most dear to me. THE FROZEN RIVER Dead stream beneath the icy silent blocks That motionless stand Soddening into grime, Thy fretted falls hang numb, frost pens the locks ; Dead river, when shall be thy waking time P “Not dead; ” the river spoke and answered me, “My burdened current, hidden, finds the sea.” “Not dead, not dead; ” my heart replied at length, “The frozen river holds a hidden strength.” WINTER I55 THE DAUGHTER Go forth, my darling, in the wreath and veil; My hand shall place them for thee; so goodbye. . Thou hast Love's rose, and tend it without fail ; It withers, dear, if lovers let it lie. Go, my own singing bird, and be his now ; And I am more than half as glad as thou. Ah me ! the singing birds that were our own Fly forth and mate ; and ’tis long life alone. WE TWO We two that could not part are parted long ; He in the far-off Heaven, and I to wait. A ſair world once, all blossom-time and song ; But to be lonely tires, and I live late. To think we two have not a word to change : And one without the other here is strange | To think we two have nothing now to share : I wondering here, and he without me there ! I56 MARJORY WE TWO We two, we two we still are linked and nigh: He could not have forgotten in any bliss ; Surely he feels my being yet; and I, I have no thought but seems some part of his. Oh love gone out of reach of yearning eyes, Our hearts can meet to gather-in replies : Oh love past touch of lip and clasp of hand, Thou canst not be too far to understand. THE FLOWERS TO COME The drift is in the hollows of the hill, Yet primrose leaves uncurl beneath the hedge; Frosts pierce the dawn and the north wind blows chill, Yet Snowdrop spikelets rim the garden edge. Dear plants that will make bud in coming spring, Ye were not for one only blossoming : More than one blossoming for all fair flowers; And God keeps mine till spring is somewhere OUll S. I57 FAREWELL FAREWELL : we two shall still meet day by day, Live side by side ; But never more shall heart respond to heart. Two stranger boats can drift adown one tide, Two branches on one stem grow green apart. Farewell, I say. Farewell: chance travellers, as the path they tread, Change words and Smile, And share their travellers' fortunes, friend with friend, And yet are foreign in their thoughts the while, Several, alone, Save that one way they wend. Farewell; ’tis said. Farewell: ever the bitter asphodel Outlives love's rose ; The fruit and blossom of the dead for us. Ah, answer me, should this have been the close, To be together and be sundered thus 2 But yet, farewell. 158 NOT TO BE THE rose said “Let but this long rain be past, And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun And pour its fullness into life at last.” But when the rain was done, But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air, She was not there. The lark said “Let but winter be away, And blossoms come, and light, and I will Soar, And lose the earth, and be the voice of day.” But when the snows were o'er, But when spring broke in blueness overhead, The lark was dead. And myriad roses made the garden glow, And Skylarks Carolled all the summer long— What lack of birds to sing and flowers to blow P Yet, ah, lost scent, lost song ! Poor empty rose, poor lark that never trilled ! Dead unfulfilled ! I59 WHERE HOME WAS 'TWAS yesterday ; ’twas long ago : And for this flaunting grimy street And for this crowding to and fro, And thud and roar of wheels and feet, Were elm-trees and the linnet’s trill, The little gurgles of the rill, And breath of meadow-flowers that blow Ere roses make the summer sweet. Twas long ago; ’twas yesterday: Our peach would just be new with leaves, The Swallow pair that used to lay Their glimmering eggs beneath our eaves Would flutter busy with their brood, And, haply, in our hazel-wood, Small village urchins hide at play And girls sit binding blue-bell sheaves. Was the house here, or there, or there 2 No landmark tells. All changed ; all lost ; As when the waves that fret and tear The fore-shores of some level coast Roll smoothly where the Sea-pinks grew. All changed, and all grown old anew ; And I pass over, unaware, The memories I am seeking most. I6o WHERE HOME WAS But where these huddled house-rows spread, And where this thickened air hangs murk And the dim sun peers round and red On Stir and haste and cares and work, For me were baby’s daisy-chains, For me the meetings in the lanes, The shy good-morrows softly said That paid my morning's lying lurk. Oh lingering days of long ago, Not until now you passed away. Years wane between and we unknow ; Our youth is always yesterday. But, like a traveller home who craves For friends and finds forgotten graves, I seek you where you dwelt, and, lo, Even farewells not left to say. I6I SISTE VIATOR WHAT is it that is dead P Somewhere there is a grave, and something lies Cold in the ground and stirs not for my sighs, Nor songs that I can make, nor Smiles from me, Nor tenderest foolish words that I have said ; Something that was has hushed and will not be. Did it go yesterday ? Or did it wane away with the old years ? There hath not been farewell, nor watchers' tears, Nor hopes, nor vain reprieves, nor strife with death, Nor lingering in a meted out delay; None closed the eyes nor felt the latest breath. But, be there joyous skies, It is not in their sunshine ; in the night It is not in the silence, and the light Of all the silver stars; the flowers asleep Dream no more of it, nor their morning eyes Betray the secrets it has bidden them keep. M I62 SISTE VIATOR Birds that go singing now Forget it and leave sweetness meaningless ; The fitful nightingale, that feigns distress To sing it all away, flows on by rote ; The seeking lark, in very heaven, I trow, Shall find no memory to inform his note. The voices of the shore Chime not with it for burden ; in the wood, Where it was soul of the vast solitude, It hath forsook the stillness; dawn and day And the deep-thoughted dusk know it no more ; It is no more the freshness of the May. Joy hath it not for heart; Nor music for its second, Subtler, tongue, Sounding what music's self hath never Sung ; Nor very Sorrow needs it help her weep. Vanished from everywhere ! what was a part Of all and everywhere ; lost into sleep ! What was it ere it went 2 Whence had it birth P What is its name to call, That gone unmissed has left a want in all P Or shall I cry on Youth, in June-time still P Or cry on Hope, who long since am content 2 Or Love, who hold him ready at my will ? What is it that is dead 2 Breath of a flower P sea-freshness on a wind P Oh, dearest, what is that that we should find, If you and I at length could win it back P What have we lost and know not it hath fled P Heart of my heart, could it be love we lack P A SONG OF A SPRING-TIME TOO rash, Sweet birds, Spring is not spring ; Sharp winds are fell in east and north ; Late blossoms die for peeping forth ; Rains numb, frost blights ; Days are unsunned, Storms tear the nights ; The tree-buds wilt before they swell. Frosts in the buds, and frost-winds fell ; And you, you sing. But let no song be sweet in spring ; Spring is but hope for after-time, And what is hope but spring-tide rime 2 But blights P but rain P Spring wanes unsunned, and Sunless wane The hopes false spring-tide bore to die. Spring's answer is the March wind's sigh : And you, you sing. I64 A SUMMER. MOOD BUT wait. Let each by each the days pass by, One faded and one blown like summer flowers ; What need of hope, with summer in the sky What of regret, with all fair morrows ours ? If yesterday be gone, No reck, 'twas not alone, To-morrow will have just so sweet long hours. But yet to-day is sweetest till 'tis flown. But wait. Let Summer day be changed from day, Like following surges of the ebb and flow ; And flow brings breath of Saltness and blithe Spray, And ebb long music of seas plashing low. The waves, stolen out of reach, Have no farewell for speech ; Next tide will roll as swift, as rippling go. And yet ’tis now that’s best along the beach. A SUMMER MOOD I65 Ah wait. The while we linger our lives live, Our Summer ripens purpose through our dreams ; Flower-petals fallen leave a seed to thrive, Spent tides heap treasures from the deep sea streams ; Now drifts by unaware, And Afterwards is heir ; To-morrow wins the wealth of yester gleams. Yet ’tis to-day that summer makes most fair. I66 NOT LOVE I HAVE not yet I could have loved thee, Sweet ; Nor know I wherefore, thou being all thou art, The engrafted thought in me throve incomplete, And grew to summer strength in every part Of root and leaf, but hath not borne the flower. Love hath refrained his fullness from my heart. I know no better beauty, none with power To hold mine eyes through change and change as thine, Like southern skies that alter with each hour, And yet are changeless, and their calm divine From light to light hath motionlessly passed, With only different loveliness for sign. I know no fairer nature, nor where, cast On the clear mirror of thine own young truth, The imaged things of Heaven lie plainer glassed ; Nor where more fit alike show tender ruth, And anger for the right, and hopes aglow, And joy and sighs of April-hearted youth. |NOT LOVE 167 But some day I, so wont to praise thee so With unabashed warm words for all to hear, Shall scarcely name another, Speaking low. Some day, methinks, and who can tell how near 2 I may, to thee unchanged, be praising thee With one not worthier but a world more dear ; With one I know not yet, who shall, maybe, Be not so fair, be not in aught thy peer ; Who shall be all that thou art not to me I68 MY LOSS IN the world was one green nook I knew, Full of roses, roses red and white, Reddest roses summer ever grew, Whitest roses ever pearled with dew ; And their sweetness was beyond delight, Was all love's delight. Wheresoever in the world I went, Roses were ; for in my heart I took Blow and blossom and bewildering scent; Roses never with the summer spent, Roses always ripening in that nook, Love's far summer nook. In the world a soddened plot I know, Blackening in this chill and misty air, Set with shivering bushes in a row, One by one the last leaves letting go : Wheresoe’er I turn I shall be there, Always sighing there. Ah, my folly! Ah, my loss, my pain Dead, my roses that can blow no more Wherefore looked I on our nook again P Wherefore went I after autumn's rain, Where the summer roses bloomed before, Bloomed so sweet before ? I69 POULAIN THE PRISONER I BEYOND his silent vault green Springs went by, The river flashed along its open way, Blithe swallows flitted in their billowy play, And the Sweet lark went quivering up the sky. With him was stillness and his heart’s dumb cry And darkness of the tomb through hopeless day, Save that along the wall one single ray Shifted, through jealous loop-holes, westerly. One single ray : and where its light could fall His rusty nail carved saints and angels there, And warriors, and slim girls with braided hair, And blossomy boughs, and birds athwart the air. Rude work, but yet a world. And light for all Was one slant ray upon a prison wall. II One ray, and in its track he lived and wrought, And in free wideness of the world, I know, One said, “Fair sunshine, yet it serves not so, It needs a tenderer when I shape my thought ; ” 17o POULAIN THE PRISONER And, “’Tis too brown and molten in the drought,” And, “’Tis too wan a greyness in this Snow,” And would have toiled, but wearied and was woe, While days stole past and had bequeathed him nought. Maybe in Gisors, round the fortress mead— Gisors where now, when fair-time brings its press, They seek the prisoner's tower to gaze and guess And love the work he made in loneliness— One cursed the gloom, and died without a deed, The while he carved where his one ray could lead. III “Oh loneliness oh darkness l’” so we wail, Crying to life to give we know not what, The hope not come, the ecstasy forgot, The things we should have had and, needing, fail, Nor know what thing it was for which we ail, And, like tired travellers to an unknown spot, Pass listless, noting only “Yet 'tis not,” And count the ended day an empty tale. Ah me ! to linger on in dim repose And feel the numbness over hand and thought, And feel the silence in the heart, that grows. Ah me ! to have forgot the hope we sought. One ray of light, and a Soul lived and wrought, And on the prison walls a message rose. 171 THE SWALLOWS AH ! swallows, is it so P Did loving lingering summer, whose slow pace Tarried among late blossoms, loth to go, Gather the darkening cloud-wraps round her face And weep herself away in last week’s rain P Can no new sunlight waken her again f “Yes,” one pale rose a-blow Has answered from the trellised lane ; The flickering swallows answer “ No.” From out the dim grey Sky The arrowy swarm breaks forth and specks the air, While, one by one, birds wheel and float and fly, And now are gone, then Suddenly are there ; Till lo, the heavens are empty of them all. Oh, fly, fly south, from leaves that fade and fall, From shivering flowers that die; Free swallows, fly from winter’s thrall, Ye who can give the gloom goodbye. I72 THE SWALLOWS But what for us who stay To hear the winds and watch the boughs grow black, And in the Soddened mornings, day by day, Count what lost sweets bestrew the nightly track Of frost-foot winter trampling towards his throne Swallows, who have the sunlight for your own, Fly on your Sunward way; For you has January buds new blown, For us the Snows and gloom and grey. On, on, beyond our reach, Swallows, with but your longing for a guide : Let the hills rise, let the waves tear the beach, Ye will not balk your course nor turn aside, But find the palms and twitter in the sun. And well for them whose eager wings have won The longed for goal of flight; But what of them in twilights dun Who long, but have no wings for flight 2 I73 THE BROOK RHINE SMALL current of the wilds afar from men, Changing and Sudden as a baby's mood ; Now a green babbling rivulet in the wood, Now loitering broad and shallow through the glen, Or threading 'mid the naked shoals, and then Brattling against the stones, half mist, half flood, Between the mountains where the storm-clouds brood ; And each change but to wake or sleep again ; Pass on, young stream, the world has need of thee; Far hence a mighty river on its breast Bears the deep-laden vessels to the sea ; Far hence wide waters feed the vines and corn. Pass on, Small stream, to So great purpose born, On to the distant toil, the distant rest. I74 QUESTION AND ANSWER HAD I a heart till that day ? Who knows, who knows 2 Ere the leaf burst upwards can any say “Here is a green thing hidden away In the lingering new year snows”? Could I have loved one not her P Can I tell, can I tell ? When northern seas feel their life, and stir In their one day’s dawn, can they judge and aver “Some other dawn were as well” P Could I, she lost, love again f Maybe, maybe. The dead man moulders through Sun and rain, While a soul forgets his joy and his pain; Yet that soul which forgets is still he. I75 AUTUMN WARNINGS SOFT voices of the woods, that make The summer air a harmony, Winged whispers through the leaves where wake Long wind-wafts dying in a sigh, Replies of birds from brake to brake, Plash of the runnel on its stones, Soft voices, sweet for summer's sake, There is a word in all your tones, A word that not till now ye spake, “Goodbye, goodbye.” And yet, see, dearest, overhead The branches bar a sultry sky, No earliest fleck of tanned or red "Mid all the leafage far and nigh, And, with their serried curves outspread, The fresh green fern-fronds know no frost. Nought gone ; but still some grace is dead : Nought changed ; but still some hope is lost : Listen, and every voice has said “Goodbye, goodbye.” We shall not see the summer wane, But, with a start of memory, When the long chills have come again, Awake and know that it did die : So slowest loss is sudden pain; 176 AUTUMNAL WARNINGS We have not known till all is o'er ; 'Tis summer till the autumn's rain. Yet has there stolen long before That sadness through some sweetest strain “Goodbye, goodbye.” Ah, love, hear all the thought that grew ; Mock it away; I’ll mock it, I : Summer, and I sit here with you, Your great eyes Smiling tenderly, Your silence wooing me to woo, A meaning in your lightest word As though love made it something new— And what if all the while. I heard The autumn whisper sighing through “Goodbye, goodbye.” P 177 THE SIKYLARK’S SONG WINGED voice to tell the skies of earth, Dear earth-born lark, sing on, sing clear, Sing into heaven that she may hear ; Sing what thou wilt, so she but know Thine ecstasy of summer mirth, And think “’Tis from the world below !” Instant, old wont returns fresh brought, And her desire goes seeking me, For whom her whole world used to be And all my world for sake of her ; She cannot think an earthward thought That shall not seem my messenger. She will be glad for love, and smile, Saying “Thank God for joy like ours: ” Saying “There come the kind home hours: His work-day will be sped ere long, That keeps him hence this little while.” Sing, lark, until she know thy song. Sing of the earth, but sing no care, Sing thine own measureless content: She will remember what it meant ; Griefs are too base, but, carolling thus, Thou with thy joy mayst reach her there, And she joy too remembering us. 178 SON G WHITE rose sighed in the morn, Red rose laughed in the noon, And “Sweetest sweetness is ended soon,” And “Never heed for the thorn.” “Love's hour passes away,” White rose breathed in my ear; Red rose whispered “No need to fear; The day is enough for day.” Shall I heed white or red P Shall I heed both aright P Sighing and laughing, red and white, 'Tis “Love her ” they both have said. I79 SONG WHERE found Love his yesterday ? When is Love's to-morrow 2 say. Love has only now. We can swear it, we who stand In Love’s present, hand in hand, Thou and I, dear, I and thou. By and by and Long ago, * Last month’s buds, next winter's Snow ; Love has only now. Do we wot of rathe or sere In Love's boundless Summer year, Thou and I, dear, I and thou ? Suns that rose and Suns to set ; Gone for ever and AVož yet; Love has always now. Do we count by dawn and night, Dwelling in Love's perfect light, Thou and I, dear, I and thou ? I8o SONG DEAR love, good-night. And, tender sleep, Seal up her lids like these drowsed flowers, To make day fair when they unclose. Be hushed around her, Night, and keep Thy silent guard on her repose ; But speed thine hours. Dear love, sleep on. This weary space I wake and long for day and thee, And count the slow stars from their west. Sleep while I hunger for thy face, Sleep, dearest, in unbroken rest; But dream of me. I81 THE WENDULPH BALLAD “NEWS to the king, good news for all,” The coryz Żs £rodden, the river runs red. “News of the battle,” the heralds call, “We have won the field ; we have taken the town ; We have beaten the rebels and crushed them down.” And the dying lie with the dead. “Who was my bravest ?” quoth the king, T/he corne is frodden, the river runs red. “Whom shall I honour for this great thing P’’ “Threescore were best, where none were worst; But Walter Wendulph was aye the first.” And the dying lie with Že dead. “What of my husband P’’ quoth the bride, The coryz is frodden, the river razzas red. “Comes he to-morrow ; how long will he bide P” “Put off thy bridegear, busk thee in black; Walter Wendulph will never come back.” And the dying Zie with the dead. I82 SON G TELL thee truth, Sweet; no. Truth is cross and sad and cold : Lies are pitiful and kind, Honey-soft as Love's own tongue: Let me, love, lie So. Lies are like a summer wind, Wooing flower-buds to unfold. Lies will last while men are young. Tell thee truth, love ; no. Let me, sweet, lie so. Lies are Hope's light ministers, Footless birds upon the wing: Truth’s a name for plodding care : Tell thee truth, sweet; no. Truth’s the east wind on the Spring— 'Tis the wind, not Spring-time, errs. Lies will last while maids are fair. Let me lie, love, So. SONG DEAREST, this one day we own, Stolen from the crowd and press, Let it be sweet silence's. We two, heart in heart, alone ; Any speech were less. We are weary, even thus, Talk might turn to discontent Else be practised merriment: Earth and sky will speak for us Nearer as we meant. We two in the stillness, dear, Fair dreams come without our quest; Not to talk of life is best. Ah, our holiday is here, Let it all be rest. 184 SONG DAY is dead, and let us sleep, Sleep a while or sleep for aye, 'Twere the best if we unknew While to-morrow dawned and grew ; It may bring us time to weep : We were glad to-day. Joy a little while is won, Joy is ending while begun ; Then the setting of the sun. Afterwards is long to rue. 185 SONG ONCE a sea-nymph loved a boy: He and she they loved so well. “Oh the foamy billow’s joy Oh the rippling in the Sun Oh the round waves, one by one, Swaying, swaying, swaying, To and fro. Oh my pearl and coral cell, And the long weeds playing, While the surges come and go, Come and go ” Boy and nymph were hand in hand : He and she they had much love. “Oh the green and ripening land Oh the lime-scent in the trees Oh the languor of the breeze, Wooing, wooing, wooing, Light and low ! Oh the twilight in my grove And the cushats cooing ; While the brook steals soft and slow, Soft and slow.” Love, that heard them, laughed aloud, Took them to the side of him. Was it land or leafy cloud P Was it billowy cloud or sea 'Twas the home that eyes, kissed dim Look on as they’d have it be. 186 SON G JOY that's half too keen, and true, Makes us tears. Oh the Sweetness of the tears If such joy at hand appears, Snatch it, give thine all for it ; Joy that is so exquisite, Lost, comes not new. One blossom for a hundred years. Grief that’s fond, and dies not soon Makes delight. Oh! the pain of the delight ! If thy grief be love's aright, Tend it close and let it grow : Grief so tender not to know Loses Love's boon. Sweet Philomel sings all the night. 187 RISPETTI FROM “THE SENTENCE * THE Sun’s the heart of the sky o'erhead. Only one Sun though the sky’s so great. If the sun never came the sky would go dead. But the moon may shine when the Sun dawns late. And, oh my love and my loving one, Thou art my heart and my single Sun : And, oh my Sun in my passion’s great sky, The moon and the stars can do nothing but die. The net was torn, the fisher was woe, And it held but only a shell, And “Why was I born to be spited so P” But soon it was well, it was well. The net was torn for a round rich pearl, Didst thou vex and spite me a while, fair girl P Gain of a pearl was harm to the net, Fair girl, my ring’s on thy finger yet. SONG PLUCK the rose part blown, Fresh to-day ; So it will not have been shown That there is a pause to light, That there is a chill in night, So it will not feel decay. Pluck the rose ere it have known, As some roses may, One soft petal shrink or stain or drop away. CHILD’S LULLABY SING-SONG, sing-Song, little river: Sleeping-time. Sing-Song, sing-Song, leaves a-quiver: Sing-song, breezes, breathing “Slumber,” Sing-song, crickets crackling “Ever,” Sing-Song, voices—oh the number — With a drowsy chime, Drowsy, drowsy, through our dozing ; But the birds their eyes are closing Not a chirp till waking time. 189 LOVE’S RIDIDLE “WHY I love thee,” is thy question so P “Why, when Isabel is lovelier far P” Dear, so hard to read Love's riddles are He’s no lover who can solve them well : I may tell when thou hast made me know Why thy Smile has nought of Isabel. “Why I love thee,” dost thou ask me this P “Why, when Lucy’s voice is thrice as sweet P” Dear, Love's measures are so hard to mete More and less compute no lover's choice : Ere I tell, say what the reason is Why thy singing has not Lucy’s voice. “Why I love thee,” must I answer now P “Why, when Blanche is wittier fifty-fold P” Dear, Love wrote his changeless law of old Lovers' wisdoms should not know their why : Why art thou not she, nor she, but thou ? Tell me, sweet, for therein's my reply. I 90 THE FLOOD OF IS IN BRITTANY CRESTs of foam where the milch-kine fed, Where the green corn whitened and tanned ; Crests of foam and breakers ahead, And the deeps run smooth over rocks and sand. Will the flood-tide back at the churchyard slope P Mercy, God, from thy sea 'Twill check at the church and the graves. There’s hope. Christ, let some land yet be The surf came sprinkling over the graves : Then, human speed to the speed of waves, And the drowning sank to the blessèd dead. Fly who can | No moment to breathe : If the homes wreck, life is worth most. Sound from the front of surges that seethe 'Tis the sea rolling in from the other coast. Sea from the west | Sea from the south ! “ Husband snatched in the tide l’ “Child, thy mother P” “She kissed my mouth, And sat with baby and cried, For she could not carry him any more.” “Brother, farewell, lest neither reach shore.” Flood, flood right and left | Is there footing beneath P THE FLOOD OF IS IN BRITTANY I9 I Grallon rode, rode, and Said no word, Till the white foam Splashed at his knee. “Cling more close, my tender pet-bird ; No fear but stout Gael save thee and me.” St. Gwenolé rode behind the king, Muttered low in his prayer, “Can God will the life of this wanton thing, She that scoffed everywhere P” Foremost and fastest the great tide raced ; Dahut, clasped firm to her father's waist, Prayed in her terror, and never stirred. Speed of horse to the flood-tide's speed : And the high land seemed ever more far. Grallon cried out, and patted his steed, “Hurry thee, Gael, or we drown where we are.” Spake St. Gwenolé, riding at Grallon’s hand, “Gael bears weight of sin : She that has brought God’s doom on thy land Sits him ; the tide will win.” Quoth Grallon, “Thou’rt holy, and I forgive ; None else could have spoken thus and live.” But proud fair Dahut gave scarcely heed. Gael forced through amid the brunt Where the waves lashed at side and flanks. St. Gwenolé's horse plunged on to the front, St. Gwenolé cried, “ Douarnenez banks We’d reach them yet, if Gael bore one. Grallon, God bids, obey: Thy kingdom drowns for the sins she has done ; Cast the sinner away.” 192 THE FLOOD OF IS IN BRITTANY King Grallon spoke slowly, “She’s my child.” Fair Dahut lifted her head and smiled ; And 'twas “Wait till Douarnenez, priest, for my thanks.” Dead and drowning came on with the scud ; And the Swimmers clutched wrack and drift ; Mark's hill tore and slipped with a thud, And the sea made a whirling pool in the rift. Gwenolé's horse had the water shoal ; Grallon’s kept losing his feet, Swam, but once shrieked like a human soul : Grallon’s had two in seat. On a moment’s ground Grallon gave him halt, Looked back. Oh, the Heavens for Dahut's fault No city, no landmarks—bare trackless flood. “Heart dear father : Gael must swim.” It was Dahut's voice at his ear. Close she sat and clinging to him She the thing of the world he held dear. Her little fingers were knitted so tight, Grallon needed his strength : But 'twixt such a two was no equal strife; 'Twas but a minute's length. “Father | * she cried, and then, “Murderer | * Then fell. So her sins were revenged on her ; And the flood-tide stayed at a low rock rim. TETHERED I AN open lake with room for all the sky: Northward wide slopes and then the tall blue chain ; To east the depths of pines and, closer by, Willows that net the ripples, warping oaks, Cedars, dense elms that hold the wood-doves' cry ; And stretching to the Sun, a boundless plain. On the free lake, on the free river, The swans drift by at rest, Breast the wind’s waves in strong endeavour, Break the clear calm with smooth slow strokes : To north, to South, to east, to west, Swans on lake and river. II A careful garden where the ivy spreads, Lending a rustic touch to shadowing walls; And in the centre space the patterned beds, Catching the noonday Sun, bloom red and gold O I94 TETHERED And pollard limes send sweetness o'er our heads ; And there’s green lawn, save where their shadow falls. Lilacs blow first, then carpet posies, Crisp asters find their turn: Proof of each season it encloses, (Even though sparrows are too bold) The garden with the fountain urn, With the shapely posies. III Swans on the river, on the lake's blue deep : In the walled garden with the limes a-row. A Swan sits in a corner, half asleep, A Swan that wears a chain upon his limb Measured the length that he may come and go ; And he can reach the urn, and has his keep. On the free lake, on the free river, The Swans go who knows where : Guest of the garden, guest for ever, Room in the fountain's bath for him, The chain's full length to take the air, Swan enchained for ever. One showed a life's long secret, pitying thus, “Poor swan 'tis like a tethered soul of us.” I95 SONGS OF BIRDS THE SAEylark's song : “Arise, arise ! Oh free glad wings, awake the air; On, on, above, the light is there ; Pass the faint clouds and know the skies. Oh blueness oh deep endless height ! Oh unveiled sun Oh ecstasy of upward flight ! I mount 1 I mount | Oh skies oh sun ” The Sparrozy's song. “Let be to soar : Skies blacken under night or rain ; Wild wings are weary all in vain. Lo, the fair earth, the fruitful store And the dear Sunbeams travel down, And warm our eaves, And bring gay Summer to the town. Oh sun oh bloom oh safe warm eaves | * The Zinneſſ’s song: “Oh joy of spring ! Oh blithe surprise of life And flowers Wake in the birthday April hours, And wonder, and are fair, and bring New promise of new joy to be. Oh hope 1 oh Now ! , Oh blossoms breaking on the tree I live Oh day ! oh happy Now !” 196 SONGS OF BIRDS The Wighſ-Owl's song : “The flowers go dead, Weak flowers that die for heat or cold, That die ere, even, spring turns old : And with few hours the day is sped ; The calm grey shadows chase the noon ; Night comes, and dusk, And stillness, and the patient moon. Oh stillness 1 and oh long cool dusk ” The Thrush's song : “Oh wedded wills Oh love's delight ! She mine, I hers And every little wind that stirs, And every little brook that trills, Makes music, and I answer it With ‘Love, love, love.” Oh happy bough where we two sit ! I love . I love | Oh song oh love 1° 7%e Kaven's song : “Waste no vain breath On dead-born joys that fade from earth, Nor talk of blossoming or of birth, For all things are a part of death, Save love, that scarce waits death to die. Spring has its graves; Our yew-trees see the green leaves lie. Oh churchyard yews oh smooth new graves | The song of the sweed AVågſønga/e, That has all hearts in his, and knows The Secret of all joys and woes, And till the listening stars grow pale, SONGS OF BIRDS * I97 And fade into the daybreak gleam, His mingled voice Melts grief and gladness in a dream. He doth not sorrow, nor rejoice. Aſe sings: “Heart, rest thee and be free, Pour thyself on the unhindering wind ; Leave the dear pain of life behind ; Loosed heart, forget thou art, and be. Oh pain oh joy of life 1 oh love My heart is these. Oh roses of the noon oh stars above Dead, waned, still with me ; I am these.” I98 AT SORRENTO CLEAR quiet waters, like the pale green sky That in Smooth Sunsets spans from gold to gold ; And when the windy ripple flickers by It breaks and plashes on the thwarting beach : But there the sunken stones in stillness lie, The seaweeds stir not, that the Crannies hold ; Calm is below the deepness out of reach. Yet there was once the servants’ busy tread ; Or, languidly, trailed robes would sweep the hall ; There cool dim rest was sweet with noon o'erhead ; There, on the terraced court—the rose ablow— With gossip friends from Rome the cup was shed, And girls went whispering in the evening fall, And children at their play passed to and fro. A reef beneath the sea where the boats ride And fishers cast their nets ; and well I wot The goodly home was boasted far and wide. A reef beneath the Sea : this much remains. But they that were its life 'neath Time’s smooth tide Are hidden out of very thought, forgot— Lost in the fathomless dark of ocean plains. I99 IN THE PAME III-D ORIA GARDENS BROWN stagnant dawn, forgotten of the Sun, And then wan noon beneath white pools of sky, Mists blackening, and the long harsh night begun. What bird could know to bid the day goodbye P No sun to rise, no sun to sink : At noon birds chirped “Day's near, we think, And 'twas the night-fall had begun. }) Dawns thus, noons thus, nights thus, with never a Change, This leaden while of weeks of the young year; A Snowdrop, if one struggles forth, looks Strange, A birth unnatural in a world so drear, And keeps its stem within the mould, Afraid and parching in the cold : Poor flower, in such a world too strange. No pulse of Spring’s revival beats and thrills ; Beneath the narrow vault of cloud and rime, Beneath the thick and bitter air that kills, The rigid earth lies sere . . . in budding time. No vernal rush in blade and tree And us that makes us glad to be : We breathe the thick bleak air that kills. 2OO IN THE PAMRII,I-DORIA GARDENS But all the while I know where, too far hence, Through earth's flushed pores the year's young life leaps forth ; Where air is drunken with Spring’s quickening sense ; Where infinite sky is east, west, south, and north, Bluer than any Sapphire's light ; Where dawn and noon and fostering night Instil Spring’s Subtle quickening sense, Where ruby, rose, white flushing at the marge, Pearl, and shell-pink, and grey, and amethyst, Crowded upon their sunshine acres large, (Posies at will and next day none be missed) Blow, born of light and Spring’s soft breeze, The shyly sweet anemones: Sunshine and blossom acres large. Oh, star anemones, whose fragrance coy, Close at the heart like a young maiden's hope, Gave me its Secret, and your radiance joy, Ye are blowing now, and on the bosky slope, The emerald and shadowy gloom Is shot with purple wefts of bloom, For violets breathe the spring-time joy. Pleased children, greedy for the flowers, make haste; With nosegay both hands big must add and add— Their world is full enough of flowers for waste. Someone that being older is more sad Hides, maybe, where a stillness is To feel the exquisite Spring bliss, And but one ſlower’s too much to waste. IN THE PAMRII,I-DORIA GARDENS 201 Ah well, 'tis black and barren here to-day ; My life lags numbed : and yet there is for me Some part in Sunshine and birds’ welcoming song, Who know the Spring that’s where far strangers see, And am the happier in my home Because of violets at Rome, Of wind-flowers'neath Rome's Spring-birds' song. 2O2 THE MOMENT DO you ever think, my darling, How it would have been with us If we had not met that morning, Had not sat together thus P Should we in some other meeting, Should we by some other way, Unaware have reached our moment P Should we sit here thus to-day ? Ah who knows 2 There's never blossom— One 'mid hundreds, if you seek, - Can be found its perfect fellow, Fold for fold and streak for streak. Not a flower and not a moment Can be like its likest mate ; And in moments on Love's dial Such least change may be so great, Ours—that held all life within it— Could not come but then and so. Had we missed it with its secret, Would some other make us know P THE MOMENT 2O3 Love will find its times and chances ; Ay, but love must first be born. We might never have been lovers If we had not met that morn. Love will link his own together; Ay, but Love mu_t find the twain. If we had not met that morning, Should we ever meet again P 2O4 Q “THE COMMON FATE OF ALL THINGS RARIE * SO strange it is to me Beauty should perishably find its close That sometimes, looking on a girl’s gold hair, That sometimes, looking on a perfect rose, I see in it the loss that is to be And am made mournful by its being fair. It cannot be but pain, Wondering how showed some loveliest face of yore, To think “”Tis gone that was so exquisite; Delight went from the world that comes no more— Some other but not ever that again. Dead ; and we could have been so glad of it ! But there’s a sadder sense When loveliness is lapsing to decay, The flower grown sere that was so sweet a prize, The face that made men's Sunshine fallen and grey. Oh loss, that fair should fade ere it goes hence, Should change forgotten in Time's dusk disguise Saddest of all is this, The while one's eyes gaze happy even to tears, To have it in one's heart “And this fair thing, “COMMON FATE OF ALL THINGS RARE * 205 Except it die too early, nears and nears A time that shall transform it all amiss, The time of warping and blurred withering.” Saddest of all is this : Yet how not sometimes spoil delight with thought, Measuring the beauty by the loss for aye, Since its completing points its road to Nought, Since having been lurks waiting for what is Woe's me, that fair is fair for but its day ! 2O6 THE CAMPAGNA A WIDE green world, that rests, as children rest, In the broad flooding of the unshadowed day And when the long rays redden from the west. As on the evenness of some lulled bay The winged and sudden night drops down and broods, Or the white moon-tracks slowly shift their ray. And when grey dawn floats o'er the level roods It has but changed, not broken, their repose ; Not theirs the morning whispers of the woods; Not theirs, when all the broken east is rose, Where the new sun has burst into his sky, The answering beacons of the mountain glows. A calm of loveliness is where they lie, A speech of silence, and the hush that stills, And the deep impulse of monotony. On to the olive slopes and crag-bound hills, On to the sea-like margins of blue air, Their world spreads forth beyond the world it fills, THE CAMPAGNA 2O7 Lifting the sight past beauty that is there To a far dream, unshapen, that seems more, To a far hope or memory, who knows where So, while we rest upon a tide-lapped shore, The immeasurable reaches of the main Bear thought past thought to some dim home before, To some new world dim longings seek in vain, The land that seems deep space's hidden bourne, The goal of thy wide wastes, thou glorious plain. Clothe thee in beauty ruin has not worn Nor all the change and sadness of decline, Clothe thee in brightness; nature cannot mourn. Thou hast forgot the cities that were thine, The palaces of rest amid their groves, The farmstead and the village and the shrine. What grief to thee if, where the stray herd roves Trampling the lavish grass, stood homes of men, And wheat-fields in the flats the curlew loves P What grief to thee ? Long summers clothe the fen And Scatter blossom on the fallow mead ; Fair in thy past, thou art more fair than then. Yet musing eyes bent on thee voidly heed The waving corn long-rusted sickles felled, The walls long crumbled that outlived their need, Heed all thou holdest not, but once hast held, The rustic wealth, the monumental piles, The pomps, the miseries, of dead days of eld. 208 THE CAMPAGNA Oh, ancient plain amid thy thousand Smiles, A sister sky respondent from below, Greenness beneath the blueness miles and miles. Thy soil has whilom sucked the red blood’s flow, War-cries and groans have mingled in thy heaven Then stillness and the rest of foe by foe. Rapines have torn thee, shrieking crowds beer driven, Forth from the flaming roofs, along thy ways Forth from the city razed, the fastness riven. Thy homes have known pale doubt, and wolfish frays, The secret poison, and the despot's crime, And tongues that trembled in the murderer's praise. In thy far glories of an ancient prime, How hast thou been betrod by flagging feet Of hopeless captives from an alien clime ! Oh gaze of loathing eyes that strain to meet The first grey glimpse of awful Rome descried Oh hearts that beat, then almost ceased to beat Ah well ! But there went joyous stir beside ; On to their Rome they passed and Rome's acclaim, The victor legions in their soldier pride. And even then through tombs. Yet not the same. Lo, torn and empty walls, rent marbles near ; Lo, builded heaps that bear no more a name. THE CAMPAGNA • 209 This was the dead’s immortal street : from here Stretched the twin lines of envied sepulchres And told them to the world, great, reverenced, dear. Rome's proudest street : leagues from her barriers ' Measured by heroes' names; and, journeying home, Each coming step passed some renown of hers. But long since did the shapeless tombs become The desolate monument of one dead thing, And that dead thing the greatness once called Rome. And Rome laughs in the Sunshine of the spring And crowns her hills with new-made homes a-row And wears her ruins for adornment ring. Thou knowest it not, slumbering around her so, Enfolding her with thy soft poisonous breath— Thou yet to-day her beauty and her woe, For lo, thy living fairness covers death : Like the bright clinging robe of magic tales Blasting the limbs that it encompasseth, Like sweet enchanted singing in the vales To bind the lingerer into lethic sleep, A trance of music till the sick sense fails, So thou, bright treachery. Patient centuries keep The story of the uneventful dead, Thy harvest thou hast given Death to reap. P 2 IO THE CAMPAGNA Oh, thou hast forfeit for thy glories fled— Laxed hands, wanned lips, the fever’s stealthy haste, Scared women’s desolate tears too early shed. Rome's deadliest enemy beside her placed Oh, thou fair silence, long avenged too much, Thou art avenged on man that leaves thee waste. Ay, leaves thee waste; and yet, to leave thee such Seems as to give our lives one perfect gift, Largeness and calm, free from man’s busy touch. Forth, forth, o'er thy green infinite let me drift, Fill me with resting, thou still left so fair, Thou that the roofs must hide, the ploughshare rift. Some morrow thou shalt be the trader's care, Shalt be, thou too, toil's mapped and meted ground, Here grow trim crops, here see the loom-mills stare. Thy silence shall be haste and eager sound ; Where in thy paths the wanderer’s foot is strange Brisk tramcars shall go plying on their round ; Thy wilds shall be a set and peopled range— Highways, and dykes, and fields behind the wall. Well, since the change is good, God speed the change. And surely eyes that can perceive the all Shall See a beauty in thy human good More than to watch the light and shadow fall. THE CAMPAGNA 2 I I And lo, thy sunny hills, the hills that stood Guarding the shepherd deserts ere Rome grew, That so will guard thee shaped to modern mood ; And lo, thy boundless heaven’s deep limpid blue, Thy big untrembling stars: thou couldst not seem, Ever, so staled but these should make thee new. Ah well ! That morrow shall be fair, I deem, That is to waken thee: God speed the change : But yet—Oh fill my dreaming, perfect dream. Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR PLJ BLISHED BY MACMILLAN & CO. B E D F O R D S T RE ET, CO V E N T G ARD EN, WITII OPINIONS OF TEIE PRESS. THE PROMETHEUS BOUND OF ABSCHYLUs. Literally translated into English Verse. Extra ſcp. 8vo. 3s. 6d. “Among recent translations of poetry Mrs. Webster's Pro- metheus of Æschylus claims a high rank. Of her volume of original poems we have already Spoken. Her translation is marked by the same high qualities, but especially by fidelity to the original without losing its Spirit.”— Westminster Review. ‘It has clearly been a labour of love, and has been done faithfully and conscientiously. '-Confemporary ſeeview. ‘We have been often quite amazed at the extent to which she has complied with the Severe conditions imposed on herself.' —AVozzconformisé. ‘The translation may be regarded in its entirety as a really marvellous performance ; it is astonishing how a certain poetic majesty, for which the original is remarkable, discloses itself in the choral portions and the monologues. . . . The scholar will acknowledge the difficulty of the task undertaken, and will be struck with no infrequent Surprise and admiration at the art and ingenuity with which troublesome passages are handled.'— I//us/rated Londove AWezus. 2 WORAS BY THE SAME A UTHOR DRAMATIC STUDIES. Extra fop. 8vo. 5s. “A volume marked by many signs of remarkable power.’— Saturday Review. - ‘Mrs. Webster shows not only originality, but, what is nearly as rare, trained intellect and self-command. She possesses, too, what is the first requisite of a poet—earnestness. This quality is stamped upon all that she writes.'— Westminster A'eview. ‘A volume as strongly marked by perfect taste as by poetic power.’—Nonconformist. ‘Expositions of separate individualities profoundly studied and minutely realised.'—Athenazzm. A WOMAN SOLD, and other Poems. Extra ſcp. 8vo. 7s. 6d. “In many places, too, we have glimpses of an admirably subtle analytic power.’—Saturday Review. ‘Enough has been cited to show that the writer has the vision which looks not only deeply into the heart, but lovingly upon nature.’—Athenazzºn. ‘Mrs. Webster has shown us that she is able to draw admir- ably from the life; that she can observe with subtlety, and render her observations with delicacy; that she can impersonate complex conceptions, and venture into recesses of the ideal world into which few living writers can follow her.'-Gzzardiaz. THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. Literally translated into English Verse. Extra fop. 8vo. 3s. 6d. ‘The Medea has hitherto had many imitators, but few English translators, and none who have performed the work with as much honesty and general ability as Mrs. Webster."— AEa// Mall Gaześće. ‘It is surprising how closely and correctly she has reproduced the original, expressing its full force and delicate shades of meaning line for line, and almost word for word.”—AZhenaeum. ‘We really do not know where to find another translation WO/CAS B V 7TP/A2 SA//Z A U7'HOA’ 3 in which the spirit is rendered with such fidelity and beauty."— Westmzzyzster Æeviezw. PORTRAITS. Third Edition. Fop. 8vo. 5s. ‘We have been more than liberal in our quotations from these gems, because it is so seldom that one now meets with what is really poetry in the highest sense of the term. It is long since we encountered a volume of short miscellaneous pieces which would bear reading a second time. Many of those now before us, however, can be perused again and again with increasing pleasure. Whole lines cling to the memory as only the “winged words" of genius can do, and refuse to be cast out of the chambers of the brain. '-Bacamºzzer. ‘Here we must stop. We feel that we have not done the poem justice. Nor will our readers, we fear, be able to judge of its beauties by our extracts. The poem must be read like the others in the book—as a whole. Lastly, we do not expect Mrs. Webster to be popular all at once ; but if she only remains true to herself she will most assuredly take a higher rank as a poet than any woman has yet done.'— Westminster A'eview. THE AUSPICIOUS DAY. Extra fop. 8vo. 5s. “In our opinion The Azzspicious Day shows a marked advance, not only in art, but, what is of far more importance, in breadth of thought and intellectual grasp." — Westminster A'eviezw. ‘It is quite impossible by extracts to convey any true idea of the remarkable strength and subtlety of this drama. Like all true dramatic products, it has a verisimilitude which does not show well in separate passages ; but let any person of the least susceptibility read the trial scene, and . . . we are sure that his verdict will be ours—that for simplicity, naturalness, and pathetic effect, he has seldom read anything finer.'—Noncozz- formist. ‘There is a dramatic Severity and strength throughout— evidence of a sustained and lofty creative instinct—which should be sufficient to deepen and extend Mrs. Webster's already well- won poetic reputation. We should not forget to say that the 4. WORKS BY THE SAMAE AUTHOR Songs scattered throughout the poem are clear, vivid, and con- densed, as only true lyrics are ; and that we have Snatches of racy, unaffected humour, the best proof and fruit of real dramatic faculty."—British Quarterly Review. YU-PE-YA'S LUTE. A Chinese Tale in English Verse. Extra fop. 8vo. 3s. 6d. ‘Mrs. Webster here adds another proof to many she has previously given, as it has been our pleasure to note, of her title to a high, if peculiar, place in the rich roll of our living poets.”—Scotsman. ‘Yº-Pe-Ya's Zzzie is slight, but is graceful and attractive. The versification is very smooth and sweet, and several of the Songs—especially “Waiting, waiting ”—are beautiful. Yze-A’e-Ya's Azade achieves a success which is denied to many. more pretentious efforts. It is a quaint and pleasing trifle ; . all the more attractive that it affords at least a glimpse into a life and literature which, to most English readers, is as Strange as that of another planet.'-Times. ‘The poem is knit close in the strain of noble ideas, is Sweetly simple in flow of narrative, rising now and then into fine dramatic passages. The occasional mixture of artificial phrase, no doubt derived from the original, with a quaint sim- plicity which is the author's own, often intensifies the pathos of the piece. No extracts could do justice to it." —AWort- conformist. “We close the book with a renewed conviction that in Mrs. Webster we have a profound and original poet. Yat-Pe-Ya's Zzaće is marked not by mere sweetness of melody—rare as that gift is—but by the infinitely rarer gifts of dramatic power, of passion, and of sympathetic insight.'— Westminster Review. A HOUSEWIFE'S OPINIONS. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. ‘We have seldom met with so much common sense and honest mother-wit in a small compass. It is a selection of short treatises, for the most part on social or domestic Subjects, abounding in true womanly insight, and in penetrating and often profound criticisms, which are wanting neither in Sympathy nor in Severity.”—Daily AVezvs. WO/CAS AE V 7TAZA, SAA/A2. A U7'AſOA’ 5 “No one can read Mrs. Webster's books without innmediately perceiving that she is a woman of genius, possessed of remark- able common sense and a rare facility of expression. Her translations from the Greek are among the very best we possess, and her Dramatic Sázadies is a very original and vigorous book. Now she wins once more deserved and universal praise for a work which, if it be not altogether to our old-fashioned taste, is full of sound reasoning, and well merits to be carefully studied.'-Morning Post. ‘Mrs. Webster has gathered together a number of her essays on common every-day subjects. They show a remarkable versatility of power in the translator of Greek dramatists and the author of original poetical works of great beauty. She descends as easily as she rises, and if the admirable critique on Browning's translation of AEschylus's Agame/lon, which appears in her volume, seems thrown in to prove it is the same Augusta Webster who has often charmed us in works of imagination, we can have no doubt it is a very practical lady Whose opinions range over topics such as are here discussed.'- Zeed's Mercury. ‘For the most part light in style, and pervaded by a humour as keen as it is bright, these papers are nevertheless full of Solid thought, truthful observation, and practical wisdom. Questions of social economy and of public morals, aesthetic, educational, and literary topics, are handled with refreshing breadth of view, with abundant knowledge, and with a literary grace and vigour such as might have been anticipated from the accomplished writer.'-Scotsman. A BOOK OF RHYME. Extra ſcp. 8vo. 3s. 6d. ‘An interesting portion of this volume consists of beautiful little rural poems, which the author calls “English Stornelli.” Her readers are indebted to her for reproducing in our own language a form of popular poetry which is more delightful than any other in Europe.'—Athenaºzemz. ‘She chooses in some instances a very common theme ; but she never fails, by a few graceful and unexpected touches, to redeem it from commonplaceness, and often to impart to it an elevation, dignity, and suggestiveness peculiar to herself, '- AVozzconformzzsá. 6 WOAZ / S. B V 7TA/AE SA/l/A2. A U7'AſOA” “In profundity, grasp, and boldness of thought, in acute insight into the intricacies of human nature, in grandeur of conception and skill in embodying her ideas in worthy forms, the author need fear comparison with few living poets."— Scotsman. ‘Though it was by verse of a different, that is, of a stronger quality than what we have, for the most part, in this volume that Mrs. Webster achieved her high level among living poets, even this is what few of her rivals could match.'—Spectator. ‘Mrs. Webster is a sweet and graceful singer. All her work, whether it be poetry or prose, drama or translation, bears on it the stamp and impression of a strong and thoughtful intellect allied to a vivid power of artistic representation. It was to be expected, therefore, that A Book of Rhyme would contain poems of a higher order than the modest title suggests, and the expectation was not formed in vain. . . . The Stor- zzelli are a series of wonderful picture verses, huitains, con- taining each a little study, carved like a gem by a skilful master- hand."- Westminster Review. DAFFODIL AND THE CROAXAXICANS: a Romance. Crown 8vo. 6s. ‘A book which will take a high place in the class of litera- ture to which it may be said to belong. It is a charming book for the reading of young people.”—Scotsmazz. ‘Mrs. Webster's story will be read with pleasure for the simplicity and grace of its language ; but young lovers of fairy stories who think neither of style nor of hidden meaning will doubtless get the greatest amount of enjoyment from it. '- Mazzchester Examzâzzer. ‘There is no preface to this story to tell us what Mrs. Webster meant it to be, but whether we regard it as a fairy tale or as a delicate satire, it is delightful. . . . Altogether Daffodil is a book that will, if read rightly, amuse equally both old and young.'-Glasgow Herald. ‘The romance is conceived in a most whimsical spirit, very much aſter the manner of Alice in Wonderland, yet without any trace of imitation. Girls especially will appreciate and enjoy the sly ſun that pervades every chapter.'— West Middle- sex Advertiser. WO RA.S. B V 7"HE SAME A OTHOR 7 PUBLISHED BY C. KEGAN PAUL & CO. I PATERNOSTER SQUARE. DISGUISES. Extra fop. 8vo. 5s. ‘The reason why poets of Mrs. Webster's rank write dramas is very obvious—because here only can they find real scope for their genius. In a five-act play they are able, if we may use so strong an expression, to give vent to their feelings and passions under the mask of impersonality. They can also give to the world, by means of their characters, their own views on social questions, no less than on religion, and this, too, in the most effective manner. The five-act play too admits of many measures. It sails not with one sail. Above all here can the artist indulge in the artist's true delight—that of drawing characters. For these reasons poets like Mrs. Webster find in the five-act drama the only channel into which they can freely pour their thoughts. . . . Whether the intellectual classes might be won back [i.e., to the theatre], by such writers as Tennyson and Mrs. Webster iſ they adapt themselves to new forms of art is the problem. . . . Above all things lyrical poetry is Mrs. Webster's strong point. Here, for instance, is a delight- ful song, etc., which borrows nothing from the Elizabethan dramatists, but is essentially modern in feeling. . . . We should have liked to have given some passages showing Mrs. Webster's dramatic power and insight into human nature."— Westmezyzsáer Review. ‘The whole character and construction of this drama assign it to a type with which a very powerful tone of emotion would not accord, and in avoiding this Mrs. Webster has shown artistic self-restraint. It belongs in fact to the class of romantic . dramas of which As Yoza Zięe /z is one of the finest, and Love's Zabour's Lost one of the purest examples. Even by its fresh woodland scenery, and the glad open-air breeze which blows about its pages, it reminds us of those famous scenes in the forests of Ardennes and of Navarre; and the piquant contrast of peasant and courtier recalls the more brilliant scenes in which Audrey serves for foil to Touchstone, and the country simplicity of Colin sets in rich relief the courtly wit of Rosalind. 8 WO RA.S. B V 7"HE SAME A UTHO/º No doubt the genius of the nineteenth century comes out in Mrs. Webster's drawing of her Republican peasants, who appear fülly the equals of their visitors, both in wit and manners, and by much their superiors in honesty. Shakespeare nowhere shows any trace of this thoroughly modern point of view. Where his subject led him nearest to it, etc., etc. . . . But it is not merely by the buoyant outdoor air, nor by the piquant contrast of courtiers and peasants, that Disgººses suggests the manner of the Romantic Drama. A construction somewhat loose and ſree interest diffused among several groups, instead of being concentrated upon some Hamlet or Macbeth ; a plot full of surprises, rapid changes, sharp oppositions, and pervaded by a certain delicate air of artificiality or even caprice, which gives the impression that it is the mere charm of variety as much as any deeper law which determines its movements; characters, finally, not of the heroic mould which retains its purposes with unrelaxing grip to the end, but of a type in which this grim strength of the Puritan passes into the more flexible and versatile nature of Southern Europe; such are the broad features of the Romantic Drama, and of these there is not a little in Mrs. Webster's book. . . . Then, again, that tragic intensity which would have accorded as ill with the checkered but nowhere profound shadows of the Romantic Drama as a harsh war-trumpet breaking upon a pastoral symphony of lutes and lyres, is carefully avoided.'—Spectator. ‘Mrs. Webster has the true dramatic instinct. . . . Her dialogue is managed with the utmost art ; she knows precisely where to stop in view of her immediate purpose. . . . Gual- hardine, the lovely grandchild of the chief magistrate of the little rustic Republic of St. Fabien in Aquitaine, is most daintily conceived. . . . Some of the songs sprinkled through the scenes are exceedingly fine."—British Quarterly Review. ‘The dialogue is always excellent, pure, and beautiful, so far as English is concerned—simple always, sometimes quaint, and full of lines that ought to be remembered. The little songs scattered through the play are very beautiful."—Nonconformist. ‘Mrs. Webster, whose fitness for such an undertaking is foreshadowed in her Dramatic Sázadies, and in her noble translations of the Promeſheads Bouzzed and Medea, has produced an original drama which is by far the most important contribu- WOA’A.S. A V 7A/AE SAMAE A U 7A/OA’ 9 tion made to this department of English literature in recent years. Whether Disguises would be a stage success is a question that could only be decided by actual experience. Very likely it would not, for Mrs. Webster's method is not that of the practised playwright, who writes “up" to an effective tableau, and knows how to tickle the ears of the groundlings. Moreover, there is scarcely one of the characters in this drama that would not require conscientious and intelligent study in order to grasp its full scope, and real histrionic ability to convey its true significance to an audience. Again, the dramatic feeling by which the work is pervaded, intense and true though it be, does not find expression in those broad and highly- coloured forms which are most telling upon the stage. Never- theless, it is hard to believe that a play so full of charm, of poetic grace, of the subtle analysis and forcible contrast of different character-types, would, if adequately represented, fail to interest and please ; and if Mr. Irving is in want of a really good original play by an English writer, he might do worse than turn his attention to this of Mrs. Webster's. It is, at any rate, delightful to read. To attempt a description of the plot would be to spoil it. The scene is laid in Sunny Aquitaine ; the time is that when the spirit of chivalry was still dominant the theme is the triumph of the love of a true and high-minded man and a pure and noble-hearted woman over the intrigues of political ambition and the pride of race. The personages are powerfully conceived and consistently wrought out, while the action is natural and skilfully sustained, and the dialogue com- bines poetical force and beauty with dramatic effect in a very exceptional degree."—Scotsmazz. IN A DAY. Extra ſcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. ‘There is an air of tender resignation over the entire tale which makes it very beautiful. . . . The volume can hardly fail to increase Mrs. Webster's reputation as a dramatist. The dialogue is throughout both intellèctual and subtle."— Aſheveaczyz. ‘The small volume—small as it is—teems with evidence of dramatic power and of poetic insight.'-John Artſ/. “With suitable actors the play would be effective on the stage.' —Morning Post. IO WOA’AS AS V 7'AA SAA)/A2 A OTA/OA” “Judged purely as an acting play, In a Day cannot be said to stand on the same high level of excellence attained in Mrs. Webster's last previous work, Disguises. It has less of life, of variety, of plot; its theme is further remote from the interests of our modern life. But its dramatic force and power, if not so widely diffused, are loftier and more intense; and in poetic grace, strength, and insight, it will stand comparison with any- thing its author has yet produced. . . . This is the subject treated by Mrs. Webster in In a Day : truly Greek in its tragedy and simplicity, and handled with unfailing pathos and power, the tenderness, the clinging affection, and the womanly weak- ness of Klydone are presented in exquisite contrast with the high-souled heroism, the philosophic calmness, and the all-for- giving love of Myron. The literary merits of the drama are of the high order that Mrs. Webster has accustomed us to expect. It is a book to read and re-read and study, always with an assurance of intellectual pleasure."—Scotsman. PUBLISHED BY T. FISHER UNWIN, 26 PATERNOSTER SQUARE. THE SENTENCE. Fop. 8vo. 3s. 6d. t ‘Mrs. Webster has produced here a tragedy of remarkable Originality and power.’—Athenazzyz. ‘Mrs. Webster has produced here what seems to us, so far as it is possible to judge by merely reading it, a really good drama —a play that would be effective on the stage. . . . Mrs. Webster gives us the key to one of the most curious problems of history. Caligula in Suetonius is an incredible monster; in The Sendence he is a possible creature, and one, too, whom we can at least pity."—Spectator. ‘The style of this play is excellent ; vigorous, nervous, pure, and always Scholarly. The dialogue is natural, flowing easily from the lips of the persons represented ; indeed one of the most striking features of the piece is the way in which the dramatis personae live. They are real men and women ; not actors dressed up, labelled, and speaking words put into their PVOA’A.S. A V 7A/A2 SA //Z A U 77A/OA’ II mouths—often words no more appropriate to any one character than to another. These beings live ; their lips utter spontane- ously the thoughts that arise in their hearts."—The Mozáh. ‘Mrs. Webster's blank verse is, if possible, more masculine and vigorous than ever ; and in the tremendous closing scene it rises to a level of concentrated force that is worthy of the situation. Altogether The Sentence furnishes fresh evidence of Mrs. Webster's right to a foremost place among our living dramatic poets. It has something in it of the fearless strength of the Elizabethan writers; it is such a play as Ford, or our author's namesake, Webster, might have penned, had they lived in the nineteenth century instead of the sixteenth.”—Scottish J.eader. ‘Mrs. Webster, who has dealt so effectively with Greek life under dramatic forms, now essays a more trying theme. She introduces us to the corrupt Rome of Caligula. . . . She suc- ceeds by virtue of her fine instinct, her quick sense for motive, and her ability to discern, through the vagaries and contradic- tions of personal character, a silver thread of Providence, in the working out of which she makes her actors the ministers."— AVonconformist. ‘Mrs. Webster has written much and greatly, but we do not think she has ever conceived a scene so tragically terrible as this closing scene. The whole play is a masterpiece of dramatic art. Such a picture of guilt, Subtle remorse, and punishment has not been published since the time of Hamlet and Macbeth. In numerous passages one hears, indeed, the deep, tragic pulse- beats with which Shakespeare knew how to thrill the general heart. If this play could be put upon the stage, the last act especially would produce a great effect. Four characters stand out clear and distinct—Laelia, a sort of married Ophelia, so sweet, so faithful, so sad ; Stellio, her husband, a noble knight without nobility of affection, a leader of men, allowing himself, like a veritable fool, to be led to ruin by a woman ; AEonia, beautiful as an angel, with a devil's heart; and Caius, the Emperor, who, for the combination in his character of woman- like tenderness and barbaric cruelty, strength and weakness, ingenuity and simplicity, Roman pride and human vanity, is as like a god playing the buffoon or a buffoon playing the god as could well be imagined. We should like to hear Mr. Irving's I2 WO/CAS AE V 7TAZZ SA//Z A U7'ATO/e opinion as to the adaptability of the play for the stage.”—Glasgow Aerald. . . . . ‘By such of her previous works as the bright and breezy Disguises, and the intense and high-pitched Zn a Day, Mrs. Webster has already achieved a foremost place among the poetical dramatists of our time, and her reputation will not lose by the issue of the present volume. . . . The drama . . . is brought out with both subtlety and vigour. It possesses concentration—that prime dramatic virtue. Though its pages show passages quotable enough in isolation for peculiar force or felicity, these are no “fair divided excellences,” but “each part with each hath private amity,” and all parts of the work have a united bearing. Its rills of dialogue never wander idly in windings of mere aimless poetic beauty, but flow with direct and ever-deepening force of general impression into the main tide of the story. Its chief characters stand clear in outline to our perception, projected with telling relief against the histrionic canvas.' –Academy. ‘Mrs. Webster has previously proved her claim to be con- sidered one of our most intensely tragic poets. Gifted with a large share of inspiration, and highly cultivated, she combines force of conception and expression with subtle refinement of feeling and beauty of imagery. Her new tragedy . . . would, with some slight alterations,—such as would suggest themselves to any writer skilled in stage management—be one of the most telling of productions, worthy of being included in the term dramatic literature. Dramatic it certainly is in its situations no less than in its characters, whilst undoubtedly it belongs to the highest class of poetic literature."—Scotsyzazz. “No other Englishwoman has done work of such masculine strength and artistic delicacy, so classic in form, and at the same time so fresh, original, and full of human interest.”— AVorth British Daily Mail. THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN DATE DUE ||||III. 40 |