LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO I presented to the UNIVERSITY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO by Mr, and Mrs. William E Jorgensen ROBERT BROWNING. POEMS OF ROBERT BROWNING SELECTED BY THE AUTHOR NEW YORK A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER DEDICATED TO ALFRED TENNYSON. IN POETRY-ILLUSTRIOUS AND CONSUMMATE; IN FRIENDSHIP-NOBLE AND SINCERE. IN the present selection from my poetry, there is an attempt to escape from the embarrassment of appearing to pronounce upon what myself may consider the best of it. I adopt another principle; and by simply stringing together certain pieces on the thread of an imaginary personality, I present them in succession, rather as the natural development of a particular experience than be- cause I account them the most noteworthy portion of my work. Such an attempt was made in the volume of selec- tions from the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett-Browning: to which in outward uniformity, at least my own would venture to become a companion. A few years ago, had such an opportunity presented itself, I might have been tempted to say a word in reply to the objections my poetry was used to encounter. Time has kindly co-operated with my disinclination to write the poetry and the criticism besides. The readers I am at last privileged to expect, meet me fully half-way; and if, from the fitting stand-point, they must still "censure me in their wisdom," they have previously "awakened their senses that they may the better judge." Nor do I appre- hend any more charges of being wilfully obscure, uncon- scientiously careless, or perversely harsh. Having hitherto done my utmost in the art to which my life is a devotion, I cannot engage to increase the effort; but I conceive that there may be helpful light, as well as reassuring warmth, in the attention and sympathy I gratefully acknowledge. R. B. LONDOK, May 14, 1872 CONTENTS. PAQK Vfy Star 1 ,1 Face 1 My Last Duchess 2 Song from " Pippa Passes" 4 Crist ina - . 5 Count Qismond 7 Eurydice to Orpheus 12 TheGlove 12 Song 18 A Serenade at the Villa 19 Youth and Art 21 The Flight of the Duchess 24 Song from " Pippa Passes" 51 " How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix." 52 Song from " Paracelsus" 54 Through the Metidja to Abd-el-Kader. 55 Incident of the French Camp 56 The Lost Leader 58 In a Gondola 59 A Lovers' Quarrel 67 Earth's Immortalities 72 The Last Ride Together 73 Mesmerism 77 By the Fireside 82 Any Wife to Any Hushand 93 In a Year 98 Song from " James Lee" 101 A Woman's Last Word 101 Meeting at Night 103 Parting at Morning 104 Women and Roses. . . . 104 MM Misconceptions 106 APretty Woman 106 A Light Woman 110 Love in a Life 112 Life in a Love * 113 The Laboratory 114 Gold Hair. 116 The Statue and the Bust 122 Love Among the Ruins 131 Time's Revenges 134 Waring 136 Home Thoughts, from Abroad 144 The Italian in England 144 The Englishman in Italy 149 Up at a Villa Down in the City 157 Pictor Ignotus 161 Fra Lippo Lippi 163 Andrea Del Sarto -. 175 The Bishop Orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church 183 A Toccata of Galuppi's 186 How it Strikes a Contemporary 190 Protus 193 Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha 195 Abt Vogler 201 Two in the Campagna.. 206 "De Gustibus " 209 The Guardian-Angel 210 Evelyn Hope 212 Memorabilia 215 Apparent Failure 215 Prospice 218 "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" 219 A Grammarian's Funeral. , 226 Cleon 231 Instans Tyrannus 241 An Epistle 244 Caliban upon Setebos 253 Saul ... 262 Rabbi Ben Ezra 281 Epilogue 288 CONTENTS. lx PAGE A Wall 292 Apparitions 293 Natural Magic 294 A Tale 295 Confessions 299 Magieal Xature 301 Garden Fancies 301 In Three Days 306 The Lost Mistress 307 One Way of Love 308 Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli 309 Numpholeptos 310 Appearances 315 The Worst of It 315 Too Late 320 Bifurcation 324 A Likeness 326 May and Death 828 A Forgiveness , 329 Cenciaja 341 Porphyria's I/over 350 Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege of Burial 353 Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister 370 The Heretic's Tragedy 372 Amphibian 376 St. Martin's Summer 379 James Lee's Wife. . . .383 SELECTIONS FROM ROBERT BROWNING. MY STAR. ALL that I know Of a certain star Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue; Till my friends have said They would fain see, too, My star that dartles the red and the blue ! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. A FACE. IF one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pale gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! No shade encroaching on the matchless mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all : but rather as if alof b Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's Burthen of honey-colored buds, to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround. How it should waver, on the pale gold ground, Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb : But these are only massed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. MY LAST DUCHESS. FERRARA. THAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolf 's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design: for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint MY LAST DUCHESS. 3 Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart how shall I say? too soon made glad, Too easily impressed ; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one ! My favor at her hreast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, good ! but thanked Somehow I know not how as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech (which I have not) to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark" and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands, Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We '11 meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed SONGS FROM " PIP PA PASSES." At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Glaus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for mel SONGS FKOM "PIPPA PASSES." GIVE her but a least excuse to love me ! "When where How can this arm establish her above me, If fortune fixed her as my lady there, There already, to eternally reprove me? ("Hist!" said Kate the queen; But "Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen, Crumbling your hounds their messes!") n. Is she wronged? To the rescue of her honor, My heart! Is she poor? "What costs it to become a donor? Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. But that fortune should have thrust all this uponher! ("Nay, list!" bade Kate the queen; And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen. Fitting your hawks their jesses!") ORI8TINA. OEISTINA. SHE should never have looked at me if she meant I should not love her! There are plenty . . men, you call such, I suppose . . she may discover All her soul to, if she pleases, and yet leave much as she found them : But I'm not so, and she knew it when she fixed me, glancing round them. n. What? To fix me thus meant nothing? But I can't tell (there's my weakness) "What her look said! no vile cant, sure, about "need to strew the bleakness Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, that the sea feels" no "strange yearning That such souls have, most to lavish where there's chance of least returning." m. Oh we're sunk enough here, God knows! but not quite so sunk that moments, Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, when the spirit's true endowments Stand out plainly from its false ones, and apprise it if pur- suing Or the right way or the wrong way, to its triumph or undoing. 6 ORISTINA. rv. There are flashes struck from midnights, there are fire- flames noondays kindle, Whereby piled-up honors perish, whereby swollen ambi- tions dwindle, While just this or that poor impulse, which for once had play unstifled, Seems the sole work of a life-time that away the rest have trifled. v. Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she felt clearly, Ages past the soul existed, here an age 't is resting merely, An hence fleets again for ages: while the true end, sole and single, It stops here for is, this love way, with some other soul to mingle? VI. Else it loses what it lived for, and eternally must lose it; Better ends may be in prospect, deeper blisses (if you choose it), But this life's end and this love-bliss have been lost here. Doubt you whether This she felt as, looking at me, mine and her souls rushed together? VII. Oh, observe! Of course, next moment, the world's honors, in derision, Trampled out the light for ever. Never fear but there 's provision Of the devil's to quench knowledge, lest we walk the earth in rapture! Making those who catch God's secret, just so much more prize their capture J COUNT GI8MOND. 7 VIII. Such am I: the secret's mine now! She has lost me, I have gained her; Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect, I shall pass my life's remainder. Life will just hold out the proving both our powers, alone and blended: And then, come next life quickly ! This world's use will have been ended. COUNT GISMOND. AIX IN PROVENCE. I. CHRIST God who savest man, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me ! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, Chose time and place and company To suit it; when he struck at length My honor, 't was with all his strength. II. And doubtlessly, ere he could draw All points to one, he must have schemed! That miserable morning saw Few half so happy as I seemed, While being dressed in queen's array To give our tourney prize away. in. I thought they loved me, did me grace To please themselves; 't was all their deed. God makes, or fair or foul, our face; If showing mine so caused to bleed COUNT UISMOND. My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped. IV. They, too, so beauteous ! Each a queen By virtue of her brow and breast; Not needing to be crowned, I mean, As I do. E'en when I was dressed, Had either of them spoke, instead Of glancing sideways with still head ! v. But no: they let me laugh, and sing My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs, And so descend the castle-stairs VI. And come out on the morning troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, And called me queen, and made me stoop Under the canopy (a streak That pierced it, of the outside sun, Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun) VII. And they could let me take my state And foolish throne amid applause Of all come there to celebrate My queen's day Oh I think the cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud! COUNT GISMOND. 9 VIII. However that be, s>ll eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down, 't was time I should present The victor's crown, but . . . there, 't will last No long time . . . the old mist again Blinds me as then it did. How vain! IX. See! Gismond 's at the gate, in talk With his two boys: I can proceed. "Well, at that moment, who should stalk Forth boldly to my face, indeed But Gauthier? and he thundered "Stay!" And all stayed. ''Bring no crowns, I say! x. "Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet "About her! Let her shun the chaste, "Or lay herself before their feet! "Shall she, whose body I embraced "A night long, queen it in the day? "For honor's sake no crowns, I say!" XI. I? What I answered? As I live, I never fancied such a thing As answer possible to give. What says the body when they spring Some monstrous torture-engine's whole Strength on it? No more says the soul. XII. Till out strode Gismond; then I knew That I was saved. I never met His face before, but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set 10 COUNT GISMOND. Himself to Satan : who would spend A minute's mistrust on the end? XIII. He strode to Gauthier, in his throat Gave him the lie, then struck his month With one back-handed blow that wrote In blood men's verdict then. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, And damned, and truth stood up instead. XIV. This glads me most, that I enjoyed The heart o' the joy, with my content In watching Gismond unalloyed By any doubt of the event: God took that on him I was bid Watch Gismond for my part : I did. xv. Did I not watch him while he let His armorer just brace his greaves, Rivet his hauberk, on the fret The while! His foot . . . my memory leaves No least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. XVI. And e'en before the trumpet's sound Was finished, prone lay the false knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground: Gismond flew at him, used no sleight 0' the sword, but open-breasted drove, Cleaving till out the truth he clove. COUNT GISMOND. 11 XVII. Which done, he dragged him to my feet And said, "Here die, but end thy breath In full confession, lest thou fleet From my first, to God's second death! Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied To God and her," he said, and died. XVIII. Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked My powers for ever, to a third Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast. XIX. Over my head his arm he flung Against the world; and scarce I felt His sword (that dripped by me and swung) A little shifted in its belt: For he began to say the while How South our home lay many a mile. xx. So 'mid the shouting multitude We two walked forth to never more Return. My cousins have pursued Their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place God lighten ! May his soul find grace ! XXI. Our elder boy has got the clear Great brow; tho' when his brother's black THE GLOVE. Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here? And have you brought my tercel back? I was just telling Adela How many birds it struck since May. EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS. A PICTURE BY FREDERICK LEIGHTON, R.A. BUT give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow! Let them once more absorb me ! One look now Will lap me round for ever, not to pass Out of its light, though darkness lie beyond: Hold me but safe again within the bond Of one immortal look ! All woe that was, Forgotten, and all terror that may be, Defied, no past is mine, no future: look at me! THE GLOVE. (PETER RONSARD loquitur.') "HEIGHO," yawned one day King Francis, "Distance all value enhances! When a man 's busy, why, leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy. Here we 've got peace; and aghast I 'm Caught thinking war the true pastime. Is there a reason in metre? Give us your speech, master Peter I" I who, if mortal dare say so, Ne'er am at loss with my Naso, THE GLOVE. 13 "Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets: Men are the merest Ixions" Here the King whistled aloud, ''Let 's . . . Heigho . . . go look at our lions!" Such are the sorrowful chances If you talk fine to King Francis. And so, to the courtyard proceeding, Our company, Francis was leading, Increased by new followers tenfold Before he arrived at the penfold ; Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen At sunset the western horizon. And Sir de Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost With the dame he professed to adore most Oh, what a face ! One by fits eyed Her, and the horrible pitside; For the penfold surrounded a hollow Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, And shelved to the chamber secluded Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. The King hailed his keeper, an Arab As glossy and black as a scarab, And bade him make sport and at once stir Up and out of his den the old monster. They opened a hole in the wire-work Across it, and dropped there a firework, And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, The blackness and silence so utter, By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; Then earth in a sudden contortion Gave out to our gaze her abortion. Such a brute ! Were I friend Clement Marot (Whose experience of nature 's but narrow, 14 THE GLOVE. And whose faculties move in no small mist When he versifies David the Psalmist) I should study that brute to describe you Ilium Juda Leonem de Tribu. One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy To see the black mane, vast and heapy, The tail in the air stiff and straining, The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, As over the barrier which bounded His platform, and us who surrounded The barrier, they reached and they rested On space that might stand him in best stead : For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, And if, in this minute of wonder, No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, The lion at last was delivered? Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead ! And you saw by the flash on his forehead, By the hope in those eyes wide and steady, He was leagues in the desert already, Driving the flocks up the mountain, Or catlike couched hard by the fountain To waylay the date-gathering negress: So guarded he entrance or egress. "How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear, (No novice, we 've won our spurs elsewhere And so can afford the confession,) We exercise wholesome discretion In keeping aloof from his threshold; Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, Their first would too pleasantly purloin The visitor's brisket or surloin : But who 's he would prove so fool-hardy? Not the best man of Mariguau, pardie!" THE GLOVE. 15 The sentence no sooner was uttered, Than over the rails a glove fluttered, Fell close to the lion, and rested: The dame 't was who flung it and jested With life so, De Lorge had been wooing For months past; he sat there pursuing His suit, weighing out with nonchalance Fine speeches like gold from a balance. Sound the trumpet, no true knight 's a tarrier! De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, Walked straight to the glove, while the lion Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir, Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, Leaped back where the lady was seated, And full in the face of its owner Flung the glove. "Your heart's queen, you dethrone her? So should I!" cried the King "'t was mere vanity, Not love, set that task to humanity!" Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. Not so, I; for I caught an expression In her brow's undisturbed self-possession Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment, As if from no pleasing experiment She rose, yet of pain not much heedful So long as the process was needful, As if she had tried, in a crucible, To what "speeches like gold" were reducible, And, finding the finest prove copper, Felt smoke in her face was but proper j 16 THE GLOVE. To know what she had not to trust to, Was worth all the ashes and dust too. She went out 'mid hooting and laughter; Clement Marot stayed; I followed after, And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? If she wished not the rash deed's recallment? "For I" so I spoke "am a poet: Human nature, behooves that I know it!" She told me, "Too long had I heard Of the deed proved alone by the word : For my love what De Lorge would not dare ! With my scorn what De Lorge could compare! And the endless descriptions of death He would brave when my lip formed a breath, I must reckon as braved, or, of course, Doubt his word and moreover, perforce, For such gifts as no lady could spurn, Must offer my love in return. When I looked on your lion, it brought All the dangers at once to my thought, Encountered by all sorts of men, Before he was lodged in his den, From the poor slave whose club or bare hands Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, With no King and no Court to applaud, By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, Yet to capture the creature made shift, ' That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, To the page who last leaped o'er the fence Of the pit, on no greater pretence Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. So, wiser I judged it to make One trial what 'death for my sake' THE GLOVE. 17 Really meant, while the power was yet mine, Than to wait until time should define Such a phrase not so simply as I, Who took it to mean just 'to die.' The blow a glove gives is but weak: Does the mark yet discolor my cheek? But when the heart suffers a blow, Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?" I looked, as away she was sweeping, And saw a youth eagerly keeping As close as he dared to the doorway. No doubt that a noble should more weigli His life than befits a plebeian ; And yet, had our brute been Nemean (I judge by a certain calm fervor The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn If you whispered "Friend, what you 'd get, first earn!" And when, shortly after, she carried Her shame from the Court, and they married, To that marriage some happiness, maugre The voice of the Court, I dared augur. For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, Those in wonder and praise, these in envy; And, in short, stood so plain a head taller That he woed and won . . . how do you call her? The beauty, that rose in the sequel To the King's love, who loved her a week well. And 't was noticed he never would honor De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) With the easy commission of stretching His legs in the service, and fetching His wife, from her chamber, those straying Sad gloves she was always mislaying, 18 THEGLOVB. "While the King took the closet to chat in, But of course this adventure came pat in. And never the King told the story, How bringing a glove brought such glory, But the wife smiled "His nerves are grown firmer: Mine he brings now and utters no murmur." Venienti occurrite morbo! With which moral I drop my theorbo. SONG. i, NAY but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught speak truth above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall? n. Because, you spend your lives in praising; To praise, you search the wide world over; Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught speak truth above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much ! A SERENADE AT THE VILLA. 19 A SERENADE AT THE VILLA. i. THAT was I, you heard last night, When there rose no moon at all, Nor, to pierce the strained and tight Tent of heaven, a planet small: Life was dead, and so was light. n. Not a twinkle from the fly, Not a glimmer from the worm. When the crickets stopped their cry, When the owls forbore a term, You heard music; that was I. in. Earth turned in her sleep with pain, Sultrily suspired for proof: In at heaven and out again, Lightning! where it broke the roof, Bloodlike, some few drops of rain. IV. What they could my words expressed, my love, my all, my one! Singing helped the verses best, And when singing's best was done, To my lute I left the rest. v. So wore night; the East was gray, White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers; There would be another day; Ere its first of heavy hours Found me, I had passed away. 20 ^ SERENADE AT THE VILLA. VI. What became of all the hopes, Words and song and lute as well? Say, this struck you '"When life gropes Feebly from the path where fell Light last on the evening slopes, VII. "One friend in that path shall be, To secure my step from wrong; One to count night day for me, Patient through the watches long, Serving most with none to see." VIII. Never say as something bodes "So, the worst has yet a worse! When life halts 'neath double loads, Better the task-master's curse Than such music on the roads! IX. "When no moon succeeds the sun. Nor can pierce the midnight's tent, Any star, the smallest one, While some drops, where lightning rent, Show the final storm begun x. ''When the fire-fly hides its spot, When the garden-voices fail In the darkness thick and hot, Shall another voice avail, That shape be where these are not? JOUTH AND ART. 21 XI. "Has some plague a longer lease, Proffering its help uncouth? Can't one even die in peace? As one shuts one's eyes on youth, Is that face the last one sees?" XII. Oh how dark your villa was, Windows fast and obdurate ! How the garden grudged me grass Where I stood the iron gate Ground its teeth to let me pass! YOUTH AND ART. i. IT once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 11. Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, Then laughed ''They will see, some day, Smith made, and Gibson demolished." in. My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered, "Kate Brown 's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered!" 22 YOUTH AND ART. IV. I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master. v. We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun, watched each other's windows. VI. You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse nay, a bit of beard too; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth "With fingers the clay adhered to. VII. And I soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind And be safe in my corset-lacing. VIII. No harm ! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye's tail up As I shook upon E in alt., Or ran the chromatic scale up: IX. For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and watercresses. YOUTH AND ART. 23 x. Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it? Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it? XI. I did look, sharp as a lynx, (And yet the memory rankles) When models arrived, some minx Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles. XII. But I think I gave you as good ! "That foreign fellow, who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano?" XIII. Could you say so, and never say "Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?' XIV. No, no: you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over: You 've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover. xv. But you meet the Prince at the Board, I 'm queen myself at bals-pare, I 've married a rich old lord, And you 're dubbed knight and an K. A. 24 THE FLIGHT OF THE D TJCHESS. XVI. Each life 's unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy : We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired, been happy. XVII. And nobody calls you a dunce, And.people suppose me clever: This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it for ever. THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS, i. You 'RE my friend: I was the man the Duke spoke to; I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too; So, here's the tale from beginning to end, My friend ! ii. Ours is a great wild country: If you climb to our castle's top, I don't see where your eye can stop; For when you 've passed the corn-field country, Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, And cattle-track to open-chase, And open-chase to the very base 0' the mountain where, at a funeral pace, Round about, solemn and slow, One by one, row after row, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 25 Up and up the pine-trees go, So, like black priests up, and so Down the o^her side again To another greater, wilder country, That 's one vast red drear burnt-up plain, Branched through and through with many a vein Whence iron 's dug, and copper 's dealt; Look right, look left, look straight before, Beneath they mine, above they smelt, Copper-ore and iron-ore, And forge and furnace mould and melt, And so on, more and ever more, Till at the last, for a bounding belt, Conies the salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore, And the whole is our Duke's country. in. I was born the day this present Duke was (And 0, says the song, ere I was old !) In the castle where the other Duke was (When I was happy and young, not old!) I in the kennel, he in the bower: We are of like age to an hour. My father was huntsman in that day; Who has not heard my father say That, when a boar was brought to bay, Three times, four times out of five, With his huntspear he 'd contrive To get the killing-place transfixed, And pin him true, both eyes betwixt? And that 's why the old Duke would rather He lost a salt-pit than my father, And loved to have him ever in call; That 's why my father stood in the hall 26 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. When the old Duke brought his infant out To show the people, and while they passed The wondrous bantling round about, Was first to start at the outside blast As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn, Just a month after the babe was born. "And," quoth the Kaiser's courier, "since The Duke has got an heir, our Prince Needs the Duke's self at his side:" The Duke looked down and seemed to wince, But he thought of wars o'er the world wide, Castles a-fire, men on their march, The toppling tower, the crashing arch; And up he looked, and awhile he eyed The row of crests and shields and banners Of all achievements after all manners, And "ay," said the Duke with a surly pride. The more was his comfort when he died At next year's end, in a velvet suit, With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot In a silken shoe for a leather boot, Petticoated like a herald, In a chamber next to an ante-room, Where he breathed the breath of page and groom, What he called stink, and they, perfume: They should have set him on red Berold Mad with pride, like fire to manage! They should have got his cheek fresh tannage Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine! Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin! (Hark, the wind 's on the heath at its game! Oh for a noble falcon-lanner To flap each broad wing like a banner, And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!) Had they broached a cask of white beer from Berlin! THE PLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 27 Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine Put to his lips when they saw him pine, A cup of our own Moldavia fine, Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrel And ropy with sweet, we shall not quarrel. IV. So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess Was left with the infant in her clutches, She being the daughter of God knows who: And now was the time to revisit her tribe. Abroad and afar they went, the two, And let our people rail and gibe At the empty hall and extinguished fire, As loud as we liked, but ever in vain, Till after long years we had our desire, And back came the Duke and his mother again. v. And he came back the pertest little ape That ever affronted human shape; Full of his travel, struck at himself. You 'd say, he despised our bluff old ways? Not he ! For in Paris they told the elf That our rough North land was the land of Lays, The one good thing left in evil days; Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time, And only in wild nooks like ours Could you taste of it yet as in its prime, And see true castles with proper towers, Young-hearted women, old-minded men, And manners now as manners were then. So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it, This Duke would fain know he was, without being it; 28 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 'T was not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it, Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it, He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out, The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn- out: And chief in the chase his neck he perilled, On a lathy horse, all legs and length, With blood for bone, all speed, no strength; They should have set him on Eed Berold With the red eye slow consuming in fire, And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire ! VI. Well, such as he was, he must marry,we heard: And out of a convent, at the word, Came the lady, in time of spring. Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling! That day, I know, with a dozen oaths I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes Fit for the chase of urox or buffle In winter-time when you need to muffle. But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure, And so we saw the lady arrive: My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger! She was the smallest lady alive, Made in a piece of nature's madness, Too small, almost, for the life and gladness That over-filled her, as some hive Out of the bears' reach on the high trees Is crowded with its safe merry bees : In truth, she was not hard to please ! Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead, Straight at the castle, that 's best indeed To look at from outside the walls: As for us, styled the "serfs and thralls," THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS.. 29 She as much thanked me as if she had said it, (With her eyes, do you understand?) Because I patted her horse while I led it; And Max, who rode on her other hand, Said, no bird flew past but she inquired What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired If that was an eagle she saw hover, And the green and gray bird on the field was the plover, When suddenly appeared the Duke: And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed On to my hand, as with a rebuke, And as if his backbone were not jointed, The Duke stepped rather aside than forward, And welcomed her with his grandest smile; And, mind you, his mother all the while Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor' ward; And up, like a weary yawn, with its pullies Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis; And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, The lady's face stopped its play, As if her first hair had grown gray; For such things must begin some one day. VII. In a day or two she was well again ; As who should say, "You labor in vain! This is all a jest against God, who meant I should ever be, as I am, content And glad in his sight; therefore, glad I will be." So, smiling as at first went she. VIII. She was active, stirring, all fire Could not rest, could not tire To a stone she might have given life! (I myself loved once, in my day) 30 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. For a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife, (I had a wife, I know what I say) Never in all the world such an one! And here was plenty to be done, And she that could do it, great or small, She was to do nothing at al. There was already this man in his post, This in his station, and that in his office, And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, To meet his eye, with the other trophies, Now outside the hall, now in it To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen, At the proper place in the proper minute, And die away the life between. . And it was amusing enough, each infraction Of rule (but for after-sadness that came) To hear the consummate self-satisfaction With which the young Duke and the old dame Would let her advise, and criticise, And, being a fool, instruct the wise, And, child-like, parcel out praise or blame: They bore it all in complacent guise, As though an artificer, after contriving A wheel-work image as if it were living, Should find with delight it could motion to strike him ! So found the Duke, and his mother like him: The lady hardly got a rebuff That had not been contemptuous enough, With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, And kept off the old mother-cat's claws. IX. So, the little lady grew silent and thin, Paling and ever paling, As the way is with a hid chagrin; And the Duke perceived that she was ailing, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 31 And said in his heart, *"T is done to spite me, But I shall find in my power to right me!" Don't swear, friend ! The old one, many a year, Is in hell, and the Duke's self . . . you shall hear. x. Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, "When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice, That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice, Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, And another and another, and faster and faster, Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled Then it so chanced that the Duke our master Asked himself what were the pleasures in season, And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, He should do the Middle Age no treason In resolving on a hunting-party. Always provided, old books showed the way of it! What meant old poets by their strictures? And when old poets had said their say of it, How taught old painters in their pictures? We must revert to the proper channels, Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions: Here was food for our various ambitious, As on each case, exactly stated To encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup, Or best prayer to St. Hubert on mounting your stirrup We of the household took thought and debated. Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin His sire was wont to do forest-work in; Blesseder he who nobly sunk "ohs" And "ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's trunk-hose; 82 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. What signified hats if they had no rims on, Each slouching before and behind like the scallop, And able to serve at sea for a shallop, Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson? So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on 't, What with our Venerers, Prickers and Verderers, Might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a hot time on 't ! XI. Now you must know that when the first dizziness Of flap- hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided The Duke put this question, "The Duke's part provided, Had not the Duchess some share in the business?" For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses : And, after much laying of heads together, Somebody's cap got a notable feather By the announcement with proper unction That he had discovered the lady's function; Since ancient authors gave this tenet, "When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege, Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet, And with water to wash the hands of her liege In a clean ewer with a fair toweling, Let her preside at the disemboweling." Now, my friend, if you had so little religion As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner, And thrust her broad wings like a banner Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon ; And if day by day and week by week You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes, And clipped her wings, and tied her beak, Would it cause you any great surprise If, when you decided to give her an airing, You found she needed a little preparing? THE FLIGHT OF THE D UCHESS. 33 I say, should you be such a curmudgeon, If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon? Yet when the Duke to his lady signified, Just a day before, as he judged most dignified, In what a pleasure she was to participate, And, instead of leaping wide in flashes, Her eyes just lifted their long lashes, As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate, And duly acknowledged the Duke's forethought, But spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught, Of the weight by day and the watch by night, And much wrong now that used to be right, So, thanking him, declined the hunting, Was conduct ever more affronting? With all the ceremony settled With the towel ready, and the sewer Polishing up his oldest ewer, And the jennet pitched upon, a pieballed, Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled, No wonder if the Duke was nettled ! And when she persisted nevertheless, Well, I suppose here 's the time to confess That there ran half round our lady's chamber A balcony none of the hardest to clamber; And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in waiting, Stayed in call outside, what need of relating? And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a fervent Adorer of Jacynth of course was your servant; And if she had the habit to peep through the casement, How could I keep at any vast distance? And so, as I say, on the lady's persistence, The Duke, dumb stricken with amazement, Stood for a while in a sultry smother, And then, with a smile that partook of the awful, Turned her over to his yellow mother To learn what was decorus and lawful; 34 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct, As her cheek quick whitened thro' all its quiucetinct. Oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once! What meant she? Who was she? Her duty and station. The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once, Its decent regard and its fitting relation In brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free And turn them out to carouse in a belfry And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon, And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on ! Well, somehow or other it ended at last, And, licking her whiskers, out she passed; And after her, making (he hoped) a face Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, Stalked the Duke's self with the austere grace Of ancient hero or modern paladin, From door to staircase oh such a solemn Unbending of the vertebral column ! XII. However, at sunrise our company mustered ; And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered, With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel; For the court-yard walls were filled with fog You might cut as an axe chops a log Like so much wool for color and bulkiness; And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness, Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, And a sinking at the lower abdomen Begins the day with indifferent omen. And lo, as he looked around uneasily, The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder. This way and that, from the valley under; THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 35 And, looking through the court-yard arch, Down in the valley, what should meet him But a troop of Gypsies on their march? No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him. XIII. Now, in your land, Gypsies reach you, only After reaching all lands beside; North they go, South they go, trooping or lonely, And still, as they travel far and wide, Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there, That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there, But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground, And nowhere else, I take it, are found With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned; Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on The very fruit they are meant to feed on. For the earth not a use to which they don't turn it, The ore that grows in the mountain's womb, Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle With side-bars never a brute can baffle; Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards; Or, if your colt 's fore foot inclines to curve inwards, Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel And won't allow the hoof to shrivel. Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle That keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle; But the sand they pinch and pound it like otters; Commend me to Gypsy glass-makers and potters! Glasses they '11 blow you, crystal-clear, Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear, As if in pure water you dropped and let die A bruised black-blooded mulberry; 36 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. And that other sort, their crowning pride, With long white threads distinct inside, Like the lake flower's fibrous roots which dangle Loose such a length and never tangle, Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters, And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters: Such are the works they put their hand to, The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sally Toward his castle from out of the valley, Men and women, like new-hatched spiders, Come out with the morning to greet our riders. And up they wound till they reached the ditch, Whereat all stopped save one, a witch That I knew, as she hobbled from the group, By her gait directly and her stoop, I, whom Jacynth was used to importune To let that same witch tell us our fortune. The oldest Gypsy then above ground; And, sure as the autumn season came round, She paid us a visit for profit or pastime, And every time, as she swore, for the last time. And presently she was seen to sidle Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle, So that the horse of a sudden reared up As under its nose the old witch peered up With her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes, Of no use now but to gather brine, And began a kind of level whine Such as they used to sing to their viols When their ditties they go grinding Up and down with nobody minding: And then, as of old, at the end of the humming Her usual presents were forthcoming THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 37 A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles, (Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles,) Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end, And so she awaited her annual stipend. But this time, the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe A word in reply; and in vain she felt With twitching fingers at her belt For the purse of sleek pine-marten pelt, Keady to put what he gave in her pouch safe, Till, either to quicken his apprehension, Or possibly with an after-intention, She was come, she said, to pay her duty To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. No sooner nad she named his lady, Than a shine lit up the face so shady, And its smirk returned with a novel meaning For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning: If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow; And who so fit a teacher of trouble As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, (If such it was, for they grow so hirsute That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit) He was contrasting, 't was plain from his gesture, The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned From out of the throng, and while I drew near He told the crone as I since have reckoned By the way he bent and spoke into her ear With circumspection and mystery The main of the lady's history, Her frowardness and ingratitude; And for all the crone's submissive attitude 38 THE FLIGHT OF THE D TTCHESS. I could see round her month the loose plaits tightening And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening As thongh she engaged with hearty goodwill Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil, And promised the lady a thorough frightening. And so, just giving her a glimpse Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, He bade me take the Gypsy mother And set her telling some story or other Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, To wile away a weary hour For the lady left alone in her bower, Whose mind and body craved exertion And yet shrank from all better diversion. XIV. Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter, Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, And back I turned and bade the crone follow. And what makes me confident what 's to be told you Had all along been of this crone's devising, Is, that, on looking round sharpl}', behold you, There was a novelty quick as surprising : For first, she had shot up a full head in stature, And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered, As if age had foregone its usurpature, And the ignoble mien was wholly altered, And the face looked quite of another nature, And the change reached too, whatever the change meant, Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement: For where its tatters hung loose like sedges, Gold coins were glittering on the edges, Like the band-roll strung with tomans Which proves the veil a Persian woman's: THE FLIGHT OF TEE DUCHESS. 39 And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly Come out as after the rain he paces, Two unmistakable eye-points duly Live and aware looked out of their places. So, we went and found Jacynth at the entry Of the lady's chamber standing sentry; I told the command and produced my companion, And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one, For since last night, by the same token, Not a single word had the lady spoken: They went in both to the presence together, While I in the balcony watched the weather. xv. And now, what took place at the very first of all, I cannot tell, as I never could learn it: Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall On that little head of hers and burn it If she knew how she came to drop so soundly Asleep of a sudden, and there continue The whole time, sleeping as profoundly As one of the boars my father would pin you 'Twixt the eye_s where life holds garrison, Jacynth forgive me the comparison, But where I begin my own narration Is a little after I took my station To breathe the fresh air from the balcony, And, having in those days a falcon eye, To follow the hunt thro' the open country, From where the bushes thinlier crested The hillocks, to a plain where 's not one tree. When, in a moment, my ear was arrested By was it singing, or was it saying, Or a strange musical instrument playing In the chamber? and to be certain I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, 40 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. And there lay Jacynth asleep, Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, In a rosy sleep along the floor With her head against the door; While in the midst, on the seat of state, Was a queen the Gypsy woman late, With head and face downbent On the lady's head and face intent: For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, The lady sat between her knees, And o'er them the lady's clasped hands met, And on those hands her chin was set, And her upturned face met the face of the crone Wherein the eyes had grown and grown As if she could double and quadruple At pleasure the play of either pupil Very like, by her hands' slow fanning, As up and down like a gor-crow's flappers They moved to measure, or bell clappers. I said, "Is it blessing, is it banning, Do they applaud you or burlesque you Those hands and fingers with no flesh on?" But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue, At once I was stopped by the lady's expression: For it was life her eyes were drinking From the crone's wide pair above unwinking, Life's pure fire, received without shrinking, Into the heart and breast whose heaving Told you no single drop they were leaving, Life, that filling her, passed redundant Into her very hair, back swerving Over each shoulder, loose and abundant, As her head thrown back showed the white throat curving; And the very tresses shared in the pleasure, Moving to the mystic measure, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 41 Bounding as the bosom bounded. I stopped short, more and more confounded, As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, As she listened and she listened: When all at once a hand detained me, The selfsame contagion gained me, And I kept time to the wondrous chime, Making out words and prose and rhyme, Till it seemed that the music furled Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped From under the words it first had propped, And left them midway in the world, Word took word as hand takes hand, I could hear at last, and understand, And when I held the unbroken thread, The Gypsy said: "And so at last we find my tribe. And so I set thee in the midst, And to one and all of them describe What thou saidst and what thou didst, Our long and terrible journey through, And all thou art ready to say and do In the trials that remain: I trace them the vein and the other vein That meet on thy brow and part again, Making our rapid mystic mark; And I bid my people prove and probe Each eye's profound and glorious globe Till they detect the kindred spark In those depths so dear and dark, Like the spots that snap and burst and flee, Circling over the midnight sea. And on that round young cheek of thine I make them recognize the tinge, 42 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. As when of the costly scarlet wine They drip so much as will impinge And spread in a thinnest scale afloat One thick gold drop from the olive's coat Over a silver plate whose sheen Still thro' the mixture shall be seen. For so I prove thee, to one and all, Fit, when my people ope their breast, To see the sign, and hear the call, And take the vow, and stand the test Which adds one more child to the rest When the breast is bare and the arms are wide, And the world is left outside. For there is probation to decree, And many and long must the trials be Thou shalt victoriously endure, If that brow is true and those eyes are sure; Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay Of the prize he dug from its mountain tomb, Let once the vindicating ray Leap out amid the anxious gloom, Arid steel and fire have done their part, And the prize falls on its finder's heart; So, trial after trial past, Wilt thou fall at the very last Breathless, half in trance With the thrill of the great deliverance, Into our arms for evermore; And thou shalt know, those arms once curled About thee, what we knew before, How love is the-only good in the world. Henceforth, be loved as heart can love, Or brain devise, or hand approve! Stand up, look below, It is our life at thy feet we throw THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 43 To step with into light and joy ; Not a power of life but we employ To satisfy thy nature's want ; Art thou the tree that props the plant, Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree Canst thou help us, must we help thee? If any two creatures grew into one, They would do more than the world has done; Though each apart were never so weak, Ye vainly through the world should seek For the knowledge and the might Which in such union grew their right : So, to approach at least that end, And blend, as much as may be, blend Thee with us or us with thee, As climbing plant or propping tree, Shall some one deck thee over and down, Up and about, with blossoms and leaves? Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland crown, Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, Die on thy boughs and disappear "While not a leaf of thine is sere? Or is the other fate in store, And art thou fitted to adore, To give thy wondrous self away, And take a stronger nature's sway? I foresee and could foretell Thy future portion, sure and well : But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, Let them say what thou shalt do! Only be sure thy daily life, In its peace or in its strife, Never shall be unobserved; We pursue thy whole career, And hope for it, or doubt, or fear, Lo, hast thou kept thv natb or swerved, 44 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCUESS. We are beside thee in all thy ways, With our blame, with our praise, Our shame to feel, our pride to show, Glad, angry but indifferent, no! Whether it be thy lot to go, For the good of us all, where the haters meet In the crowded city's horrible street; Or thou step alone through the morass Where never sound yet was Save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, For the air is still, and the water still, When the blue breast of the dipping coo t Dives under, and all is mute. So at the last shall come old age, Decrepit as befits that stage ; How else wouldst thou retire apart With the hoarded memories of thy heart And gather all to the very least Of the fragments of life's earlier feast, Let fall through eagerness to find The crowning dainties yet behind? Ponder on the entire past Laid together thus at last, When the twilight helps to fuse The first fresh with the faded hues, And the outline of the whole, As round eve's shades their framework roll, Grandly fronts for once thy soul. And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam Of yet another morning breaks, And like the hand which ends a dream, Death, with the might of his sunbeam, Touches the flesh and the soul awakes, Then " THE FLIGHT OF THE D UCHESS. 45 Ay, then indeed something would happen! But what? For here her voice changed like a bird's; There grew more of the music and less of the words; Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen To paper and put you down every syllable With those clever clerkly fingers, All I 've forgotten as well as what lingers In this old brain of mine that 's but ill able To give you even this poor version Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering! More fault of those who had the hammering Of prosody into me and syntax, And did it, not with hobnails but tintacks! But to return from this excursion, Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, The peace most deep and the charm completest, There came, shall I say, a snap And the charm vanished ! And my sense returned, so strangely banished, And, starting as from a nap, I knew the crone was bewitching my lady, With Jacynth asleep ; and but one spring made I Down from the casement, round to the portal, Another minute and I had entered, When the door opened, and more than mortal Stood, with a face where to my mind centred All beauties I ever saw or shall see, The Duchess: I stopped as if struck by palsy. She was so different, happy and beautiful, I felt at once that all was best, And that I had nothing to do, for the rest, But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. Not that, in fact, there was any commanding; I saw the glory of her eye, And the brow's height and the breast's expanding, And I was hers to live or to die. 46 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. As for finding what she wanted. You know God Almighty granted Such little signs should serve wild creatures To tell one another all their desires, So that each knows what his friend requires, And does its bidding without teachers. I preceded her; the crone Followed silent and alone; I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered In the old style; both her eyes had slunk Back to their pits; her stature shrunk; In short, the soul in its body sunk Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. We descended, I preceding; Crossed the court with nobody heeding; All the world was at the chase, The court-yard like a desert place, The stable emptied of its small fry; I saddled myself the very palfrey I remember patting while it carried her, The day she arrived and the Duke married her. And, do you know, though it 's easy deceiving One's self in such matters, I can't help believing The lady had not forgotten it either, And knew the poor devil so much beneath her Would have been only too glad, for her service, Ho dance on hot ploughshares like a Tuike dervise, But, unable to pay proper duty where owing it, Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it. For though, the moment I began setting His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting, (Not that I meant to be obtrusive) She stopped me, while his rug was shifting, By a single rapid finger's lifting, And, with a gesture kind but conclusive, THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. 47 And a little shake of the head, refused me, I say, although she never used me, Yet when she was mounted, the Gypsy behind her, And I ventured to remind her, I suppose with a voice of less steadiness Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, Something to the effect that I was in readiness Whenever God should please she needed me, Then, do you know, her face looked down on me With a look that placed a crown on me, And she felt in her bosom, mark, her bosom And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, Dropped me . . . ah, had it been a purse Of silver, my friend, or gold that 's worse, Why, you see, as soon as I found myself So understood, that a true heart so may gain Such a reward, I should have gone home again, Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself! It was a little plait of hair Such as friends in a convent make To wear, each for the other's sake, This, see, which at my breast I wear, Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment), And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment. And then, and then, to cut short, this is idle, These are feelings it is not good to foster, I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, And the palfrey bounded, and so we lost her. XVI. When the liquor 's out why clink the cannikin? I did think to describe you the panic in The redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin. And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness, How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib, When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness 48 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. But it seems such child's play, What they said and did with the lady away! And to dance on, when we 've lost the music, Always made me and no doubt makes you sick. Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern As that sweet form disappeared through the postern, She that kept it in constant good humor, It ought to have stopped ; there seemed nothing to do mora But the world thought otherwise and went on, And my head 's one that its spite was spent on: Thirty years are fled since that morning, And with them all my head's adorning. Nor did the old Duchess die outright, As you expect, of suppressed spite, The natural end of every adder Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder: But she and her son agreed, I take it, That no one should touch on the story to wake it, For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled fiery; So, they made no search and small inquiry: And when fresh Gypsies have paid us a visit, I 've Noticed the couple were never inquisitive, But told them they 're folks the Duke do n't want here, And bade them make haste and cross the frontier. Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it, And the old one was in the young one's stead, And took, in her place, the household's head, And a blessed time the household had of it ! And were I not, as a man may say, cautious How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, I could favor you with sundry touches Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness (To get on faster) until at last her Cheek grew to be one master-plaster Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse; THE FLIGHT OF THE D UCHES8. 49 In short, she grew from scalp to udder Just the object to make you shudder. XVII. You 're my friend What a thing friendship is, world without end! How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit, Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup, Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs, Gives your life's hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubts Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease. I have seen my little lady once more, Jacynth, the Gypsy, Berold, and the rest of it, For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before; I always wanted to make a clean breast of it : And now it is made why, my heart's blood, that went trickle, Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle, And genially floats me about the giblets. I '11 tell you what I intend to do: I must see this fellow his sad life through He is our Duke, after all, And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall. My father was born here, and I inherit His fame, a chain he bound his son with ; Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it, But there 's no mine to blow up and get done with : So, I must stay till the end of the chapter. For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, 50 THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS. Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, Some day or other, his head in a morion And breast in a hauberk, his heels he '11 kick up, Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust, Then I shall scrape together my earnings; For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, And our children all went the way of the roses: It 's a long lane that knows no turnings. One needs but little tackle to travel in; So, just one stout cloak shall I indue: And for a staff, what beats the javelin With which his boars my father pinned you? And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly! Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. What '& a man's age? He must hurry more, that 's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold: When we mind labor, then only, we 're too old What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul? And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees, (Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil) I hope to get safely out of the turmoil And arrive one day at the land of the Gypsies, And find my lady, or hear the last news of her From some old thief and son of Lucifer, His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, Sunburned all over like an ^Ethiop. And when my Cotnar begins to operate And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, I shall drop in with as if by accident "You never knew then, how it all ended, 80NQ FROM " PIPPA PASSES." 51 What fortune good or bad attended The little lady your Queen befriended?" And when that 's told me, what 's remaining? This world 's too hard for my explaining. The same wise judge of matters equine Who still preferred some slim four-year-old To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine, He also must be such a lady's scorner! Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau: Now up, now down, the world 's one see-saw. So, I shall find out some snug corner Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, Turn myself round and bid the world good night; And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing W'akes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) To a world where will be no further throwing Pearls before swine that can 't value them. Amen! SONG FKOM "PIPPA PASSES." THE year 's at the spring, And day 's at the morn; Morning 's at seven; The hill-side 's dew-pearled; The lark 's on the wing; The snail 's on the thorn; God 's in His heaven All 's right with the world. 52 "HOW THEY BRO UGHT THE GOOD NEWS." "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX." [16-.] i. I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. ii. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. in. 'T was moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Diiffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" IV. At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS." 53 With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: v. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence, ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. VI. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris "Stay spur! Your Eoos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her, We '11 remember at Aix" for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. VII. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight! VIII. "How they '11 greet us!" and all in a moment his roan Boiled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 54 SONG FROM "PARACELSUS." IX. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Eoland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. x. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Eoland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. SONG FROM "PARACELSUS. " i. HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island gain. ii. And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unrolled Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, THROUGH THE METIDJA. 55 With mothed and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young. THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADEE. 1842. i. As I ride, as I ride, "With a full heart for my guide, So its tide rocks my side, As I ride, as I ride, That, as I were double-eyed, He, in whom our Tribes confide, Is descried, ways untried As I ride, as I ride. n. As I ride, as I ride To our Chief and his Allied, Who dares chide my heart's pride As I ride, as I ride? Or are witnesses denied Through the desert waste and wide Do I glide unespied As I ride, as I ride? in. As I ride, as I ride, When an inner voice has cried, The sands slide, nor abide (As I ride, as I ride) 5C INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. O'er each visioned homicide That came vaunting (has he lied?) To reside where he died, As I ride, as I ride. IV. As I ride, as I ride, Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, Yet his hide, streaked and pied, As I ride, as I ride, Shows where sweat has sprung and dried. Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed How has vied stride with stride As I ride, as I ride ! v. As I ride, as I ride, Could I loose what Fate has tied, Ere I pride, she should hide (As I ride, as I ride) All that 's meant me satisfied When the Prophet and the Bride Stop veins I 'd have subside As I ride, as I ride ! i. You know, we French stormed Eatisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 57 II. Just as perhaps he mused "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall, " Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. in. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. IV. "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We 've got you Ratisbon ! The Marshal 's in the market-place, And you '11 be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. v. The chief's eye flashed ; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; 58 THE LOST LEADER. "You 're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said : "I 'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. THE LOST LEADER. i. JUST for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others, she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver So much was theirs who so little allowed : How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us, they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! ii. "We shall march prospering, not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre; Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire; Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! IN A GONDOLA. 59 Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again ! Best fight on well, for we taught him strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! IN A GONDOLA. He sings. I SEND my heart up to thee, all my heart In this my singing. For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clinging Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place. She speaks. Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, In your own voice, in your own way: "This woman's heart and soul and brain Are mine as much as this gold chain She bids me wear; which" (say again) "I choose to make by cherishing A precious thing, or choose to fling Over the boat-side, ring by ring." And yet once more say . . . no word more! Since words are only words. Give o'er! 60 IN A GONDOLA. Unless you call me, all the same, Familiarly by my pet name, "Which if the Three should hear yon call, And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all. Ask of me, too, command me, blame Do, break down the partition-wall 'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds Curtained in dusk and splendid folds! What 's left but all of me to take? I am the Three's: prevent them, slake Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage, In practising with gems, can loose Their subtle spirit in his cruce And leave but ashes: so, sweet image, Leave them my ashes when thy use Sucks out my soul, thy heritage ! He sings. i. Past we glide, and past, and past ! What 's that poor Agnese doing Where they make the shutters fast? Gray Zanobi's just a-wooing To his couch the purchased bride: Past we glide! n. Past we glide, and past, and past! Why 's the Pucci Palace flaring Like a beacon to the blast? Guests by hundreds, not one caring If the dear host's neck were wried : Past we glide! IN A GONDOLA. 61 She sings. i. The moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. n. The bee's kiss, now! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow. He sings. What are we two? I am a Jew, And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue, To a feast of our tribe ; Where they need thee to bribe The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe Thy . . . Scatter the vision for ever! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou! ii. Say again, what we are? The sprite of a star, I lure thee above where the destinies bar 62 V A GONDOLA. My plumes their full play Till a ruddier ray Than my pale one announce there is withering away Some . . . Scatter the vision for ever! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou! He muses. Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? The land's lap or the water's breast? To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, Or swim in lucid shadows, just Eluding water-lily leaves, An inch from Death's blank fingers, thrust To lock you, whom release he must; Which life were best on Summer eves? He speaks, musing. Lie back; could thought of mine improve you? From this shoulder let there spring A wing; from this, another wing; Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you ! Snow-white must they spring, to blend With your flesh, but I intend They shall deepen to the end, Broader, into burning gold, Till both wings crescent-wise enfold Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet As if a million sword-blades hurled Defiance from you to the world! Rescue me thou, the only real ! And scare away this mad ideal That came, nor motions to depart! Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art! IN A GONDOLA, 63 Still he muses. i. What if the Three should catch at last Thy serenader? While there 's cast Paul's cloak about my head, and fast Gian pinions me, Himself has past His stylet through my back; I reel; And ... is it thou I feel? n. They trail me, these three godless knaves, Past every church that saints and saves, Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves By Lido's wet accursed graves, They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, And ... on thy breast I sink ! She replies, musing. Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep, As I do : thus : were death so unlike sleep, Caught this way? Death 's to fear from flame or steel, Or poison doubtless; but from water feel! Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass To plait in where the foolish jewel was, I flung away : since you have praised my hair, 'T is proper to be choice in what I wear. He speaks. Eow home? must we row home? Too surely Know I where its front 's demurely Over the Guidecca piled; Window just with window mating, Door on door exactly waiting, 64 IN A GONDOLA. All 's the set face of a child : But behind it, where 's a trace Of the staidness and reserve, And formal lines without a curve, In the same child's playing-face? No two windows look one way O'er the small sea-water thread Below them. Ah, the autumn day I, passing, saw you overhead ! First, out a cloud of curtain blew, Then a sweet cry, and last came you To catch your lory that must needs Escape just then, of all times then, To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds And make me happiest of men. I scarce could breathe to see you reach So far back o'er the balcony, To catch him ere he climbed too high Above you in the Smyrna peach, That quick the round smooth cord of gold, This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, Fell down you like a gorgeous snake The Eoman girls were wont, of old, When Rome there was, for coolness* sake To let lie curling o'er their bosoms. Dear lory, may his beak retain Ever its delicate rose stain, As if the wounded lotus-blossoms Had marked their thief to know again! Stay longer yet, for others' sake Than mine! What should your chamber do? With all its rarities that ache In silence while day lasts, but wake At night-time and their life renew, Suspended just to pleasure you IN A GONDOLA. 65 Who brought against their will together These objects, and, while day lasts, weave Around them such a magic tether That dumb they look : your harp, believe, With all the sensitive tight strings Which dare not speak, now to itself Breathes slumberously, as if some elf Went in and out the chords, his wings Make murmur, wheresoe'er they graze, As an angel may, between the maze Of midnight palace-pillars, on And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone Through guilty glorious Babylon. And while such murmurs flow, the nymph Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell As the dry limpet for the lymph Come with a tune he knows so well. And how your statues' hearts must swell 1 And how your pictures must descend To see each other, friend with friend! Oh, could you take them by surprise, You 'd find Schidone's eager Duke Doing the quaintest courtesies To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke! And, deeper into her rock den, Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen You 'd find retreated from the ken Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser As if the Tizian thinks of her, And is not, rather, gravely bent On seeing for himself what toys Are these, his progeny invent, What litter now the board employs Whereon he signed a document That got him murdered ! Each enjoys IN A GONDOLA. Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up: so, indeed must make More stay with me, for others' sake. She speaks. i. To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Is used to tie the jasmine back That overfloods my room with sweets, Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets My Zanze ! If the ribbon 's black, The Three are watching: keep away! ii. Your gondola let Zorzi wreathe A mesh of water-weeds about Its prow, as if he unaware Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair! That I may throw a paper out As you and he go underneath. There 's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we. Only one minute more to-night with me? Resume your past self of a month ago ! Be you the bashful gallant, I will be The lady with the colder breast than snow. Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand More than I touch yours when I step to land, And say, "All thanks, Siora!" Heart to heart And lips to lips ! Yet once more, ere we part, Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art! He is surprised, and stabbed. It was ordained to be so, sweet ! and best Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast. A LOVERS' QUARREL. 67 Still kiss me ! Care not for the cowards ! Care Only to put aside thy beauteous hair My blood will hurt ! The Three, I do not scorn, To death, because they never lived: but I Have lived indeed, and so (yet one more kiss) can die! A LOVEKS' QTJAKKEL. i. OH, what a dawn of day ! How the March sun feels like May! All is blue again After last night's rain, And the South dries the hawthorn-spray. Only, my Love 's away ! I 'd as lief that the blue were gray. ii. Kunuels, which rillets swell, Must be dancing down the dell, With a foaming head On the beryl bed Paven smooth as a hermit's cell: Each with a tale to tell, Could my love but attend as well. in. Dearest, three months ago! When we lived blocked-up with snow, When the wind would edge In and in his wedge, In, as far as the point could go Not to our ingle, though, Where we loved each the other so! 68 A LOVERS' QUARREL. IV. Laughs with so little cause! We devised games out of straws. We would try and trace One another's face In the ash, as an artist draws; Free on each other's flaws, How we chattered like two church daws! v. What 's in the "Times"? a scold At the Emperor deep and cold ; He has taken a bride To his gruesome side, That 's as fair as himself is bold : There they sit ermine-stoled, And she powders her hair with gold. VI. Fancy the Pampas' sheen ! Miles and miles of gold and green Where the sunflowers blow In a solid glow, And to break now and then the screen- Black neck and eyeballs keen, Up a wild horse leaps between ! VII. Try, will our table turn? Lay your hands there light, and yearn Till the yearning slips Thro' the finger-tips In a fire which a few discern, And a very few feel burn, And the rest, they may live and learn! A LOVERS' QUARREL. 69 VIII. Then we would up and pace, For a change, about the place, Each with arm o'er neck: 'T is our quarter-deck, We are seamen in woeful case. Help in the ocean-space! Or, if no help, we'll embrace. IX. See, how she looks now, dressed In a sledging-cap and vest! 'T is a huge fur cloak Like a reindeer's roke Falls the lappet along the breast: Sleeves for her arts to rest, Or to hang, as my Love likes best. x. Teach me to flirt a fan As the Spanish ladies can, Or I tint your lip With a burnt stick's tip. And you turn into such a man ! Just the two spots that span Half the bill of the young male swan. XI. Dearest, three months ago When the mesmerizer Snow With his hand's first sweep Put the earth to sleep J T was a time when the heart could show All how was earth to know, 'Neath the mute hand's to-and-fro? 70 A LOVERS' QUARREL. XII. Dearest, three months ago When we loved each other so, Lived and loved the same Till an evening came When a shaft from the devil's bow Pierced to our ingle-glow, And the friends were friend and foe ! XIII. Not from the heart beneath *T was a bubble born of breath, Neither sneer nor vaunt, Nor reproach nor taunt. See a word, how it severeth ! Oh, power of life and death In the tongue, as the Preacher saith! XIV. Woman, and will you cast For a word, quite off at last Me, your own, your You, Since, as truth is true, I was You all the happy past Me do you leave aghast With the memories We amassed? xv. Love, if you knew the light That your soul casts in my sight, How. I look to you For the pure and true, And the beauteous and the right, Bear with a moment's spite When a mere mote threats the white! A LOVERS' QUARREL. 71 XVI. What of a hasty word? Is the fleshly heart not stirred By a worm's pin-prick Where its roots are quick? See the eye, by a fly's foot blurred Ear, when a straw is heard Scratch the brain's coat of curd ! XVII. Foul be the world or fair More or less, how can I care? 'T is the world the same For my praise or blame, And endurance is easy there. Wrong in the one thing rare Oh, it is hard to bear! XVIII. Here 's the spring back or close, When the almond-blossom blows; We shall have the word In a minor third There is none but the cuckoo knows: Heaps of the guelder-rose! I must bear with it, I suppose. XIX. Could but November come, Were the noisy birds struck dumb At the warning slash Of his driver's-lash I would laugh like the valiant Thumb Facing the castle glum And the giant's fee-faw-fum! 72 EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES. XX. Then, were the world well stripped Of the gear wherein equipped We can stand apart, Heart dispense with heart In the sun, with the flowers uniiipped, Oh, the world's hangings ripped, We were both in a bare-walled crypt! XXI. Each in the crypt would cry "But one freezes here! and why? When a heart, as chill, At my own would thrill Back to life, and its fires out-fly? Heart, shall we live or die? The rest . . . settle by and by!'* XXII. So, she 'd efface the score, And forgive me as before. It is twelve o'clock: I shall hear her knock In the worst of a storm's uproar: I shall pull her through the door, I shall have her for evermore! EAKTH'S IMMOETALITIES. FAME. SEE, as the prettiest graves will do in time, Our poet's wants the freshness of its prime; Spire of the sexton's browsing horse, the sods Have struggled through its binding osier rods; THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 73 Headstone and half -sunk footstone lean awry, Wanting the brick-work promised by-and-by; How the minute gray lichens, plate o'er plate, Have softened down the crisp-cut name and date ! LOVE. So, the year 's done with ! (Love me for ever!) All March begun with, April's endeavor; May-wreaths that bound me June needs must sever; Now snows fall round me, Quenching June's fever (Love me for ever!) THE LAST KIDE TOGETHER, i. I SAID Then, dearest, since 't is so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave, I claim Only a memory of the same, And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me. ii. My mistress bent that brow of hers; ~ Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs 74 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenished me again ; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night? in. Hush ! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for- heaven was here! Thus leant she and lingered joy and fear Thus lay she a moment on my breast. IV. Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. 75 T. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought, All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride. VI. What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshy screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There 's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each ! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stonea. My riding is better, by their leave. VII. What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only ; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'T is something, nay 't is much: but then, Have you yourself what 's best for men? 76 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. Are you poor, sick, old ere your time Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who have never turned a rhyme? Sing, riding 's a joy! For me, I ride. VIII. And you, great sculptor so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that 's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn ! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!" I gave my youth ; but we ride, in fine. IX. Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being had I signed the bond Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. x. And yet she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned. MESMERISM. 77 We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity, And heaven just prove that I and she Eide, ride together, for ever ride? MESMEEISM. i. ALL I believed is true! I am able yet All I want, to get By a method as strange as new: Dare I trust the same to you? ii. If at night, when doors are shut, And the wood-worm picks, And the death-watch ticks, And the bar has a flag of smut, And a cat 's in the water-butt in. And the socket floats and flares, And the house-beams groan, And a foot unknown Is surmised on the garret-stairs, And the locks slip unawares IV. And the spider, to serve his ends, By a sudden thread, Arms and legs outspread, MESMERISM. On the table's midst descends, Comes to find, God knows what friends !- v. If since eve drew in, I say, I have sat and brought (So to speak) my thought To bear on the woman away, Till I felt my hair turn gray VI. Till I seemed to have and hold, In the vacancy 'Twixt the wall and me From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold To the foot in its muslin fold VII. Have and hold, then and there, Her, from head to foot, Breathing and mute, Passive and yet aware, In the grasp of my steady stare VIII. Hold and have, there and then, All her body and soul That completes my whole, All that women add to men, In the clutch of my steady ken IX. Having and holding, till I imprint her fast On the void at last As the sun does whom he will By the calotypist's skill MESMERISM. 79 x. Then, if my heart's strength serve, And through all and each Of the veils I reach To her soul and never swerve, Knitting an iron nerve XI. Command her soul to advance And inform the shape Which has made escape And before my countenance Answers me glance for glance XII. I, still with a gesture fit Of my hands that best Do my soul's behest, Pointing the power from it, While myself do steadfast sit XIII. Steadfast and still the same On my object bent, While the hands give vent To my ardor and my aim And break into very flame XIV. Then I reach, I must believe, Not her soul in vain, For to me again It reaches, and past retrieve Is wound in the toils I weave; 80 MESMERISM. XV. And must follow as I require, As befits a thrall, Bringing flesh and all, Essence and earth-attire, To the source of the tractile fire: XVI. Till the house called hers, not mine, With a growing weight Seems to suffocate If she break not its leaden line And escape from its close confine. XVII. Out of doors into the night ! On to the maze Of the wild wood-ways, Not turning to left nor right From the pathway, blind with sight XVIII. Making thro' rain and wind O'er the broken shrubs, 'Twixt the stems and stubs, With a still, composed, strong mind, Not a care for the world behind XIX. Swifter and still more swift, As the crowding peace Doth to joy increase In the wide blind eyes uplift Thro' the darkness and the drift! MESMERISM. 81 XX. While I to the shape, I too Feel my soul dilate: Nor a whit abate, And relax not a gesture due, As I see my belief come true. XXI. For, there ! have I drawn or no Life to that lip? Do my fingers dip In a flame which again they throw On the cheek that breaks a-glow? XXII. Ha! was the hair so first? What, unfilleted, Made alive, and spread Through the void with a rich outburst, Chestnut gold-interspersed? XXIII. Like the doors of a casket-shrine, See, on either side, Her two arms divide Till the heart betwixt makes sign, "Take me, for I am thine!" XXIV. "Now now" the door is heard! Hark, the stairs! and near Nearer and here "Now!" and, at call the third, She enters without a word. BY THE FIRESIDE. XXV. On doth she march and on To the fancied shape; It is, past escape, Herself, now: the dream is done And the shadow and she are one. XXVI. First, I will pray. Do Thou That ownest the soul, Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now! XXVII. I admonish me while I may, Not to squander guilt, Since require Thou wilt At my hand its price one day ! What the price is, who can say? BY THE FIKESIDE. i. How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark autumn evenings come; And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life's November too ! n. I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O'er a great wise book, as beseemeth age; While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose! BY THE FIRESIDE. 83 ill. Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, "There he is at it, deep in Greek: Now then, or never, out we slip To cut from the hazels by the creek A mainmast for our ship!" IV. I shall be at it indeed, my friends! Greek puts already on either side Such a branch-work forth as soon extends To a vista opening far and wide, And I pass out where it ends. v. The outside frame, like your hazel-trees But the inside-archway widens fast, And a rarer sort succeeds to these, And we slope to Italy at last And youth, by green degrees. VI. I follow wherever I am led, Knowing so well the leader's hand: Oh woman-country, wooed not wed, Loved all the more by earth's male-lands, Laid to their hearts instead ! VII. Look at the ruined chapel again Half-way up in the Alpine gorge! , Is that a tower, I point you plain, Or is it a mill, or' an iron forge Breaks solitude in vain? 84 BY THE FIRESIDE. VIII. A turn, and we stand in the heart of things; The woods are round us, heaped and dim ; From slab to slab how it slips and springs, The thread of water single and slim, Through the ravage some torrent brings! IX. Does it feed the little lake below? That speck of white just on its marge Is Pella; see, in the evening-glow, How sharp the silver spear-heads charge When Alp meets heaven in snow ! x. On our other side is the straight-up rock; And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it By boulder-stones where lichens mock The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit Their teeth to the polished block. XI. Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers, And thorny balls, each three in one, The chestnuts throw on our path in showers! For the drop of the woodland fruit 's begun, These early November hours, XII. That crimson the creeper's leaf across Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt, O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss, And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped Elf -needled mat of moss, BY THE FIRESIDE. 85 XIII. By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged Last evening nay, in to-day's first dew Yon sudden coral nipple bulged, Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crew Of toad-stools peep indulged. XIV. And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge That takes the turn to a range beyond, Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge, Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond Danced over by the midge. xv. The chapel and bridge are of stone alike, Biackish-gray and mostly wet; Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke. See here again, how the lichens fret And the roots of the ivy strike! XVI. Poor little place, where its one priest comes On a festa-day, if he comes at all, To the dozen folk from their scattered homes, Gathered within that precinct small By the dozen ways one roams XVII. To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts, Or climb from the hemp-dresser's low shed, Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts, Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread Their gear on the rock's bare juts. 86 B7 THE FIRESIDE. XVIII. It has some pretension too, this front, With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise Set over the porch, Art's early wont: J T is John in the Desert, I surmise, But has borne the weather's brunt XIX. Not from the fault of the builder, though, For a pent-house properly projects "Where three carved beams make a certain show, Dating good thought of our architect's 'Five, six, nine, he lets you know. xx. And all day long a bird sings there, - And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times; The place is silent and aware; It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, But that is its own affair. XXI. My perfect wife, my Leonor, Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too, Whom else could I dare look backward for, With whom beside should I dare pursue The path gray heads abhor? XXII. For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them; Youth, flowery all the way, there stops Not they; age threatens and they contemn, Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops, One inch from our life's safe hem ! B7 TH^ FIRESIDE. XXIII. "With me, youth led ... I will speak now, No longer watch you as you sit Reading by fire-light, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Mutely, my heart knows how XXIV. When, if I think but deep enough, You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; And you, too, find without rebuff Eesponse your soul seeks many a time, Piercing its fine flesh-stuff. XXV. My own, confirm me! If I tread This path back, is it not in pride To think how little I dreamed it led To an age so blest that, by its side, Youth seems the waste instead? XXVI. My own, see where the years conduct! At first, 't was something our two souls Should mix as mists do; each is sucked In each now: on, the new stream rolls, Whatever rocks obstruct. XXVII. Think, when our one soul understands The great Word which makes all things new, When earht breaks up and heaven expands, How will the change strike me and you In the house not made with hands? 88 BT THE FIRESIDE. XXVIII. Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine, Your heart anticipate my heart, You must be just before, in fine, See and make me see, for your part, New depths of the divine! XXIX. But who could have expected this When we two drew together first Just for the obvious human bliss, To satisfy life's daily thirst With a thing men seldom miss? XXX. Come back with me to the first of all, Let us lean and love it over again, Let us now forget and now recall, Break the rosary in a pearly rain, And gather what we let fall ! XXXI. What did I say? that a small bird sings All day long, save when a brown pair Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings Strained to a bell : 'gainst noon-day glare You count the streaks and rings. XXXII. But at afternoon or almost eve 'T is better; then the silence grows To that degree, you half believe It must get rid of what it knows, Its bosom does so heave. BY THE FIRESIDE. 89 XXXIII. Hither we walked then, side by side, Arm in arm and cheek to cheek, And still I questioned or replied, While my heart, convulsed to really speak, Lay choking in its pride. XXXIV. Silent the crumbling bridge we cross, And pity and praise the chapel sweet, And care about the fresco's loss, And wish for our souls a like retreat, And wonder at the moss. XXXV. Stoop and kneel on the settle under, Look through the window's grated square: Nothing to see ! For fear of plunder, The cross is down and the altar bare, As if thieves do n't fear thunder. XXXVI. "We stoop and look in through the grate, See the little porch and rustic door, Read duly the dead builder's date; Then cross the bridge that we crossed before, Take the path again but wait ! xxxvn. Oh moment one and infinite! The water slips o'er stock and stone; The West is tender, hardly bright: How gray at once is the evening grown- One star, its chrysolite ! 90 BY THE FIRESIDE. XXXVIII. "We two stood there with never a third, But each by each, as each knew well: The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred. XXXIX. Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away! How a sound shall quicken content to bliss, Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, And life be a proof of this ! XL. Had she willed it, still had stood the screen So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her: I could fix her face with a guard between, And find her soul as when friends confer, Friends lovers that might have been. XLI. For my heart had a touch of the woodland time, Wanting to sleep now over its best. Shake the whole tree ii} the summer-prime, But bring to the last leaf no such test! "Hold the last fast!" runs the rhyme. XLII. For a chance to make your little much, To gain a lover and lose a friend, Venture the tree and a myriad such, When nothing you mar but the year can mend; But a last leaf fear to touch ! B7 THE FIRESIDE. XLIII. Yet should it unfasten itself and fall Eddying down till it find your face At some slight wind best chance of all! Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place You trembled to forestall ! XLIV. Worth how well, those dark gray eyes, That hair so dark and dear, how worth That a man should strive and agonize, And taste a veriest hell on earth For the hope of such a prize! XLV. You might have turned and tried a man, Set him a space to weary and wear, And prove which suited more your plan, His best of hope or his worst despair, Yet end as he began. XLVI. But you spared me this, like the heart you are, And filled my empty heart at a word. If two lives join, there is oft a scar, They are one and one, with a shadowy third; One near one is too far. XLVII. A moment after, and hands unseen Were hanging the night around us fast; But we knew that a bar was broken between Life and life: we were mixed at last In spite of the mortal screen. 92 BT THE FIRESIDE. XLVIII. The forests had done it; there they stood; We caught for a moment the powers at play: They had mingled us so, for once and good, Their work was done we might go or stay, They relapsed to their ancient mood. XLIX. How the world is made for each of us ! How all we perceive and know in it Tends to some moment's product thus, When a soul declares itself to wit, By its fruit, the thing it does ! L. Be hate that fruit or love that fruit, It forwards the general deed of man, And each of the Many helps to recruit The life of the race by a general plan; Each living his own, to boot. Li. I am named and known by that moment's feat; There took my station and degree; So grew my own small life complete, As nature obtained her best of me One born to love you, sweet! LII. And to watch you sink by the fire-side now Back again, as you mutely sit Musing by fire-light, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it, Yonder, my heart knows how ! ANT WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 93 LIU. So, earth has gained by one man the more, And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too, And the whole is well worth thinking o'er When autumn comes: which I mean to do One day, as I said before. ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND, i. MY love, this is the bitterest, that thou Who art all truth, and who dost love me now As thine eyes say, as thy voice breaks to say Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love me still A whole long life through, had but love its will, Would death, that leads me from thee, brook delay. ii. I have but to be by thee, and thy hand Will never let mine go, nor heart withstand The beating of my heart to reach its place. When shall I look for thee and feel thee gone? When cry for the old comfort and find none? Never, I know ! Thy soul is in thy face. in. Oh, I should fade 't is willed so! Might I save, Gladly I would, whatever beauty gave Joy to thy sense, for that was precious too. It is not to be granted. But the soul Whence the love comes, all ravage leaves that whole; Vainly the flesh fades; soul makes all things new. 94 ANT WIFE TO ANT HUSBAND. IV. It would not be because my eye grew dim Thou couldst not find the love there, thanks to Him Who never dishonored in the spark He gave us from his fire of fires, and bade Kemember whence it sprang, nor be afraid While that burns on, though all the rest grow dark. v. So, how thou wouldst be perfect, white and clean Outside as inside, soul and soul's demesne Alike, this body given to show it by! Oh, three-parts through the worst of life's abyss, What plaudits from the next world after this, Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain the sky ! VI. And is it not the bitterer to think That, disengage our hands and thou wilt sink Although thy love was love in very deed? I know that nature ! Pass a festive day, Thou dost not throw its relic-flower away Nor bid its music's loitering echo speed. VII. Thou let'st the stranger's glove lie where it fell; If old things remain old things all is well; For thou art grateful as becomes man best: And hadst thou only heard me play one tune, Or viewed me from a window, not so soon With thee would such things fade as with the rest. VIII. I seem to see! We meet and part; 't is brief; The book I opened keeps a folded leaf, ANT WIFE TO ANT HUSBAND. 95 The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank; That is a portrait of me on the wall Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call: And for all this, one little hour to thank! IX. But now, because the hour through years was fixed, Because our inmost beings met and mixed, Because thou once hast loved me wilt thou dare Say to thy soul and Who may list beside, ' 'Therefore she is immortally my bride; Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair. x. "So, what if in the dusk of life that 's left, I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft, Look from my path when, mimicking the same, The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone? Where was it till the sunset? where anon It will be at the sunrise! What 's to blame?" XI. Is it so helpful to thee? Canst thou take The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's sake, Put gently by such efforts at a beam? Is the remainder of the way so long, Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong? Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream ! XII. Ah, but the fresher faces! "Is it true," Thou 'It ask, "some eyes are beautiful and new? Some hair, how can one choose but grasp such wealth? And if a man would press his lips to lips Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there slips The dew-drop out of, must it be by stealth? 96 ANT WIFE TO ANT HUSBAND. XIII. "It cannot change the love still kept for Her, More than if such a picture I prefer Passing a day with, to a room's bare side: The painted form takes nothing she possessed, Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest, A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide?" XIV. So must I see, from where I sit and watch, My own self sell myself, my hand attach Its warrant to the very thefts from me Thy singleness of soul that made me proud, Thy purity of heart I loved aloud, Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see ! xv. Love so, then, if thou wilt! Give all thou canst Away to the new faces disentranced, (Say it and think it) obdurate no more, Ee-issue looks and words from the old mint, Pass them afresh, no matter whose the print Image and superscription once they bore! XVI. Re-coin thyself and give it them to spend, It all comes to the same thing at the end, Since mine thou wast, mine art, and mine shalt be, Faithful or faithless: sealing up the sum Or lavish of my treasure, thou must come Back to the heart's place here I keep for thee! XVII. Only, why should it be with stain at all? Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal, ANT WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. 97 Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow? Why need the other women know so much, And talk together, "Such the look and such The smile he used to love with, then as now!" XVIII. Might I die last and show thee ! Should I find Such hardships in the few years left behind, If free to take and light my lamp, and go Into my tomb, and shut the door and sit, Seeing thy face on those four sides of it The better that they are so blank, I know ! XIX. Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'er Within my mind each look, get more and more By heart each word, too much to learn at first; And join thee all the fitter for the pause 'Neath the low door-way's lintel. That were cause For lingering, though thou calledst, if I durst ! xx. And yet thou art the nobler of us two: What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do, Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride? I '11 say then, here 's a trial and a task; Is it to bear? if easy, I '11 not ask: Though love fail, I can trust en in thy pride. XXI. Pride? when those eyes forestall the life behind, The death I have to go through ! when I find, Now that I want thy help most, all of thee! What did I fear? Thy love shall hold me fast Until the little minute's sleep is past And I wake saved. And yet it will not be! 98 IN A TEAR. IN A YEAR i. NEVEK any While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his low grown chill, Mine may strive: Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. II. Was it something said, Something done, Vexed him? was it touch of hand, Turn of head? Strange ! that very way Love begun: I as little understand Love's decay. in. When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sung, Sweetly too. If I spoke a word, First of all Up his cheek the color sprung, Then he heard. IV. Sitting by my side, At my feet, IN A YEAR, 99 So he breathed but air I breathed, Satisfied! I, too, at love's brim Touched the sweet: I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. v. "Speak, Hove thee best!" He exclaimed: "Let thy love my own foretell!" I confessed : "Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine!" VI. "Was it wrong to own, Being truth? Why should all the giving prove His alone? I had wealth and ease, Beauty, youth: Since my lover gave me love, I gave these. VII. That was all I meant, To be just, And the passion I had raised, To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised Was it strange? 100 Of A TEAR. VIII. Would he love me yet, On and on, While I found some way undreamed Paid my debt! Gave more life and more, Till all gone, He should smile "She never seemed Mine before. IX. "What, she felt the while, Must I think? Love 's so different with us men!" He should smile: "Dying for my sake White and pink ! Can't we touch these bubbles then But they break?" x. Dear, the pang is brief, Do thy part, Have thy pleasure ! How perplexed Grows belief! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart : Crumble it, and what comes next? Is it God? A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. 101 SONG FROM "JAMES LEE." i. OH, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth : Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. n. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you. Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above 1 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. i. LET 's contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep : All be as before, Love, Only sleep ! EL What so wild as words are? I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough ! 102 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD. III. See the creature stalking While we speak! Hush and hide the talking, Cheek on cheek. IV. What so false as truth is, False to thee? Where the serpent's tooth is, Shun the tree v. Where the apple reddens, Never pry Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I. VI. Be a god and hold me With a charm ! Be a man and fold me With thine arm! VII. Teach me, only teach, Love! As I ought I will speak thy speech, Love, Think thy thought VIII. Meet, if thou require it, Both demands, Laying flesh and spirit In thy hands. MEETING AT NIGHT. 103 IX. That shall be to-morrow, Not to-night: I must bury sorrow Out of sight: x. Must a little weep, Love, (Foolish me !) And so fall asleep, Love, Loved by thee. MEETING AT NIGHT, i. THE gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. ii. Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; A. tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each ! IQ4. WOMEN AND ROSES. PARTING AT MORNING. ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain's rim; And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me. WOMEN AND ROSES, i. I DREAM of a red-rose tree. And which of its roses three Is the dearest rose to me? n. Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go Floating the women faded for ages, Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages. Then follow women fresh and gay, Living and loving and loved to-day. Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence, They circle their rose on my rose tree. in. Dear rose, thy term is reached, Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached : Bees pass it unimpeached. IV. Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb, You, great shapes of the antique time, WOMEN AND ROSES. 105 How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you, Break my heart at your feet to please you? Oh, to possess and be possessed! Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast! Once but of love, the poesy, the passion, Drink but once and die! In vain, the same fashion, They circle their rose on my rose tree. v. Dear rose, thy joy 's undimmed ; Thy cup is ruby-rimmed, Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed. VI. Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth The bee sucked in by the hyacinth, So will I bury me while burning, Quench like him at a plunge my yearning, Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips ! Fold me fast where the cincture slips, Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure, Girdle me for once ! But no the old measure, They circle their rose on my rose tree. VII. Dear rose without a thorn, Thy bud 's the babe unborn : First streak of a new morn. VIII. Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear! What is far conquers what is near. Roses will bloom nor want beholders, Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders. 106 A PRETTY 'WOMAN. What shall arrive with the cycle's change? A novel grace and a beauty strange. I will make an Eve, be the Artist that began her, Shaped her to his mind! Alas! in like manner They circle their rose on my rose tree. MISCONCEPTIONS. i. THIS is a spray the bird clung to, Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, Fit for her nest and her treasure. Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,- So to be singled out, built in, and sung to ! n. This is a heart the queen leant on, Thrilled in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love's regal dalmatic. Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on, Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on ! A PRETTY WOMAN. THAT fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, And the blue eye Dear and dewy, And that infantine fresh air of hers! A PRETTY WOMAN. 10? II. To think men cannot take you, Sweet, And enfold you, Ay, and hold you, And so keep you what they make you, Sweet! in. You like us for a glance, you know For a word's sake Or a sword's sake : All 's the same, whate'er the chance, you know. IV. And in turn we make you ours, we say You and youth too, Eyes and mouth too, All the face composed of flowers, we say. . v. All 's our own, to make the most of, Sweet Sing and say for, Watch and pray for, Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet ! VI. But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet, Though we prayed you, Paid you, brayed you In a mortar for you could not, Sweet ! VII. So, we leave the sweet face fondly there: Be its beauty Its sole duty! Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there! 108 ^ PRETTY WOMAN. VIII. And while the face lies quiet there, Who shall wonder That I ponder A conclusion? I will try it there. IX. As, why must one, for the love foregone, Scout mere liking? Thunder-striking Earth, the heaven, we looked above for, gone ! x. Why, with beauty, needs there money be, Love with liking? Crush the fly-king In his gauze, because no honey-bee? XI. May not liking be so simple-sweet, If love grew there 'T would undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet? XII. Is the creature too imperfect, say? Would you mend it And so end it? Since not all addition perfects aye ! XIII. Or is it of its kind, perhaps, Just perfection Whence, rejection Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps? A PRETTY WOMAN. 109 XIV. Shall we burn up, tread that face at once Into tinder, And so hinder Sparks from kindling all the place at once? XV. Or else kiss away one's sonl on her? Your love-fancies ! A sick man sees Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her ! XVI. Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose, Plucks a mould-flower For his gold flower, Uses fine things that efface the rose: XVII. Eosy rubies make its cup more rose, Precious metals Ape the petals, Last, some old king locks it up, morose. XVIII. Then how grace a. rose? I know a way! Leave it, rather. Must you gather? Smell, kiss, wear it at last, throw away! 110 A LIGHT WOMAN. A LIGHT WOMAN. i. So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three? My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me? ii. My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net. in. When I saw him tangled in her toils, A shame, said I, if she adds just him To her nine-and-ninety other spoils, The hundredth for a whim ! IV. And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said, An eagle 's the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead ' v. So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed. A LIGHT WOMAN. Ill VI. The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face. You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space! VII. For see, my friend goes shaking and white; He eyes me as the basilisk : I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk. VIII. And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "Though I love her that, he comprehends One should master one's passions, (love, in chief) And be loyal to one's friends!" IX. And she, she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall ; Just a touch to try, and off it came; 'T is mine, can I let it fall? x. "With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist. XI. And I, what I seem to my friend, you see; What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess : What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero, I confess. 112 LOVE IN A LIFE. XII. *T is an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own : Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals We played with for bits of stone ! XIII. One likes to show the truth for the truth; That the woman was light is very true: But suppose she says, Never mind that youth 1 What wrong have I done to you ? XIV. Well, any how, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand ; And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here J s a subject made to your hand! LOVE IN A LIFE. i. ROOM after room, I hunt the house through We inhabit together. Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her Next time, herself! not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume ! As she brushed it, the cornice- wreath blossomed anew; Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather. n. Yet the day wears. And door succeeds door; I try the fresh fortune Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. LIFE IN A LOVE. 113 Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. Spend my whole day in the quest, who cares? But 't is twilight, you see, with such suites to explore, Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune! LIFE IN A LOVE. ESCAPE me? Never Beloved ! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear: It seems too much like a fate, indeed ! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, And baffled, get up and begin again, So the chase takes up one's life, that 's all. While, look but once from your farthest bound At me so deep in the dust and dark, No sooner the old hope goes to ground Than a new one, straight to the self-same mark, I shape me Ever Removed! 114 THE LABORATORY. THE LABORATORY. ANCIEtf KEGIME. I. Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's smithy Which is the poison to poison her, prithee? n. He is with her, and they know that I know Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray God in, for them ! I am here. in. Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, Pound at thy powder, I am not in haste ! Better sit thus and observe thy strange things, Than go where men wait me, and dance at the King's. IV. That in the mortar you call it a gum? Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue, Sure to taste sweetly, is that poison too? v. Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures ! To carry pure death in an ear-ring, a casket, A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket! THE LABORATORY. 115 VI. Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live! But to light a pastile, and Elise with her head And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead! VII. Quick is it finished? The color 's too grim! Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim? Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer! VIII. What a drop! She 's not little, no minion like me! That 's why she ensnared him : this never will free The soul from those masculine eyes, say, "No!" To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go. IX. For only last night, as they whispered, I brought My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought Could I keep them one-half minute fixed, she would fall Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all! x. Not that I bid you spare her the pain ; Let death be felt and the proof remain: Brand, burn up, bite into its grace He is sure to remember her dying face! XI. Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose; It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close: The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee! If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me? 116 GOLD HAIR. XII. Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will ! But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings Ere I know it next moment I dance at the King's! GOLD HAIR: A STORY OF POENIC. I. OH, the beautiful girl, too white, Who lived at Pornic down by the sea, Just where the sea and the Loire unite! And a boasted name in Brittany She bore, which I will not write. ' ii. Too white, for the flower of life is red; Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen Of a soul that is meant (her parents said) To just see earth, and hardly be seen, And blossom in heaven instead. in. Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair ! One grace that grew to its full on earth : Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare. And her waist want half a girdle's girth, But she had her great gold hair. GOLD HAIR. 11? IV. Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, Freshness and fragrance floods of it, tooi Gold, did I say? Nay, gold 's mere dross: Here, Life smiled, "Think what I meant to doP And Love sighed, "Fancy my loss!" v. So, when she died, it was scarce more strange Than that, when some delicate evening dies, And you follow its spent sun's pallid range, There 's a shoot of color startles the skies With sudden, violent change, VI. That, while the breath was nearly to seek, As they put the little cross to her lips, She changed; a spot came out on her cheek, A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, And she broke forth, "I must speak!" VII. "Not my hair!" made the girl her moan "All the rest is gone or to go; But the last, last grace, my all, my own, Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! Leave my poor gold hair alone!" VIII. The passion thus vented, dead lay she: Her parents sobbed their worst on that, All friends joined in, nor observed degree: For indeed the hair was to wonder at, As it spread not flowing free, 118 GOLD HAIR. IX. But curled around her brow, like a crown, And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, And calmed about her neck ay, down To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap F the gold, it reached her gown. x. All kissed that face, like a silver wedge 'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair: E'en the priest allowed death's privilege, As he planted the crucifix with care On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. XI. And thus was she buried, inviolate Of body and soul, in the very space By the altar; keeping saintly state In Pornic church, for her pride of race, Pure life and piteous fate. XII. And in after-time would your fresh tear fall, Though your month might twitch with a dubious smile, As they told you of gold both robe and pall, How she prayed them leave it alone a while, So it never was touched at all. XIII. Years flew ; this legend grew at last The life of the lady; all she had done, All been, in the memories fading fast Of lover and friend, was summed in Sentence survivors passed : GOLD HAIR. 119 XIV. To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth; Had turned an angel before the time: Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth Of frailty, all you could count a crime Was she knew her gold hair's worth. xv. At little pleasant Pornic church, It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch, A certain sacred space lay bare, And the boys began research. XVI. 'T was the space where our sires would lay a saint, A benefactor, a bishop, suppose, A baron with armor-adornments quaint, Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose, Things sanctity saves from taint; XVII. So we come to find them in after-days When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds Of use to the living, in many ways : For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, And the church deserves the praise. XVIII. They grubbed with a will: and at length cor Humanum, pectora cosca, and the rest! They found no gaud they were prying for, No ring, no rose, but who would have guessed? A double Louis-d'orl 120 GOLD HAIR. XIX. Here was a case for the priest : he heard, Marked, inwardly digested, laid Finger on nose, smiled, "A little bird Chirps in my ear:" then, "Bring a spade, Dig deeper!" he gave the word. xx. And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, Or rotten planks which composed it once, Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid A mint of money, it served for the nonce To hold in its hair-heaps hid! XXI. Hid there? Why? Could the girl be wont (She the stainless soul) to treasure up Money, earth's trash and heaven's affront? Had a spider found out the communion-cup, Was a toad in the christening-font? XXII. Truth is truth : too true it was. Gold ! She hoarded and hugged it first, Longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it alas Till the humor grew to a head and burst, And she cried, at the final pass, XXIII. "Talk not of God, my heart is stone! Nor lover nor friend be gold for both! Gold I lack; and, my all, my own, It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth If they let my hair alone !' ' GOLD HAIR. 121 XXIV. Louis-d'ors, some six times five, And duly double, every piece. Now, do you see? With the priest to shrive, With parents preventing her sou^s release By kisses that kept alive, XXV. With heaven's gold gates about to ope, With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still, An instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope For gold, the true sort "Gold in heaven, if you will; But I keep earth's too, I hope." XXVI. Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield: The parents, they eyed that price of sin As if thirty pieces lay revealed On the place to bury strangers in, The hideous Potter's Field. XXVII. But the priest bethought him: " 'Milk that 's spilt* You know the adage! Watch and pray! Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt! It would build a new altar; that, we may!" And the altar therewith was built. XXVIII. Why I deliver this horrible verse? As the text of a sermon, which now I preach. Evil or good may be better or worse In the human heart, but the mixture of each Is a marvel and a curse. 122 THE STATUE AND THE BUST. XXIX. The candid incline to surmise of late That the Christian faith may be false, I find ; For our Essays-and-Keviews' debate Begins to tell on the public mind, And Colenso's words have weight: XXX. I still, to suppose it true, for my part, See reasons and reasons ; this, to begin : 'T is the faith that launched point-blank her dart At the head of a lie taught Original Sin, The Corruption of Man's Heart. THE STATUE AND THE BUST. THERE 's a palace in Florence, the world knows well, And a statue watches it from the square, And this story of both do our townsmen tell. Ages ago, a lady there, At the farthest window facing the East Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?" The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased; She leaned forth, one on either hand; They saw how the blush of the bride increased They felt by its beats her heart expand As one at each ear and both in a breath Whispered, "The Great Duke Ferdinand." That self-same instant, underneath, The Duke rode past in his idle way, Empty and fine like a swordless sheath. THE STATUE AND TUB BUST. 123 Gay he rode, with a friend as gay, Till he threw his head back "Who is she?" "A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day." Hair in heaps lay heavily Over a pale brow spirit-pure Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree. Crisped like a war-steed's encolure And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes Of the blackest black our eyes endure. And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise Filled the fine empty sheath of a man, The Duke grew straightway brave and wise. He looked at her, as a lover can; She looked at him, as one who awakes: The past was asleep, and her life began. Now, love so ordered for both their sakes, A feast was held, that self -same night, In the pile which the mighty shadow makes. (For Via Larga is three parts light, But the palace overshadows one, Because of a crime which may God requite! To Florence and God the wrong was done, Through the first republic's murder there By Cosimo and his cursed son). The Duke (with the statue's face in the square) Turned, in the midst of his multitude, At the bright approach of the bridal pair. Face to face the lovers stood A single minute and no more, While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued 124 THE 8TA THE A ND THE B UST. Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, As the courtly custom was of yore. Ij. a minute can lovers exchange a word? If a word did pass, which I do not think, Only one out of the thousand heard. That was the bridegroom. At day's brink He and his bride were alone at last In a bed-chamber by a taper's blink. Calmly he said that her lot was cast, That the door she had passed was shut on her Till the final catafalk repassed. The world meanwhile, its noise and stir, Through a certain window facing the East, She could watch like a convent's chronicler. Since passing the door might lead to a feast, And a feast might lead to so much beside, He, of many evils, chose the least. "Freely I choose too," said the bride "Your window and its world suffice," Eeplied the tongue, while the heart replied "If I spend the night with that devil twice, May his window serve as my loop of hell Whence a damned soul looks on paradise! "I fly to the Duke who loves me well, Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow Ere I count another ave-bell. "'T is only the coat of a page to borrow, And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim, And I save my soul but not to-morrow" THE STATUE AND THE BUST. 125 (She checked herself and her eye grew dim) "My father tarries to bless my state: I must keep it one day more for him. "Is one day more so long to wait? Moreover the Duke rides past, I know; "We shall see each other, sure as fate." She turned on her side and slept. Just so! So we resolve on a thing, and sleep: So did the lady, ages ago. That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove To body or soul, I will drain it deep. And on the morrow, bold with love, He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call, As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) And smiled "'T was a very funeral, Your lady will think, this feast of ours, A shame to efface, whate'er befall! "What if we break from the Arno bowers, And try if Petraja, cool and green, Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?" The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen On his steady brow and quiet mouth, Said, "Too much favor for me so mean! "But, alas! my lady leaves the South; Each wind that comes from the Apennine Is a menace to her tender youth : "Nor a way exists, the wise opine, If she quits her palace twice this year, To avert the flower of life's decline." 126 THE STATUE AND THE BUST. Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear. Moreover Petraja is cold this spring: Be our feast to-night as usual here!" And then to himself "Which night shall bring Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool Or I am the fool, and thou art the king! "Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool For to-night the Envoy arrives from France Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool. "I need thee still and might miss perchance. To-day is not wholly lost, beside, With its h<5pe of my lady's countenance: "For I ride what should I do but ride? And, passing her palace, if I list, May glance at its window well betide!" So said, so done : nor the lady missed One ray that broke from the ardent brow, Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed. Be sure that each renewed the vow, No morrow's sun should arise and set And leave them then as it left them now. But next day passed, and next day yet, With still fresh cause to wait one day more Ere each leaped over the parapet. And still, as love's brief morning wore, With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh, They found love not as it seemed before. They thought it would work infallibly, But not in despite of heaven and earth: The rose would blow when the storm passed by. THE STA TUE AND THE B VST. 12? Meantime they could profit, in winter's dearth, By store of fruits that supplant the rose: The world and its ways have a certain worth: And to press a point while these oppose Were simply policy ; better wait : We lose no friends and we gain no foes. Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate, Who daily may ride and pass and look Where his lady watches behind the grate! And she she watched the square like a book Holding one picture and only one, Which daily to find she undertook : When the picture was reached the book was done, And she turned from the picture at night to scheme Of tearing it out for herself next sun. So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam The glory dropped from their youth and love, And both perceived they had dreamed a dream ; Which hovered as dreams do, still above : But who can take a dream for a truth? Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove ! One day as the lady saw her youth Depart, and the silver thread that streaked Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth, The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked, And wondered who the woman was, Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked, Fronting her silent in the glass ''Summon here," she suddenly said, "Before the rest of my old self pass, 128 THE STA TUE AND THE B UST. "Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, Who fashions the clay no love will change, And fixes a beauty never to fade. "Let Eobbia's craft so apt and strange Arrest the remains of young and fair, And rivet them while the seasons range. "Make me a face on the window there, Waiting as ever, mute the while, My love to pass below in the square! "And let me think that it may beguile Dreary days which the dead must spend Down in their darkness under the aisle, "To say, 'What matters it at the end? I did no more while my heart was warm Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.' "Where is the use of the lip's red charm, The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, And the blood that blues the inside arm "Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, The earthly gift to an end divine? A lady of clay is as good, I trow." But long ere Eobbia's cornice, fine With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, Was set where now is the empty shrine (And, leaning out of a bright blue space, As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky, The passionate pale lady's face Eyeing ever, with earnest eye And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch, Some one who ever is passing by ) THE 8TA TUE A ND THE B UST. 129 The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch In Florence, "Youth my dream escapes! Will its record stay!" And he bade them fetch Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes "Can the soul, the will, die out of a man Ere his body finds the grave that gapes? "John of Douay shall effect my plan, Set me on horseback here aloft, Alive, as the crafty sculptor can, "In the very square I have crossed so oft: That men may admire, when future suns Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft. "While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze Admire and say, 'When he was alive How he would take his pleasure once!' "And it shall go hard but I contrive To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb At idleness which aspires to strive." So! While these wait the trump of doom, How do their spirits pass, I wonder, Nights and days in the narrow room? Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder What a gift life was, ages ago, Six steps out of the chapel yonder. Only they see not God, I know, Nor all that chivalry of his, The soldier -saints who, row on row, 130 THE STATUE AND THE BUST. Burn upward each to his point of bliss Since, the end of life being manifest, He had burned his way thro' the world to this. I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test, As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view! Must a game be played for the sake of pelf? Where a button goes, 't were an epigram To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. The true has no value beyond the sham: As well the counter as coin, I submit, When your table 's a hat, and your prize, a dram. Stake your counter as boldly every whit, Venture as warily, use the same skill, Do your best, whether winning or losing it, If you choose to play! is my principle. Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will ! The counter, our lovers staked, was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin : And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is, the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say. You of the virtue (we issue join) How strive you? De te, fabula ! LOVE A MONO THE R UINS, 13 1 LOVE AMONG THE RUINS, i. WHEKE the quiet-colored end of evening smiles, Miles and miles, On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop As they crop Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country's very capital, its prince, Ages since, Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. n. Now, the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to, (else they run Into one) Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast. in. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was ! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds 132 LOVE AMONG TEE RUINS. Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone Where* a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. IV. Now, the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. v. And I know while thus the quiet-colored eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray Melt away That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught sonl For the goal, LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. 133 When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. VI. But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, and then, All the men ! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. VII. In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force Gold, of course. Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin ! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. 134: TIME'S REVENGES. TIME'S REVENGES. I J VE a Friend, over the sea; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I write; They find such favor in his sight That he slaughters you with savage looks Because you do n't admire my books. He does himself though, and if some vein Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain, To-morrow month, if I lived to try, Eound should I just turn quietly, Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand Till I found him, come from his foreign land To be my nurse in this poor place, And make my broth and wash my face And light my fire, and all the while, Bear with his old good-humored smile That I told him "Better have kept away Than come and kill me, night and day, With, worse than fever throbs and shoots, The creaking of his clumsy boots." I am as sure that this he would do, As that St. Paul's is striking two. And I think I rather . . . woe is me! Yes, rather should see him than not see, If lifting a hand would seat him there Before me in the empty chair To-night, when my head aches indeed, And I can neither think .nor read Nor make these purple fingers hold The pen; this garret 's freezing cold! And I 've a Lady there he wakes The laughing fiend and prince of snakes TIME'S HEVENGES. 135 Within me, at her name, to pray Fate send some creature in the way Of my love for her, to be down-torn, Upthrust and outward-borne, So I might prove myself that sea Of passion which I needs must be! Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint And my style infirm and its figures faint, All the critics say, and more blame yet, And not one angry word you get. But, please you, wonder I would put My cheek beneath that lady's foot Eather than trample under mine The laurels of the Florentine, And you shall see how the devil spends A fire God gave for other ends ! I tell you, I stride up and down This garret, crowned with love's best crown, And feasted with love's perfect feast, To think I kill for her, at least, Body and soul and peace and fame, Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, Filled full, eaten out and in With the face of her, the eyes of her, The lips, the little chin, the stir Of shadow round her mouth ; and she I '11 tell you, calmly wonld decree That I should roast at a slow fire, If that would compass her desire And make her one whom they invite To the famous ball to-morrow night. There may be heaven; there must be hell; Meantime, there is our earth here well J 136 WARING. WAKING. I. i. WHAT 's become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest or staff and scrip, Eather than pace up and down Any longer London town? ii. Who 'd have guessed it from his lip Or his brow's accustomed bearing, On the night he thus took ship Or started landward? little caring For us, it seems, who supped together (Friends of his too, I remember) And walked home thro' the merry weather, The snowiest in all December. I left his arm that night myself For what's-his-name's, the new prose-poet Who wrote the book there on the shelf How, forsooth, was I to know it If Waring meant to glide away Like a ghost at break of day? Never looked he half so gay ! in. He was prouder than the devil : How he must have cursed our revel ! Ay, and many other meetings, Indoor visits, outdoor greetings WARING. 137 As up and down he paced this London, With no work done, but great works undone, Where scarce twenty knew his name. Why not, then, have earlier spoken, Written, bustled? Who 's to blame If your silence kept unbroken? "True, but there were sundry jottings, Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings, Certain first steps were achieved Already which (is that your meaning?) Had well borne out whoe'er believed In more to come!" But who goes gleaning Hedge-side chance-blades, while full-sheaved Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweening Pride alone, puts forth such claims O'er the day's distinguished names. IV. Meantime, how much I loved him, I find out now I 've lost him. I who cared not if I moved him, Who could so carelessly accost him, Henceforth never shall get free Of his ghostly company, His eyes that just a little wink As deep I go into the merit Of this and that distinguished spirit His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink, As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us !) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman's latest piece of graphic. Nay, my very wrist grows warm With hi draggings weight of arm. 138 WARING. E'en so, swimmingly appears, Through one's after-supper musings, Some lost lady of old years With her beauteous vain endeavor And goodness unrepaid as ever; The face, accustomed to refusings, We, puppies that we were . . . Oh never Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled Being aught like false, forsooth, to? Telling aught but honest truth to? What a sin, had we centupled Its possessor's grace and sweetness ! No! she heard in its completeness Truth, for truth 's a weighty matter, And, truth at issue, we can't flatter! Well, 't is done with; she 's exempt From damning us thro' such a sally; And so she glides, as down a valley, Taking up with her contempt, Past our reach ; and in, the flowers Shut her unregarded hours. v. Oh, could I have him back once more, This Waring, but one half -day more! Back, with the quiet face of yore, So hungry for acknowledgment Like mine! I 'd fool him to his bent. Feed, should not he, to heart's content? I 'd say, "to only have conceived, Planned your great works, apart from progress, Surpasses little works achieved!" I 'd lie so, I should be believed. I 'd make such havoc of the claims Of the day's distinguished names To feast him with, as feasts an ogress WARING. 139 Her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child ! Or as one feasts a creature rarely Captured here, unreconciled To capture ; and completely gives Its pettish humors license, barely Eequiring that it lives. VI. Ichabod, Ichabod, The glory is departed ! Travels Waring East away? Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, Reports a man upstarted Somewhere as a god, Hordes grown European-hearted, Millions of the wild made tame On a sudden at his fame? In Vishnu-land what Avatar? Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar, With the demurest of footfalls Over the Kremlin's pavement bright With serpentine and syenite, Steps, with five other Generals That simultaneously take snuff, For each to have pretext enough And kerchief wise unfold his sash Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, And leave the grand white neck no gash? Waring in Moscow, to those rough Cold northern natures borne perhaps, Like the lambwhite maiden dear From the circle of mute kings Unable to repress the tear, Each as his sceptre down he flings, 140 WARING. To Dian's fame at Tanrica, Where now a captive priestess, she alway Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach: As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands Eapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry Amid their barbarous twitter! In Kussia? Never! Spain were fitter! Ay, most likely 't is in Spain That we and Waring meet again Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid All fire and shine, abrupt as when there 's slid Its stiff gold blazing pall From some black coffin-lid. Or, best of all, I love to think The leaving us was just a feint; Back here to London did he slink, And now works on without a wink Of sleep, and we are on the brink Of something great in fresco-paint: Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, Up and down and o'er and o'er He splashes, as none splashed before Since great Caldara Polidore. Or Music means this land of purs Some favor yet, to pity won By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers, "Give me my so-long promised son, Let Waring end what I begun!" Then down he creeps and out he steals, Only when the night conceals His face; in Kent 't is cherry-time, Or hops are picking: or at prime WARING. 141 Of March he wanders as, too happy, Years ago when he was young, Some mild eve when woods grew sappy And the early moths had sprung To life from many a trembling sheath Woven the warm boughs beneath; While small birds said to themselves What should soon be actual song, And young gnats, by tens and twelves Made as if they were the throng That crowd around and carry aloft The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure, Out of a myriad noises soft, Into a tone that can endure Amid the noise of a July noon When all God's creatures crave their boon, All at once, and all in tune, And get it, happy as Waring then, Having first within his ken What a man might do with men : And far too glad, in the even -glow, To mix with the world he meant to take Into his hand, he told you, so And out of it his world to make, To contract and to expand As he shut or oped his hand. Oh Waring, what 's to really be? A clear stage and a crowd to see ! Some Garrick, say, out shall not he The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck? Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, Some Junius am I right? shall tuck His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife! Some Chatterton shall have the luck Of calling Rowley into life ! Some one shall somehow run amuck 142 WARING. With this old world, for want of strife Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive To rouse us, Waring! Who 's alive? Our men scarce seem in earnest now. Distinguished names! but } t is, somehow, As if they played at being names Still more distinguished, like the games Of children. Turn our sport to earnest With a visage of the sternest ! Bring the real times back, confessed Still better than our very best! II. i. "WHEN I last saw Waring ..." (How all turned to him who spoke ! You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel or sea-faring?) ii. "We were sailing by Triest Where a day or two we harbored: A sunset was in the West, When, looking over the vessel's side, One of our company espied A sudden speck to larboard. And as a sea-duck flies and swims At once, so came the light craft up, With its sole lateen sail that trims And turns (the water round its rims Dancing, as round a sinking cup) And by us like a fish it curled, And drew itself up close beside, Its great sail on the instant furled, And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried, WARING. 143 (A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) 'Buy wine of us, you English Brig? Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? A pilot for you to Triest? Without one, look you ne'er so big, They'll never let you up the bay ! We natives should know best.' I turned, and 'just those fellows' way/ Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thieves Are laughing at us in their sleeves.' in. "In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; And one, half-hidden by his side Under the furled sail, soon I spied, With great grass hat and kerchief black, Who looked up with his kingly throat, Said somewhat, while the other shook His hair back from his eyes to look Their longest at us; then the boat, I know not how, turned sharply round, Laying her whole side on the sea As a leaping fish does; from the lee Into the weather, cut somehow Her sparkling path beneath our bow, And so went off, as with a bound, Into the rosy and golden half 0' the sky, to overtake the sun And reach the shore, like the sea-calf Its singing cave; yet I caught one Glance ere away the boat quite passed, And neither time nor toil could mar Those features: so I saw the last Of Waring!" You? Oh, never star 144 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. Was lost here but it rose afar! Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar? HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. i. OH, to be in England now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning un- aware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England now! And after April, when May follows And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge That 's the wise thrush : he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rupture ! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, And will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. THAT second time they hunted me From hill to plain, from shore to sea, And Austria, hounding far and wide Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. 145 Breathed hot and instant on my trace. I made six days a hiding-place Of that dry green old aqueduct Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked The fire-flies from the roof above, Bright creeping thro' the moss they love: How long it seems since Charles was lost! Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed The country in my very sight; And when that peril ceased at night, The sky broke out in red dismay With signal fires; well, there I lay Close covered o'er in my recess, Up to the neck in ferns and cress, Thinking on Metternich our friend, And Charles's miserable end, And much beside, two days; the third, Hunger o'ercame me when I heard The peasants from the village go To work among the maize; you know, With us in Lombardy, they bring Provisions packed on mules, a string, With little bells that cheer their task, And casks, and boughs on every cask To keep the sun's heat from the wine; These I let pass in jingling line, And, close on them, dear noisy crew, The peasants from the village, too; For at the very rear would troop Their wives and sisters in a group To help, I knew; when these had passed, I threw my glove to strike the last, Taking the chance: she did not start, Much less cry out, but stooped apart, One instant rapidly glanced round, And saw me beckon from the ground; H6 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. A wild bush grows and hides my crypt; She picked my glove up while she stripped A branch off, then rejoined the rest With that; my glove lay in her breast: Then I drew breath; they disappeared: It was for Italy I feared. An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown. Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me Rested the hopes of Italy ; I had devised a certain tale Which, when 't was told her, could not fail Persuade a peasant of its truth; I meant to call a freak of youth This hiding, and give hopes of pay, And no temptation to betray. But when I saw that woman's face, Its calm simplicity of grace, Our Italy's own attitude In which she walked thus far, and stood, Planting each naked foot so firm, To crush the snake and spare the worm At first sight of her eyes, I said, "I am that man upon whose head They fix the price, because I hate The Austrians over us : the State Will give you gold oh, gold so much! If you betray me to their clutch, And be your death, for aught I know, If once they find you saved their foe. Now, you must bring me food and drink, And also paper, pen and ink, And carry safe what I shall write To Padua, which you '11 reach at night THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. Before the duomo shuts; go in, And wait till Tenebrae begin ; Walk to the third confessional, Between the pillar and the wall, And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace ? Say it a second time, then cease; And if the voice inside returns, From Christ and Freedom; what concerns Tlie cause of Peace ? for answer, slip My letter where you placed your lip; Then come back happy we have done Our mother service I, the son, As you the daughter of our land!" Three mornings more, she took her stand In the same place, with the same eyes: I was no surer of sun-rise Than of her coming: we conferred Of her own prospects, and I heard She had a lover stout and tall, She said then let her eyelids fall, "He could do much" as if some doubt Entered her heart, then, passing out, "She could not speak for others, who Had other thoughts; herself she knew:" And so she brought me drink and food. After four days, the scouts pursued Another path ; at last arrived The help my Paduan friends contrived To furnish me: she brought the news. For the first time I could not choose But kiss her hand, and lay my own Upon her head "This faith was shown To Italy, our mother; she Uses my hand and blesses thee," 148 THE IT A LI A N IN ENGLAND. She followed down to the sea-shore; I left and never saw her more. How very long since I have thought Concerning much less wished for aught Beside the good of Italy, For which I live and mean to die! I never was in love; and since Charles proved false, what shall now convince My inmost heart I have a friend? However, if I pleased to spend Heal wishes on myself say, three I know at least what one should be. I would grasp Metternich until I felt his red wet throat distil In blood thro' these two hands. And next, Nor much for that am I perplexed Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, Should die slow of a broken heart Under his new employers. Last Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast Do I grow old and out of strength. If I resolved to seek at length My father's house again, how scared They all would look, and unprepared ! My brothers live in Austria's pay Disowned me long ago, men say; And all my early mates who used To praise me so perhaps induced More than one early step of mine Are turning wise: while some opine "Freedom grows license," some suspect "Haste breeds delay," and recollect They always said, such premature Beginnings never could endure ! THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITAL T. 149 So, with a sullen "All 's for best," The land seems settling to its rest. I think then, I should wish to stand This evening in that dear, lost land, Over the sea the thousand miles, And know if yet that woman smiles With the calm smile; some little farm She lives in there, no doubt: what harm If I sat on the door-side bench, And while her spindle made a trench Fantastically in the dust, Inquired of all her fortunes just Her children's ages and their names, And what may be the husband's aims For each of them. I 'd talk this out, And sit there, for an hour about, Then kiss her hand once more, and lay Mine on her head, and go my way. So much for idle wishing how It steals the time! To business now. THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. PIANO DI SORRENTO. FoRitr, Fortii, my beloved one, sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes, Let me keep you amused, till he vanish in black from the skies, With telling my memories over, as you tell your beads; All the Plain saw me gather, I garland the flowers or the weeds. 150 TEE ENGLISHMAN IN ITAL T. Time for rain', for your long hot dry Autumn had net- worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches, marked like a quail 's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, whose heads, specked with white Over brown like a great spider's back, as I told you last night, Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting in halves on the tree. And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, wherever could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, some five for one cup. So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, what change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets which woke me before I could open my shutter, made fast with a bough and a stone, And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, sole lattice that 's known. Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, while, busy beneath, Your priest and his brother tugged at them, the rain in their teeth. And out upon all the flat house-roofs, where split figs lay drying, The girls took the frails under cover: nor use seemed in trying THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITAL Y. 151 To get out the boats and go fishing, for, under the cliff, Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock. No seeing our skiff Arrive about noon from Amalfi ! our fisher arrive, And pitch down his basket before us, all trembling alive, "With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit; you touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner of horns and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at, while round him like imps, Cling screaming the children as naked and brown as his shrimps; Himself too as bare to the middle you see round his neck The string and its brass coin suspended, that saves him from wreck. But to-day not a boat reached Salerno: so back, to a man, Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards grape- harvest began. In the vat, halfway up in our house-side, like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing till breath- less he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the grapes under, Since still, when he seems all but master, in pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going with basket 011 shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain's driving; your girls that are older, For under the hedges of aloe, and where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling their laps with the snails 152 THE ENGLISHMA N IN ITAL F. Tempted out by this first rainy weather, your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, when, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow in slippery ropes, And gourds fried in great purple slices, that color of popes. Meantime, see the grape bunch they 've brought you: the rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence. Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball that peels, flake by flake, Like an onion, each smoother and whiter: next, sip this weak wine From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, a leaf of the vine: And end with the prickly pear's red flesh that leaves thro' its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. Scirocco is loose ! Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives which, thick in one's track, Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, tho' not yet half black! How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, the medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees snap off, figs and all, For here comes the whole of the tempest! no refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, and listen or sleep. THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITAL Y. 153 Oh how will your country show next week, when all the vine-boughs Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture the mules and the cows? Last eve, I rode over the mountains; your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles that offered, each side, Their fruit-balls, black, glossy, and luscious, or strip from the sorbs A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, those hairy gold orbs! But my mule picked his sure sober path out, just stopping to neigh When he recognized down in the valley Ms mates on their way With the faggots and barrels of water. And soon we emerged From the plain where the woods could scarce follow; and still, as we urged Our way, the woods wondered, and left us. Up, np still we trudged, Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, and place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones like the loose broken teeth Of some monster which climbed there to die, from the ocean beneath Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed that clung to the path, And dark rosemary ever a-dying, that, 'spite the wind's wrath So loves the salt rock's face to seaward: and lentisks as staunch To the stone where they root and bear berries: and what shows a branch 154 THE ENGLISHMAN IN IT A L T. Coral-colored, transparent, with circlets of pale sea-green leaves; Over all trod my mule with the caution of gleaners o'er sheaves. Still, foot after foot like a lady, still, round after round, He climbed to the top of Calvano: and God's own pro- found Was above me, and round me the mountains, and under, the sea, And within me my heart to bear witness what was and shall be. Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal ! no rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived in the blue solitudes. Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! still moving with you ; For, ever some new head and breast of them thrusts into view To observe the intruder; you see it, if quickly you turn And, before they escape you, surprise them. They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over and love (they pretend) Cower beneath them, the black sea-pine crouches, the wild fruit-trees bend, E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut: all is silent and grave: 'T is a sensual and timorous beauty, how fair! but a slave. So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered, as greenly as ever, Those isles of the siren, your Galli. No ages can sever The Three, nor enable their sister to join them, halfway On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses no farther to-day! Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave, watches breast-high and steady THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY. 155 From under the rock her bold sister, swum halfway already. Fortii, shall we sail there together, and see, from the sides, Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts where the siren abides? Shall we sail round and round them, close over the rocks, tho' unseen, That ruffle the gray glassy water to glorious green? Then scramble from splinter to splinter, reach land, and explore, On the largest, the strange square black turret with never a door, Just a loop to admit the quick lizards? Then, stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us what life is, so clear? The secret they sang to Ulysses when, ages ago, He heard and he knew this life's secret, I hear and I know. Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano. He strikes the great gloom And flutters it o'er the mount's summit in airy gold fume. All is over. Look out, see, the gipsy, our tinker and smith, Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, and down-squatted forthwith To his hammering under the wall there ! One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting his jews'-harp to proof, While the other, thro' locks of curled wire, is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall. Chew, abbot's own cheek ! All is over. Wake up and come out now, and down let us go, 156 THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITAL 7. And see the fine things got in order at church for the show Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening. To-morrow 's the Feast Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means of Virgins the least: As you '11 hear in the off-hand discourse which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, was getting by heart. Not a pillar nor post but is dizened with red and blue papers; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar a-blaze ;with long tapers. But the great masterpiece is the scaffold rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers and trumpeters bold Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber: who, when the priest 's hoarse, Will strike us up something that 's brisk for the feast's second course. And then will the flaxen-wigged Image be carried in pomp Thro' the plain, while, in gallant procession, the priests mean to stomp. All round the glad church lie old bottles with gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters, religiously popped. And at night from the crest of Calvano great bonfires will hang: On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, and more poppers bang. At all events, come to the garden, as far as the wall; See me tap with a hoe on the plaster, till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers ! UP AT A VILLA. 157 "Such trifles!" you say? Fortu, in my England at home, men meet gravely to-day And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws be righteous and wise ! If 't were proper, Scirrocco should vanish in black from the skies! UP AT A VILLA DOWN IN THE CITY. (AS DISTINGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY.) I. HAD I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city- square; Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there ! ii. Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least ! There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. in. Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain edge as bare as the creature's skull, Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull ! I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair 's turned wool. IV. But the city, oh the city the square with the houses! Why? They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there 's something to take the eye ! 158 UP AT A VILLA. Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high ; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. v. What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'T is May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: You 've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive- trees. VI. Is it better in May, I ask you? You 've summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. VII. Is it ever hot in the square? There 's a fountain to spout and splash ! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam- bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash VP AT A VILLA. 159 Round the lady atop in her conch fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. VIII. All the year long art the villa, nothing to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons, I spare you the months of the fever and chill. IX. Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church- bells begin : No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in : You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there 's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! 160 VP AT A VILLA. Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Eeverend Don So-and-so Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome and Cicero, "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of St. Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." Noon strikes, here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart, "With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! Bang-whang-ivliang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still : it 's the greatest pleasure in life. x. But bless you, it 's dear it *s dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It 's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still ah, the pity, the pity ! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals : Bang-ivhang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! PICTOR IQNOTUS. 161 PICTOR IGNOTUS. FLORENCE, 15 . I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's Ye praise so. How my soul springs up \ No bar Stayed me ah, thought which saddens while it soothes! Never did fate forbid me, star by star, To outburst on your night, with all my gift Of fires from God nor would my flesh have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk To the centre, of an instant; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan The licence and the limit, space and bound, Allowed to truth made visible in man. And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, Over the canvas could my hand have flung, Each face obedient to its passion's law, Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; "Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood, A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place; Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved, human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved? Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) Of going I, in each new picture, forth, As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North, Bound for the calmly satisfied great State, Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, Through old streets named afresh from the event, 162 PICTOR IGNOTUS. Till it reached home, where learned age should greet My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair, lie learning at my feet! Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end, And then not go to heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend, The thought grew frightful, 't was so wildly dear! But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels through a door Of some strange house of idols at its rites! This world seemed not the world it was, before: Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped . . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough. These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, Count them for garniture and household-stuff, And where they live needs must our pictures live And see their faces, listen to their prate, Partakers of their daily pettiness, Discussed of, "This I love, or this I hate, This likes me more, and this affects me less!" Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint These endless cloisters and eternal aisles W r ith the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, With the same cold calm beautiful regard, At least no merchant traffics in my heart; The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart: Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, They moulder on the damp wall's travertine, 'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. FRA LIPPO LIPPL 163 So, die my pictures! surely, gently die! Oh youth, men praise so, holds their praise its worth? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth? FRA LIPPO LIPPL I AM poor brother Lippo, by your leave You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk! What, 't is past midnight, and you go the rounds, And here you catch me at an alley's end Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? The Carmine 's my cloister: hunt it up, Do, harry out, if you must show your zeal, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, Weke, weke, that 's crept to keep him company! Aha, you know your betters? Then, you '11 take Your hand away that 's fiddling on my throat, And please to know me likewise. Who am I? Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend Three streets off he 's a certain . . . how d' ye call? Master a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, I' the house that caps the corner. Boh ! You were best! Remember and tell me, the day you 're hanged, How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Pick up a manner, nor discredit you: Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets And count fair prize what comes into their net? He 's Judas to a tittle, that man is! 164 FRA LTPPO LTPPt Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. Lord, I 'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbors me (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) And all 's come square again. I 'd like his face His, elbowing on his comrade in the door With the pike and lantern, for the slave that holds John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair With one hand (''Look you, now," as who should say) And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! It 's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! Yes, I 'm the painter, since you style me so. What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, You know them, and they take you? like enough! I saw the proper twinkle in your eye 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. Let 's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. Here 's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands To roam the town and sing out carnival, And I 've been three weeks shut within my mew, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again. I could not paint all night Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh air. There came a hurry of feet and little feet, A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song, Flower o' the broom, Take away love, and our earth is a tomb ! Floiver 0' the quince, I let Lisa go, and what- good in life since ? Flower o' the thyme and so on. Eound they went. Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, three slim shapes, FRA LIPPO LIPPL 165 And a face that looked up ... zooks, sir, flesh and blood, That 's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, All the bed-furniture a dozen knots, There was a ladder! Down I let myself, Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, And after them. I came up with the fun Hard by Saint Lawrence, hail fellow, well met, Flower o' the rose, If I 've been werry, what matter who knows ? And so, as I was stealing back again, To get to bed and have a bit of sleep Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head Mine 's shaved a monk, you say the sting 's in that! If Master Cosimo announced himself, Mum 's the word naturally; but a monk! Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! I was a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street. I starved there, God knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, My stomach being empty as your hat, The wind doubled me up and down I went. Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, (Its fellow was a stinger, as I knew) And so along the wall, over the bridge, By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, While I stood munching my first bread that month : "So, boy, you 're minded," quoth the good fat father 166 FRA LIPPO LIPPL Wiping his own month, 't was refection-time, "To quit this very miserable world? Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?*' thought I; By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, Palace, farm, villa, shop and banking-house, Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici Have given their hearts to all at eight years old. Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 'T was not for nothing the good bellyful, The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, And day-long blessed idleness beside! "Let 's see what the urchin 's fit for" that came next. Not overmuch their way, I must confess. Such a to-do! They tried me with their books: Lord, they 'd have taught me Latin in pure waste! Flower o' the clove, All the Latin I construe is, "Amo" Hove! But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets Eight years together as my fortune was, Watching folk's faces to know who will fling The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, And who will curse or kick him for his pains, Which gentleman processional and fine, Holding a candle to the Sacrament, Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch The droppings of the wax to sell again, Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, How say I? nay, which dog bites, which lets drop His bone from the heap of offal in the street, Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, He learns the look of things, and none the less For admonition from the hunger-pinch. I had a store of such remarks, be sure, FRA LIPPO LIPPL 167 Which, after I found leisure, turned to use: I drew men's faces on my copy-books, Scrawled them within the autiphonary's marge, Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's And made a string of pictures of the world Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. "Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d' ye say? In no wise. Lose -a crow and catch a lark. What if at last we get our man of parts, We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine And put the front on it that ought to be!" And hereupon he bade me daub away. Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank Never was such prompt disembnrdening. First every sort of monk, the black and white, I drew them, fat and lean: then, folks at church, From good old gossips waiting to confess Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends, To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard, and half For that white anger of his victim's son Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, Signing himself with the other because of Christ (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the passion of a thousand years) Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, Her pair of ear-rings and a bunch of flowers 1C8 FRA LIPPO LIPPL The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. I painted all, then cried, "'T is ask and have; Choose, for more 's ready!" laid the ladder flat, And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. The monks closed in a circle and praised loud Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, Being simple bodies, "That 's the very man! Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! That woman 's like the Prior's niece who comes To care about his asthma: it 's the life!" But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; Their betters took their turn to see and say: The Prior and the learned pulled a face And stopped all that in no t.me. "How? what 's here? Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true As much as pea and pea! it 's devil's game! Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay, But lift them over it, ignore it all, Make them forget there 's such a thing as flesh. Your business is to paint the souls of men Man's soul, and it 's a fire, smoke . . no, it's not . . It 's vapor done up like a new-born babe (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) It 's . . well, what matters talking, it 's the soul! Give us no more of body than shows soul ! Here 's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, That sets us praising, why not stop with him? Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head With wonder at lines, colors, and what not? Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! Rub all out, try at it a second time! Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, She 's just my niece . , . Herodias, I would say, FRA LIPPO LIPPI. 109 "Who went and danced, and got men's heads cut off. Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask? A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white When what you put for yellow 's simply black, And any sort of meaning looks intense AVhen all beside itself means and looks nought. Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, Left foot and right foot, go a double step, Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint is it so pretty You can't discover if it means hope, fear, Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? Suppose I 've made her eyes all right and blue, Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash, And then add soul and heighten them threefold? Or say there 's beauty with no soul at all (I never saw it put the case the same ) If you get simple beauty and nought else, You get about the best thing God invents: That 's somewhat: and you '11 find the soul you have missed, W r ithin yourself, when you return him thanks. "Rub all out!" Well, well, there 's my life, in short, And so the thing has gone on ever since. I 'm grown a man no doubt, I 've broken bounds: You should not take a fellow eight years old And make him swear to never kiss the girls. I Jn my own master, paint now as I please Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! Lord, it 's fast holding by the rings in front Those great rings serve more purposes than just To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! 170 FRA LIPPO LIPPL And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, The heads shake still "It '& art's decline, my son! You 're not of the true painters, great and old; Brother Augelico 's the man, you '11 find; Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: Fag on at flesh, you '11 never make the third!" Flower o' the pine, You keep your mistr . . . manners, and Til stick to mine! I 'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! Don't you think they 're the likeliest to know, They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage, Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint To please them sometimes do, and sometimes don't; For, doing most, there 's pretty sure to come A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints A laugh, a cry, the business of the world (Floiver o' the peach, Death for us all, and Ms own life for each /) And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, The world and life 's too big to pass for a dream, And I do these wild things in sheer despite, And play the fooleries you catch me at, In pure rage ! The old mill-horse, out at grass After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, Although the miller does not preach to him The only good of grass is to make chaff. What would men have? Do they like grass or no May they or may n't they? all I want 's the thing Settled for ever one way. As it is, You tell too many lies and hurt yourself : You don't like what you only like too much, You do like what, if given you at your word, You find abundantly detestable. FRA LIPPO LIPPI. For me, I think I speak as I was taught I always see the garden, and God there A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned, The value and significance of flesh, I can't unlearn ten minutes afterward. You understand me: I 'm a beast, I know. But, see, now why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star 's about to shine, What will hap some day. We 've a youngster here Comes to our convent, studies what I do, Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: His name is Guidi he '11 not mind the monks They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk He picks my practice up he '11 paint apace, I hope so though I never live so long, I know what 's sure to follow. You be judge! You speak no Latin more than I, belike; However, you 're my man, you 've seen the world The beauty and the wonder and the power, The shapes of things, their colors, lights, and shades, Changes, surprises, and God made it all! For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, The mountain round it and the sky above, Much more the figures of man, woman, child, These are the frame to? What 's it all about? To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, Wondered at? oh, this last of course! you say. But why not do as well as say, paint these Just as they are, careless what comes of it? God's works paint any one, and count it crime To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works Are here already; nature is complete: Suppose you reproduce her (which you can't) 172 PSA LIPPO LI PPL There 's no advantage! you must beat her, then." For, don't you mark? we 're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted better to us, Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out. Have yon noticed, now Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, And trust me but you should, though ! How much more If I drew higher things with the same truth! That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh, It makes me mad to see what men shall do And we in our graves! This world 's no blot for us Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: To find its meaning is my meat and drink. "Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning 's plain It does not say to folks remember matins, Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this What need of art at all? A skull and bones, Two bits of stick nailed cross-wise, or, what 's best, A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. I painted a St. Laurence six months since At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: "How looks my painting, now the scaffold 's down?" I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns "Already not one phiz of your three slaves Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, But 's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, The pious people have so eased their own With coming to say prayers there in a rage: We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. Expect another job this time next year, FRA LIPPO LIPPI. 173 For pity and religion grow i' the crowd Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools! That is you '11 not mistake an idle word Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot Tasting the air this spicy night which turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now It 's natural a poor monk out of bounds Should have his apt word to excuse himself: And hearken how I plot to make amends. I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece . . . There 's for you ! Give me six months, then go, see Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns! They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet As puff on puff of grated orris-root When ladies crowd to church at midsummer. And then i' the front, of course a saint or two St. John, because he saves the Florentines, St. Ambrose, who puts down in black and white The convent's friends and gives them a long day, And Job, I must have him there past mistake, The man of Uz, (and Us without the z, Painters who need his patience.) Well, all these Secured at their devotion, up shall come Out of a corner when you least expect, As one by a dark stair into a great light, Music and talking, who but Lippo! I! Mazed, motionless and moon-struck I 'm the man! Back I shrink what is this I see and hear? I, caught up with my monk's things by mistake, 174 &RA LIPPO LIPPL My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, I, in this presence, this pure company ! Where 's a hole, where 's a corner for escape? Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing Forward, puts out a soft palm "Not so fast!" Addresses the celestial presence, "nay He made you and devised you, after all, Though he 's none of you! Could Saint John there draw His camel-hair make up a painting brush? We come to brother Lippo for all that, Iste perfecit opus /" So, all smile I shuffle sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wings Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you 're gay And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband ! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say. And so all 's saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! The street 's hushed, and I know my own way back, Don't fear me! There 's the gray beginning. Zooks! ANDREA DEL SARTO. 175 ANDREA DEL SARTO. (CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTEB.") BUT do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia! bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I '11 work then for your friend's friend, never fear, Treat his own subject after his own way, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? Oh, I '11 content him, but to-morrow, Love! I often am much wearier than you think, This evening more than usual : and it seems As if forgive now should you let me sit Here by the window, with your hand in mine, And look a half hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use, Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine, the man's bared breast she curls inside. Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve For each of the five pictures we require: It saves a model. So! keep looking so My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! How could you ever prick those perfect ears, Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, Which everybody looks on and calls his, ANDREA DEL SARTO. And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, While she looks no one's: very dear, no less. You smile? why, there 's my picture ready made, There 's what we painters call our harmony! A common grayness silvers everything, All in a twilight, you and I alike You, at the point of your first pride in me (That 's gone, you know) but I, at every point; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There 's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, And autumn grows, autumn in everything. Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape, As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! This chamber, for example turn your head All that 's behind us! You don't understand Nor care to understand about my art, But you can hear at least when people speak: And that cartoon, the second from the door It is the thing, Love! so such things should be Behold Madonna ! I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know, What I see, what at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep Do easily, too when I say, perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, Who listened to the Lewie's talk last ANDREA DEL SARTO. 177 And just as much they used to say in Franco. At any rate 't is easy, all of it! No sketches first, no studies, that 's long past: I do what many dream of, all their lives, Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, Who strive you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, (I know his name, no matter) so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Eeach many a time a heaven that 's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men! at a word Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to myself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, Kightly traced and well ordered; what of that? Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what 's a heaven for? All is silver-gray, Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! I know both what I want and what might gain; 178 ANDREA DEL 8AR?0. And yet how profitless to know, to sigh "Had I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt. Yonder 's a work now, of that famous youth The Urbinate who died five years ago. ('T is copied, George Vasari sent it me.) Well, I can fancy how he did it all, Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, Beaching, that heaven might so replenish him Above and through his art for it gives way; That arm is wrongly put and there again A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines Its body, so to speak : its soul is right, He means right that, a child may understand. Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: But all the play, the insight and the stretch Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, We might have risen to Eafael, I and you. Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you oh, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged "God and the glory! never care for gain. The present by the future, what is that? Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! Eafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" I might have done it for you. So it seems: Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules. Besides, incentives come from the soul's self; The rest avail not. Why do I need you? ANDREA DEL SARTO. 179 What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : Yet the will 's somewhat somewhat, too, the power And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 'T is safer for me, if the award be strict, That I am something underrated here, Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside; But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time, And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, In that humane great monarch's golden look, One finger in his beard or twisted curl Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, I painting proudly with his breath on me, All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, This in the background, waiting on my work, To crown the issue with a last reward ! A good time, was it not, my kingly days? And had you not grown restless . . . but I know 'T is done and past; 't was right, my instinct said; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray: And I 'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 180 ANDREA DEL SARTO. How could it end in any other way? You called me and I came home to your heart. The triumph was, to have ended there; then, if I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; The Roman's is the better when you pray, But still the other's Virgin was his wife " Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows My better fortune, I resolve to think. For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, Said one day Agnolo, his very self, To Rafael ... I have known it all these years . . . (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, Too lifted up in heart because of it) "Friend, there 's a certain sorry little scrub Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, Who, were he set to plan and execute As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" To Rafael's! And indeed the arm is wrong. I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, Give the chalk here quick, thus the line should go! Ay, but the soul! he 's Rafael! rub it out! Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? Do you forget already words like those?) If really there was such a chance so lost, Is, whether you 're not grateful but more pleased. Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed ! This hour has been an hour! Another smile? If you would sit thus by me every night ANDREA DEL SARTO. 181 I should work better, do you comprehend? I mean that I should earn more, give you more. See, it is settled dusk now; there 's a star; Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. Come from the window, love, come in, at last, Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That Cousin here again? he waits outside? Must see you you, and not with me? Those loans? More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? AVell, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work 's my ware, and what 's it worth? I '11 pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in France, One picture, just one more the Virgin's face, Not yours this time! I want you at my side To hear them that is, Michel Agnolo Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. I take the subjects for his corridor, Finish the portrait out of hand there, there, And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs; the whole should prove enough To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, What 's better and what 's all I care about, 182 AJVDREA DEL SARTO. Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, The Cousin! what does he to please you more? I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis! it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich ! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died And I have labored somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures let him try! No doubt there 's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel's reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me To cover the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So still they overcome Because there 's still Lucrezia, as I choose. Again the Cousin's whistle ! Go, my Love. THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB. 183 THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH. ROME, 15 . VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity ! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well- She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied ine, so fair she was! What 's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world 's a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam 's sure to lurk : And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: 184 TEE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB. Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As freslvpoured red wine of a mighty pulse. * Olcf Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Eosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! ... Bedded in store of rotten figleaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . . Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black 'T was ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Eeady to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables . . . but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB. 185 Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me all of jasper, then ! 'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. My bath must needs be left behind, alas ! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There 's plenty jasper somewhere in the world And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? That 's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf 's second line Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's work : And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, 186 A IOCCATA OF OALUPPPS. Aha, ELUCESCEBAT, quoth our friend? No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All lapis, all, sons ! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul, Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death: ye wish it God, ye wish it! Stone! Gritstone, a-crumble ! Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through And no more lapis to delight the world ! Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, But in a row : and, going, turn your backs Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers Old Gandolf at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was ! A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S. i. OH, Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find! I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind ! But although I take your meaning, 't is with such a heavy mind! A TOCCATA OF QALUPPPS. 187 II. Here you come with your old music, aiid here 's all the good it brings. What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings, Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings? in. Ay, because the sea 's the street there; and 't is arched by ... what you call . . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival : I was never out of England it 's as if I saw it all. IV. Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May? Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid- day, When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say? v. Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed, O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head? VI. Well, and it was graceful of them : they 'd break talk off and afford She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he, to finger on his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavi- chord? 188 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S VII. What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, Told them something? Those suspensions, those solu- tions "Must we die?" Those commiserating sevenths "Life might last! we can but try!" YIII. "Were you happy?" "Yes." "And are you still as happy?" "Yes. And you?" "Then, more kisses!" "Did J stop them, when a million seemed so few?" Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to! IX. So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say ! "Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay! I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!" x. Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, Death stepped tacitly, and took them where they never see the sun. A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S. 189 XI. But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every nerve. XII. Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: "Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. The soul, doubtless, is immortal where a soul can be discerned. XIII. "Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology, Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree; Butterflies may dread extinction, you '11 not die, it can- not be ! XIV. "As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop: What of the soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop? XV. "Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too what 's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old. 190 HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. I ONLY knew one poet in my life : And this, or something like it, was his way. You saw go up and down Valladolid, A man of mark, to know next time you saw. His very serviceable suit of black Was courtly once and conscientious still, And many might have worn it, though none did : The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, Had purpose, and the ruff, significance. He walked, and tapped the pavement with his cane, Scenting the world, looking it full in face: An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. They turned up, now, the alley by the church, That leads no whither; now, they breathed themselves On the main promenade just at the wrong time. You 'd come upon his scrutinizing hat, Making a peaked shade blacker than itself Against the single window spared some house Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work, Or else surprise the ferrule of his stick Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, The man who slices lemons into drink, The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys That volunteer to help him turn its winch. He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string, And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. He took such cognizance of men and things, If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; If any cursed a woman, he took note; HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. 191 Yet stared at nobody, you stared at him, And found, less to your pleasure than surprise, He seemed to know you and expect as much. So, next time that a neighbor's tongue was loosed, It marked the shameful and notorious fact We had among us, not so much a spy, As a recording chief-inquisitor, The town's true master if the town but knew! We merely kept a governor for form, While this man walked about and took account Of all thought, said and acted, then went home, And wrote it fully to our Lord the King Who has an itch to know things, he knows why, And reads them in his bedroom of a night. Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, A tang of ... well, it was not wholly ease, As back into your mind the man's look came. Stricken in years a little, such a brow His eyes had to live under! clear as flint On either side o' the formidable nose Curved, cut and colored like an eagle's claw. Had he to do with A.'s surprising fate? When altogether old B. disappeared And young C. got his mistress, was 't our friend, His letter to the King, that did it all? What paid the bloodless man for so much pains? Our Lord the King has favorites manifold, And shifts his ministry some once a month ; Our city gets new governors at whiles, But never word or sign, that I could hear, Notified, to this man about the streets, The King's approval of those letters conned The last thing duly at the dead of night. Did the man love his office? Frowned our Lord, Exhorting when none heard "Beseech me not! 192 HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY. Too far above my people, beneath me ! I set the watch, how should the people know? Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" Was some such understanding 'twixt the two? I found no truth in one report at least That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace, You found he ate his supper in a room Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall, And twenty naked girls to change his plate! Poor man, he lived another kind of life In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, Playing a decent cribbage with his maid (Jacynth, you 're sure her name was) o'er the cheese And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he. My father, like the man of sense he was, Would point him out to me a dozen times; "St st," he 'd whisper, "the Corregidor!" I had been used to think that personage Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, And feathers like a forest in his hat, Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news, Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, And memorized the miracle in vogue! He had a great observance from us boys; We were in error; that was not the man. I 'd like now, yet had haply been afraid, To have just looked, when this man came to die, PJROTVS. 193 And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides, And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death, Doing the King's work all the dim day long, In his old coat and up to knees in mud, Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust, And, now the day was won, relieved at once! No further show or need of that old coat, You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! A second, and the angels alter that. "Well, I could never write a verse, could you? Let 's to the Prado and make the most of time. PKOTUS. AMONG these latter busts we count by scores, Half-emperors and quarter-emperors, Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest, Loric and low-browed Gorgon on the breast, One loves a baby face, with violets there, Violets instead of laurel in the hair, As those were all the little locks could bear. Now read here. "Protus ends a period Of empery beginning with a god ; Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant: And if he quickened breath there, 't would like fire Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. A fame that he was missing, spread afar : The world, from its four corners, rose in war, 194 PROTUS. Till he was borne out on a balcony To pacify the world when it should see. The captains ranged before him, one, his hand Made baby points at, gained the chief command. And day by day more beautiful he grew In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, While young Greek sculptors gazing on the child Became, with old Greek sculpture, reconciled. Already sages labored to condense In easy tomes a life's experience: And artists took grave counsel to impart In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art, And make his graces prompt as blossoming Of plentifully watered palms in spring: Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, And mortals love the letters of his name." Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same. New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say How that same year, on such a month and day, "John the Pannonian, groundedly believed A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved The Empire from its fate the year before, Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore The same for six years, (during which the Huns Kept off their fingers from us) till his sons Put something in his liquor" and so forth. Then a new reign. Stay "Take at its just worth" (Subjoins an annotator) "What I give As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live And slip away. 'T is said, he reached man's age At some blind northern court; made, first a page, Then tutor to the children; last, of use About the hunting stables. I deduce MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-OOTHA. 195 He wrote the little tract 'On worming dogs,' Whereof the name in sundry catalogues Is extant yet. A Protus of the race Is rumored to have died a monk in Thrace, And, if the same, he reached senility." Here 's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye, Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can To give you the crown-grasper. What a man! MASTEE HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA. I. HIST, but a word, fair and soft! Forth and be judged, Master Hugues! Answer the question I 've put you so oft: What do you mean by your mountainous fugues? See, we're alone in the loft, n. I, the poor organist here, Hugues, the composer of note, Dead though, and done with, this many a year: Let's have a colloquy, something to quote. Make the world prick up its ear ! in. See, the church empties apace : Fast they extinguish the lights. Hallo there, sacristan! Five minutes' grace! Here 's a crank pedal wants setting to rights Balks one of holding the base. 196 MASTER HUOUES OF SAXE-GOTHA. IV. See, our huge houses of the sounds, Hushing its hundreds at once, Bids the last loiterer back to his bounds! you may challenge them, not a response Get the church-saints on their rounds ! v. (Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt? March, with the moon to admire, Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about, Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire. Pat rats and mice to the rout VI. Aloys and Jurien and Just Order things back to their place, Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks rust, Eub the church-plate, darn the sacrament-lace, Clear the desk-velvet of dust.) VII. Here 's your book, younger folks shelve! Played I not off-hand and runningly, Just now, your masterpiece, hard number twelve? Here 's what should strike, could one handle it cun- ningly: Help the axe, give it a helve! VIII. Page after page as I played, Every bar's rest, where one wipes Sweat from one's brow, I looked up and surveyed, O'er my three claviers, yon forest of pipes Whence you still peeped in the shade. MASTER HUGUES OF 8AXE-GOTHA. 197 IX. Sure you were wishful to speak, You, with brow ruled like a score, Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each cheek, Like two great breves, as they wrote them of yore, Each side that bar, your straight beak! x. Sure you said "Good, the mere notes! Still, couldst thou take my intent, Know what procured me our Company's votes A master were lauded and sciolists shent, Parted the sheep from the goats!" XI. Well, then, speak up, never flinch! Quick, ere my candle 's a snuff Burnt, do you see? to its uttermost inch I believe in you, but that 's not enough: Give my conviction a clinch ! xn. First you deliver your phrase Nothing propound, that I see, Fit in itself for much blame or much praise Answered no less, where no answer needs be: Off start the Two on their ways. XIII. Staight must a Third interpose, Volunteer needlessly help; In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in his nose, So the cry 's open, the kennel 's a-yelp, Argument 's hot to the close. 198 MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA. XIV. One dissertates, he is candid; Two must discept, has distinguished; Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did; Four protests; Five makes a dart at the thing wished: Back to One, goes the case bandied. xv. One says his say with a difference; ti / / More of expounding, explaining! All now is wrangle, abuse and vociferauce; Now there 's a truce, all 's subdued, self -restraining; Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence. XVI. One is incisive, corrosive; Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant; Three makes rejonder, expansive, explosive; Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant: Five ... Danaides, Sieve! XVII. Now, they ply axes, and crowbars; Now, they prick pins at a tissue Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue? Where is our gain at the Two-bars? XVIII. Estfuga, volvitur rota. On we drift: where looms the dim port? One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their quota; Something is gained, if one caught but the import Show it us Hugues of Saxe-Gotha! MASTER HUQUES OF SAXE-QOTHA. 199 XIX, What with affirming, denying, Holding, risposting, subjoining, All 's like . . . it 's like . . . for an instance I 'm trying . . . There! See our roof, its gilt moulding and groining Under those spider-webs lying! xx. So your fugue broadens and thickens, Greatens and deepens and lengthens, Till we exclaim ''But where 's music, the dickens? Blot ye the gold, while your spider-web strengthens Blacked to the stoutest of tickens?" XXI. I for man's effort am zealous: Prove me such censure unfounded ! Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous Hopes 't was for something, his organ pipes sounded, Tiring three boys at the bellows? xxn. Is it your moral of Life? Such a web, simple and subtle, Weave we on earth here in impotent strife, Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, Death ending all with a knife? XXIII. Over our heads truth and nature Still our life's zigzags and dodges, Ins and outs, weaving a new legislature God's gold just shining its last where that lodges, Palled beneath man's usurpature. 200 MASTER HUGUES OF SAKE-GOTH A. XXIV. So we o'ershrond stars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland ; Nothings grow something which quietly closes Heaven's earnest eye : not a glimpse of the far land Gets through our comments and glozes. XXV. Ah but traditions, inventions, (Say we and make up a visage) So many men with such various intentions, Down the past ages, must know more than this age. Leave we the web its dimensions! XXVI. Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf, Proved a mere mountain in labor? Better submit; try again; what 's the clef? 'Faith, 't is no trifle for pipe and for tabor Four flats, the minor in F. XXVII. Friend, your fugue taxes the finger: Learning it once, who would lose it? Yet all the while a misgiving will linger, Truth 's golden o'er us although we refuse it Nature, thro' cobwebs we string her. XXVIII. Hugues ! I advise med pcend (Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena! Say the word, straight I unstop the full-organ, Blare out the mode Palestrina, ART VOGLER. 201 XXIX. While in the roof, if I'm right there, . . . Lo you, the wick in the socket! Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light there! Down it dips, gone like a rocket. What, you want, do you, to come unawares, Sweeping the church up for first morning-prayers, And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs? Do I carry the moon in my pocket? ABT VOGLER. (AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE MU- SICAL INSTRUMENT OF HIS INVENTION.) I. WOULD that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, Man, brute, reptile, fly, alien of end and of aim, Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed, Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, And pile him a palace straight to pleasure the princess he loved! 202 ABT VOGLER. II. Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise ! Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine, Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise ! And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things, Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. in. And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was, Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, Eaising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, When a great illumination surprises a festal night Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight. IV. In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth, Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I; ABT VOGLER. 203 And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth, As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, Not a point nor peak but found, but fixed its wandering star; Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine, For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. v. Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, Presences plain in the place ; or, fresh from the Proto- plast, Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last; Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone, But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new: What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; And what is, shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too. VI. All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, 204. ABT VOOLER. All through music and me! Forthink, had I painted the whole, Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so won- derworth. Had I written the same, made verse still effect proceeds from cause, Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, Painter and poet are proud, in the artist-list enrolled : VII. But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, Existent behind all laws : that made them, and, lo, they are! And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound but a star. Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought; It is everywhere in the world loud, soft, and all is said: Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought, And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head! VIII. Well, it is gone at last, the-palace of music I reared; Gone ! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow ; For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. Never to be again ! But many more of the kind As good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me? To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be. r AST VOGLER. 205 IX. Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name? Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? There shall never be one lost good ! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round. x. All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist ; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist, When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; Enough that he heard it once : we shall hear it by-and- by. XI. And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? 206 TWO IN THE CAMPAQNA. Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rush the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome; 't is we musicians know. XII. Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor, yes, And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. i. I WONDER do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Eome and May? 11. For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go. TWO IN THE CAMP A ON A. 207 III. Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed Took up the floating weft, IV. Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles, blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal : and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope, I traced it. Hold it fast ! v. The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere! Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air Rome's ghost since her decease. VI. Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting nature have her way While heaven looks from its towers! VII. How say you? Let us, my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above! How is it under our control To love or not to love? 208 TWO IN THE CAMP AON A. VIII. I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! Where does the fault lie? What the core 0' the wound, since wound must be? IX. I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, your part, my part In life, for good and ill. x. No. I yearn upward, touch you close, Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth, I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak Then the good minute goes. XI. Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star? xn. Just when I seemed about to learn ! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick ! Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn. " DE USTIB US-" 209 "DE GUSTIBUS " i. YOUR ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If our loves remain) In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppice A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, Making love, say, The happier they! Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, And let them pass, as they will too soon, With the beanflower's boon, And the blackbird's tune, And May, and June ! n. What I love best in alltthe world Is a castle, precipice-encurled, In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. Or look for me, old fellow of mine, (If I get my head from out the mouth 0' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, And come again to the land of lands) In a sea-side house to the farther South, Where the baked cicala dies of drouth, And one sharp tree 't is a cypress stands, By the many hundred years red-rusted, Rough, iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, My sentinel to guard the sands To the water's edge. For, what expands Before the house, but the great opaque Blue breadth of sea without a break? 210 THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL. While, in the house, for ever crumbles Some fragment of the frescoed walls, From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, And says there 's news to-day the king Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling: She hopes they have not caught the felons. Italy, my Italy ! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her, Calais) Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, "Italy." Such lovers old are I and she: So it always was, so shall ever be ! THE GUAKDIAN-ANGEL. A PICTURE AT FANO. I. DEAR and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me; Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come, for departure, thou, suspending Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending, Another still to quiet and retrieve. THE GUARDIAN- ANGEL. 211 II. Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, From where thou standest now, to where I gaze. And suddenly my head is covered o'er With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world ; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. in. I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? IV. If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. Y. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired ! I think how I should view the earth and skies And s,ea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such different eyes. world, as God has made it! All is beauty: And knowing this is love, and love is duty, What further may be sought for or declared? 212 EVELYN HOPE. VI. Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!) that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently, with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. VII. We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul's content My angel with me too: and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnificent), VIII. And since he did not work thus earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. EVELYN HOPE, i. BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead ! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, EVELYN HOPE. 213 Beginning to die too, in the glass; Little has yet been changed, I think: The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. IT. Sixeen years old when she died ! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares, And the sweet white brow is all of her. in. ' Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew And, just because I was thrice as old And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told We were fellow mortals, nought beside? IV. No, indeed ! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few : Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. 214 EVELYN HOPE. V. Bat the time will come, at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead. VI. I have lived (I shall say) so much since then Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Kansacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me: And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see! VII. I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank'young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So hush, I will give you this leaf to keep : See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! You will wake, and remember, and understand. APPARENT FAIL URE. 2 15 MEMORABILIA. i. AH, did yon once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did yon speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new ! ii. But you were living before that, And also you are living after; And the memory I started at My starting moves your laughter! in. I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world, no doubt, Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 'Mid the blank miles round about: IV. For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! Well, I forget the rest. APPARENT FAILURE. "We shall soon lose a celebrated building." Paris Newspaper. I. No, for I '11 save it! Seven years since, I passed through Paris, stopped a day To see the baptism of your Prince; Saw, made my bow, and went my way: 216 A PPA RENT FAIL USE. Walking the heat and headache off, I took the Seine-side, you surmise, Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff, Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies, So sauntered till what met my eyes? Only the Doric little Morgue! The dead-house where you show your drowned: Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue, Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned. One pays one's debt in such a case; I plucked up heart and entered, stalked, Keeping a tolerable face Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked: Let them ! No Briton 's to be baulked ! in. First came the silent gazers; next, A screen of glass, we 're thankful for; Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text, The three men who did most abhor Their life in Paris yesterday, So killed themselves: and now, enthroned Each on his copper couch, they lay Fronting me, waiting to be owned. I thought, and think, their sin 's atoned. IT. Poor men, God made, and all for that! The reverence struck me; o'er each head Religiously was hung its hat, Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, APPARENT FAILURE. 217 Sacred from touch: each had his berth, His bounds, his proper place of rest, Who last night tenanted on earth Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast, Unless the plain asphalte seemed best. v. How did it happen, my poor boy? You wanted to be Buonaparte And have the Tuileries for toy, And could not, so it broke your heart? You, old one by his side, I judge, Were, red as blood, a socialist, A leveller! Does the Empire grudge You 've gained what no Republic missed? Be quiet, and unclench your fist! VI. And this why, he was red in vain, Or black, poor fellow that is blue! What fancy was it, turned your brain? Oh, women were the prize for you! Money gets women, cards and dice Get money, and ill-luck gets just The copper couch and one clear nice Cool squirt of water o'er your bust, The right thing to extinguish lust! VII. It *s wiser being good than bad; It 's safer being meek than fierce: It 's fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; That, after Last, returns the First, Though a wide compass rpund be fetched; That what began best, can't end worst, Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst. 218 PROSPICE. PROSPICE. FEAR death? to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon- be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute 's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, Oh thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest! CUILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." 219 "CHILDE KOLAND TO THE DAKK TOWEK CAME." (See Edgar's song in "LEAR.") I. MY first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. ii. What else should he he set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, in. If at his council I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be. IV. For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope. 220 " CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARE TOWER GAME." v. As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath, Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith, "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;") VI. While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. VII. Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among "The Band" to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now should I be fit? VIII. So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Bed leer to see the plain catch its estray. IX. For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, "CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 't was gone; gray plain all round; Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on; nought else remained to do. x. So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers as well expect a cedar grove ! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You 'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove. XI. No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, "It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: 'T is the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free." XII. If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness? 't is a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. XIII. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! 222 " CHILD B ROLAND TO THE DAHK TOWER CAME* XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. xv. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterward the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. XVII. Giles then, the soul of honor there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good but the scene shifts faugh ! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII. Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again ! " CHILD E ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." 223 No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a h owlet or a bat? I asked : when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. xx. So petty yet so spiteful ! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI. Which, while I forded, good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. xxn. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage " CEILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No foot-print leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. XXIV. And more than that a furlong on why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. XXV. Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes !) within a rood Bog, clay, and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. XXVI. Now blotches rankling, colored gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil 's Broke into moss or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. XXVII. And just as far as ever from the end : Nought in the distance but the evening, nought " CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME." 225 To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap perchance the guide I sought. XXVIII. For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me, solve it, you ! How to get from them was no clearer case. XXIX. Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts you 're inside the den. XXX. Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight! XXXI. What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start. 226 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. XXXII. Not see? because of night perhaps? why, day Came back again for that ! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, "Now stab and end the creature to the heft!" XXXIII. Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears Of all the lost adventurers my peers, How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. XXXIV. There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture ! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came!" A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE. LI:T us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes, Each in its tether A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. 227 Sleeping safe in the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow: Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row! That 's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain it? herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome.it; No, yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit. Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights! Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's: He 's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous, calm and dead, Borne on our shoulders. Sleep, crop and herd ! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft Safe from the weather! He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! My dance is finished?" 228 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. No, that 's the world's way; (keep the mountain-side, Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping : "What 's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? Show me their shaping, Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage, Give!" So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, Accents uncertain: "Time to taste life," another would have said, "Up with the curtain!" This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? Patience a moment! Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, Still there 's the comment. Let me know all ! Prate not of most or least, Painful or easy ! Even to the crumbs I 'd fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy." Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give! Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick! A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. 229 (Here 's the town gate reached; there 's the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus !) That before living he 'd learn how to live No end to learning : Earn the means first God surely will contrive Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes! Live now or never!" He said, "What 's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever." Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: Calculus racked him : Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: Tussis attacked him. "Now, master, take a little rest!" not he! (Caution redoubled ! Step two a-breast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon. Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain ! Was it not great? did not he throw on God (He loves the burthen) God's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? 230 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. He would not discount life, as fools do here, Paid by instalment. He ventured neck or nothing heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes! Hence with life's pale lure!" That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it : This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred 's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here should he need the next, Let the world mind him ! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him. So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled Hoti's business let it be! Properly based Oun Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, Dead from the waist down. Well, here 's the platform, here 's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews! Here 's the top-peak; the multitude below Live, for they can, there : This man decided not to Live but Know Bury this man there? Here here 's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, CLEON. 231 Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send ! Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying. CLEON. "As certain also of your own poets have said" CLEON the poet, (from the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece") To Protus in his Tyranny: much health! They give thy letter to me, even now: I read and seem as if I heard thee speak. The master of thy galley still unlades Gift after gift; they block my court at last And pile themselves along its portico Eoyal with sunset, like a thought of thee; And one white she-slave, from the group dispersed Of black and white slaves, (like the chequer-work Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift Now covered with this settle-down of doves) One lyric woman, in her crocus vest Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands Commends to me the strainer and the cup Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence! For so shall men remark, in such an act Of love for him whose song gives life its joy, Thy recognition of the use of life : CLEON. Nor call thy spirit barely adequate To help on life in straight ways, broad enough For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. Thou, in the daily building of thy tower, Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, Or when the general work, 'mid good acclaim, Climbed with the eye to cheer the architect, Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake: Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope Of some eventual rest a-top of it, Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed, Thou first of men mightst look out to the East: The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. For this, I promise on thy festival To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak Thy great words, and describe thy royal face Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most, Within the eventual element of calm. Thy letter's first requirement meets me here. It is as thou hast heard : in one short life I, Cleon, have effected all those things Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. That epos on thy hundred plates of gold Is mine, and also mine the little chant So sure to rise from every fishing-bark When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. The image of the sun-god on the phare, Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; The Pcecile, o'er-storied its whole length, As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. I know the true proportions of a man And woman also, not observed before; And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, CLEON. 333 And putting us to ignorance again. For music, why, I have combined the moods, Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine; Thus much the people know and recognize, Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not! We of these latter days, with greater mind Than our forerunners, since more composite, Look not so great, beside their simple way, To a judge who only sees one way at once, One mind-point and no other at a time, Compares the small part of a man of us With some whole man of the heroic age, Great in his way not ours, nor meant for ours. And ours is greater, had we skill to know: For, what we call this life of men on earth, This sequence of the soul's achievements here, Being, as I find much reason to conceive, Intended to be viewed eventually As a great whole, not analyzed to parts, But each part having reference to all, How shall a certain part, pronounced complete, Endure effacement by another part? Was the thing done? then, what 's to do again? See, in the chequered pavement opposite, Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid He did not overlay them, superimpose The new upon the old and blot it out, But laid them on a level in his work, Making at last a picture; there it lies. So first the perfect separate forms were made, The portions of mankind; and after, so, Occurred the combination of the same. For where had been a progress, otherwise? Mankind, made up of all the single men, 234 GLEON. In such a synthesis the labor ends. Now mark me! those divine men of old time Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point The outside verge that rounds our faculty; And where they reached, who can do more than reach? It takes but little water just to touch At some one point the inside of a sphere, And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest In due succession: but the finer air Which not so palpably nor obviously, Though no less universally, can touch The whole circumference of that emptied sphere, Fills it more fully than the water did; Holds thrice the weight of water in itself Eesolved into a subtler element. And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full Up to the visible height and after, void ; Not knowing air's more hidden properties. And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus To vindicate his purpose in our life: Why stay we on the earth unless to grow? Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out, That he or other god descended here And, once for all, showed simultaneously What, in its nature, never can be shown Piecemeal or in succession; showed, I say, The worth both absolute and relative Of all his children from the birth of time, His instruments for all appointed work. I now go on to image, might we hear The judgment which should give the due to each, Show where the labor lay and where the ease, And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere! This is a dream: but no dream, let us hope, That years and days, the summers and the springs, GLEON. 235 Follow each other with unwaning powers. The grapes which dye thy wine, are richer far Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowe That young and tender crescent moon, thy slave, Sleeping upon her robe as if on clouds, Eefines upon the women of my youth. What, and the soul alone deteriorates? I have not chanted verse like Homer, no Nor swept string like Terpander, no nor carved And painted men like Phidias and his friend: I am not great as they are, point by point. But I have entered into sympathy With these four, running these into one soul, Who, separate, ignored each other's arts. Say, is it nothing that I know them all? The wild flower was the larger; I have dashed Eose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, And show a better flower if not so large: I stand msyelf. Refer this to the gods Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare (All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext That such a gift by chance lay in my hand, Discourse of lightly or depreciate? It might have fallen to another's hand: what then? I pass too surely : let at least truth stay ! And next, of what thou followest on to ask. This being with me, as I declare, king, My works in all these varicolored kinds, So done by me, accepted so by men Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) 236 CLEON. I must not be accounted to attain The very crown and proper end of life? Inquiring thence, how, now life closeth up, I face death with success in my right hand: Whether I fear death less than doth thyself The fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou) "Thou leavest much behind, while I leave nought. Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, The pictures men shall study; while my life, Complete and whole now in its power and joy, Dies altogether with my brain and arm, Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself? The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave, Set on the promontory which I named. And that some supple courtier of my heir Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps To fix the rope to, which best drags it down. I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!" Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief, That admiration grows as knowledge grows? That imperfection means perfection hid, Reserved in part, to grace the after-time? If, in the morning of philosophy, Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, Thou, with the light now in thee, couldsthave looked On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced The perfectness of others yet unseen. Conceding which, had Zeus then questioned thee "Shall I go on a step, improve on this, Po more for visible creatures than is done?" CLEON. 23? Thou wouldst have answered, "Ay, by making each Grow conscious in himself by that alone. All 's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock, The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight. Till life's mechanics can no further go And all this joy in natural life, is put, Like tire from off thy finger, into each, So exquisitely perfect is the same. But 't is pure fire, and they mere matter are: It has them, not they it; and so I choose For man, thy last premeditated work (If I might add a glory to the scheme), That a third thing should stand apart from both, A quality arise within his soul, Which intro-active, made to supervise And feel the force it has, may view itself, And so be happy." Man might live at first The animal life: but is there nothing more? In due time, let him critically learn How he lives; and, the more he gets to know Of his own life's adaptabilities, The more joy-giving will his life become. Thus man, who hath this quality, is best. But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: "Let progress end at once, man make no step Beyond the natural man, the better beast, Using his senses, not the sense of sense!" In man there 's failure, only since he left The lower and inconscious forms of life. "We called it an advance, the rendering plain Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, And, by new lore so added to the old, Take each step higher over the brute's" head. 238 CLEON. This grew the only life, the pleasure-house, Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul, Which whole surrounding flats of natural life Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to; A tower that crowns a country. But alas, The soul now climbs it just to perish there ! For thence we have discovered ('t is no dream We know this, which we had not else perceived) That there 's a world of capability For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, Inviting us; and still the soul craves all, And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad! Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge Our bounded physical recipiency, Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, Repair the waste of age and sickness: no, It skills not! life 's inadequate to joy, As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. They praise a fountain in my garden here Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise. What if I told her, it is just a thread From that great river which the hills shut up, And mock her with my leave to take the same? The artificer has given her one small tube Past power to widen or exchange what boots To know she might spout oceans if she could? She cannot life beyond her first thin thread: And so a man can use but a man's joy While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast, "See man, how happy I live, and despair That I may be still happier for thy use!" If this were so, we could not thank our lord, As hearts beat on to doing: 't is not so CLEON. 239 Malice it is not. Is it carelessness? Still, no. If care where is the sign? I ask, And get no answer, and agree in sum, king, with thy profound discouragement, Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well. The last point now. Thou dost except a case Holding joy not impossible to one With artist-gifts to such a man as I Who leave behind me living works indeed; For, such a poem, such a painting lives. What? dost thou verily trip upon a word, Confound the accurate view of what joy is (Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) With feeling joy? confound the knowing how And showing how to live (my faculty) With actually living? Otherwise Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? Because in my great epos I display How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act Is this as though I acted? if I paint, Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young? Methinks I 'm older that I bowed myself The many years of pain that taught me art! Indeed, to know is something, and to prove How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more: But, knowing nought, to enjoy is something too. Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there, Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. 1 can write love-odes: thy fair slave 's an ode. I get to sing of love, when grown too gray For being beloved: she turns to that young man, The muscles all a-ripple on his back. I know the joy of kingship; well, thou art king! 240 CLEON. "But," sayest thou (and I marvel, I repeat, To find thee tripping on a mere word) "what Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die! Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, And ^Eschylus, because we read his plays!" Why, if they live still, let them come and take Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive? Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, In this, that every day my sense of joy Grows more acute, my soul (intensified By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; While every day my hair falls more and more, My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase The horror quickening still from year to year, The consummation coming past escape, When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy When all my works wherein I prove my worth, Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, Alive still, in the phrase of such as thou, I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, The man who loved his life so over-much, Shall sleep in my urn. It is so horrible, I dare at times imagine to my need Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, Unlimited in capability For joy, as this is in desire for joy, To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait On purpose to make prized the life at large Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death, We burst there as the worm into the fly, Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no! Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, He must have done so, were it possible! INSTANS TYRANNUS. Live long and happy, and in that thought die, Glad for what was ! Farewell. And for the rest, I cannot tell thy messenger aright Where to deliver what he bears of thine To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame Indeed, if Christus be not one with him I know not, nor am troubled much to know. Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised, Hath access to a secret shut from us? Thou wrongest our philosophy, king, In stooping to inquire of such an one, As if his answer could impose at all! He writeth, doth lie? well, and he may write. Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; And (as I gathered from a bystander) Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. INSTANS TYRANNUS. i. OF the million or two, more or less, I rule and possess, One man, for some cause undefined, Was least to my mind. ii. I struck him, he grovelled of course For, what was his force? I pinned him to earth with my weight And persistence of hate; And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, As his lot might be worse. 242 nrSTANS TTRANNUS. m. "Were the object less mean, would he stand At the swing of my hand ! For obscurity helps him, and blots The hole where he squats." So, I set my five wits on the stretch To inveigle the wretch. All in vain ! Gold and jewels I threw, Still he couched there perdue; I tempted his blood and his flesh, Hid in roses my mesh, Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth : Still he kept to his filth. IV. Had he kith now or kin, were access To his heart, did I press: Just a son or a mother to iSeize! No such booty as these. Were it simply a friend to pursue 'Mid my million or two, Who could pay me, in person or pelf, What he owes me himself! No: I could not but smile through my chafe: For the fellow lay safe As his mates do, the midge and the nit, Through minuteness, to wit. v. Then a humor more great took its place At the thought of his face: The droop, the low cares of the mouth, The trouble uncouth 'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain To put out of its pain. IN8TAN8 TTRANNU8. And, "no!" I admonished myself, "Is one mocked by an elf? Is one baffled by toad or by rat? The gravamen 's in that! How the lion, who crouches to suit His back to my foot, Would admire that I stand in debate! But the small turns the great If it vexes you, that is the thing! Toad or rat vex the king? Though I waste half my realm to unearth Toad or rat, 't is well worth!" VI. So, I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the man. Eound his creep-hole, with never a break Ean my fires for his sake; Over-head, did my thunder combine With my under-ground mino: Till I looked from my labor content To enjoy the event. VII. When sudden . . . how think ye, the end? Did I say "without friend?" Say rather, from marge to blue marge The whole sky grew his targe With the sun's self for visible boss, While an Arm ran across Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast Where the wretch was safe prest! Do you see? Just my vengeance complete, The man sprang to his feet, Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed! So, /was afraid! 244 AN EPISTLE. AN EPISTLE CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN. KARSHISH, the picker-np of learning's crumbs, The not-incurious in God's handiwork (This man's flesh he hath admirably made, Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, To coop up and keep down on earth a space That puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul) To Abib, all-sagacious in our art, Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast, Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip Back and rejoin its source before the term. And aptest in contrivance (under God) To baffle it by deftly stopping such: The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace) Three samples of true snake-stone rarer still, One of the other sort, the melon-shaped, (But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs) And writeth now the twenty-second time. My journeyings were brought to Jericho: Thus I resume. Who studious in our art Shall count a little labor unrepaid? I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone On many a flinty furlong of this land. Also, the country-side is all on fire With rumors of a marching hitherward; Some say Vespasian cometh, some, his son. A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear; AN EPISTLE. 245 Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: I cried and threw my staff and he was gone. Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, And once a town declared me for a spy ; But at the end, I reach Jerusalem, Since this poor covert where I pass the night, This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence A man with plague-sores at the third degree Kuns till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here! 'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. A viscid choler is observable In tertians, I was nearly bold to say ; And falling-sickness hath a happier cure Than our school wots of: there 's a spider here AVeaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back; Take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind, The Syrian run-a-gate I trust this to? His service payeth me a sublimate Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. Best wait : I reach Jerusalem at morn, There set in order my experiences, Gather what most deserves, and give thee aH Or I might add, Judaea's gum-tragacanth Scales off in pure flakes, shines clearer-grained, Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry, In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy: Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end. Yet stay ! my Syrian blinketh gratefully, Protesteth his devotion is my price 24G AN EPISTLE. Suppose I write what harms not, though he steal? I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blnsh, "What set me off a-writing first of all. An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang! For, be it this town's barrenness or else The Man had something in the look of him His case has struck me far more than 't is worth. So, pardon if (lest presently I lose, In the great press of novelty at hand, The care and pains this somehow stole from me) I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, Almost in sight for, wilt thou have the truth? The very man is gone from me but now, Whose ailment is the subject of discourse. Thus then, and let thy better wit help all! 'Tis but a case of mania: subinduced By epilepsy, at the turning-point Of trance prolonged unduly some three days When, by the exhibition of some drug Or spell, exorcization, stroke of art Unknown to me, and which 't were well to know The evil thing, out-breaking, all at once, Left the man whole and sound of body indeed, But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide, Making a clear house of it too suddenly, The first conceit that entered might inscribe Whatever it was minded on the wall So plainly at that vantage, as it were, (First come, first served) that nothing subsequent Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls The just-returned and new-established soul Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart That henceforth she will read or these or none. And first the man's own firm conviction rests AN EPISTLSL 247 That he was dead (in fact they buried him) That he was dead and then restored to life By a Kazarene physician of his tribe: 'Sayeth, the same bade "Rise," and he did rise. "Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. Not so this figment! not, that such a fume, Instead of giving way to time and health, Should eat itself into the life of life, As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones, and all! For see, how he takes up the after-life. The man it is one Lazarus a Jew, Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, The body's habit wholly laudable, As much, indeed, beyond the common health As he were made and put aside to show. Think, could we penetrate by any drug And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep! Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? This grown man eyes the world now like a child. Some elders of his tribe, I should premise, Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep, To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, Now sharply, now with sorrow, told the case He lictened not except I spoke to him, But folded his two hands and let them talk, Watching the flies that buzzed : and yet no fool. And that 's a sample how his years must go. Look if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, Should find a treasure, can he use the same With straitened habitude and tastes starved small, And take at once to his impoverished brain The sudden element that changes things, That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand, puts the cherp old joy ip th OPrned dust? 248 AN EPISTLE. Is he not such an one as moves to mirth Warily parsimonious, when no need, Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? All prudent counsel as to what befits The golden mean, is lost on such an one: The man's fantastic will is the man's law. So here we call the treasure knowledge, say, Increased beyond the fleshly faculty Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven: The man is witless of the size, the sum, The value in proportion of all things, Or whether it be little or be much. Discourse to him of prodigious armaments Assembled to besiege his city now, And of the passing of a mule with gourds 'T is one! Then take it on the other side, Speak of some trifling fact, he will gaze rapt With stupor at its very littleness, (Far as I see) as if in that indeed He caught prodigious import, whole results; And so will turn to us the bystanders In ever the same stupor (note this point) That we too see not with his opened eyes. Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, Preposterously, at cross purposes. Should his child sicken unto death, why, look For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, Or pretermission of the daily craft! While a word, gesture, glance from that same child At play or in the school or laid asleep, Will startle him to an agony of fear, Exasperation, just as like. Demand The reason why "'t is but a word," object ( 'A gesture" he regards thee as our lord AN EPISTLE. J{49 Who lived there in the pyramid alone, Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young We both would unadvisedly recite Some charm's beginning, from that book of his, Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. Thou and the child have each a veil alike Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know ! He holds on firmly to some thread of life (It is the life to lead perforcedly) Which runs across some vast distracting orb Of glory on either side that meagre thread, Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet The spiritual life around the earthly life: The law of that is known to him as this, His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. So is the man perplext with impulses Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, Proclaiming what is right and wrong across, And not along, this black thread through the blaze "It should be" baulked by "here it cannot be." And oft the man's soul springs into his face As if he saw again and heard again His sage that bade him "Rise" and he did rise. Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within Admonishes: then back he sinks at once To ashes, who was very fire before, In sedulous recurrence to his trade Whereby he earneth him the daily bread; And studiously the humbler for that pride, Professedly the faultier that he knows God's secret, while he holds the thread of life. Indeed the especial marking of the man 250 AN EPISTLE. Is prone submission to the heavenly will Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last For that same death which must restore his being To equilibrium, body loosening soul Divorced even now by premature full growth: He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live So long as God please, and just how God please. He even seeketh not to please God more (Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: How can he give his neighbor the real ground, His own conviction? Ardent as he is Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old "Be it as God please" reassureth him. I probed the sore as thy disciple should : "How, beast," said I, "this stolid carelessness Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march To stamp out like a little spark thy town, Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" He merely looked with his large eyes on me. The man is apathetic, you deduce? Contrariwise, he loves both old and young, Able and weak, affects the very brutes And birds how say I? flowers of the field As a wise workman recognizes tools In a master's workshop, loving what they Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb. Only impatient, let him do his best, At ignorance and carelessness and sin An indignation which is promptly curbed : Ag when in certain travel I have feigned T0 kt m iguoramug in, 0ny art *s ' AN EPISTLE. 251 According to some preconceived design, And happened to hear the land's practitioners, Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, Prattle fantastically on disease, Its cause and cure and I must hold my peace! Thou wilt object Why have I not ere this Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, Conferring with the frankness that befits? Alas ! it grieveth me, the learned leech Perished in a tumult many years ago, Accused, our learning's fate, of wizardry, Eebellion, to the setting up a rule And creed prodigious as described to me. His death, which happened when the earthquake fell, (Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss To occult learning in our lord the sage Who lived there in the pyramid alone) Was wrought by the mad people that 's their wont ! On vain recourse, as I conjecture it, To his tried virtue, for miraculous help How could he stop the earthquake? That 's their way ! The other imputations must be lies: But take one, though I loathe to give it thee, In mere respect for any good man's fame. (And after all, our patient Lazarus Is stark mad; should we count on what he says? Perhaps not : though in writing to a leech 'T is well to keep back nothing of a case.) This man so cured regards the curer, then, As God forgive me! who but God himself, Creator and sustainer of the world, That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile! 'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived, 252 AN EPISTLE. Taught,jhealed the sick, broke bread at his own house. Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, And yet was . . . what I said nor choose repeat, And must have so avouched himself, in fact, In hearing of this very Lazarus Who saith but why all this of what he saith? "Why write of trivial matters, things of price Calling at every moment for remark? I noticed on the margin of a pool Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort, Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange! Thy pardon for this long and tedious case, Which, now that I review it, needs must seem Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth ! Nor I myself discern in what is writ Good cause for the peculiar interest And awe indeed this man has touched me with. Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus: I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out there came A moon made like a face with certain spots Multiform, manifold and menacing: Then a wind rose behind me. So we met In this old sleepy town at unaware, The man and I. I send thee what is writ. Eegard it as a chance, a matter risked To this ambiguous Syrian: he may lose, Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. Jerusalem's repose shall make amends For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine; Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell ! The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think? So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. 253 So, through the thunder comes a human voice Saying, "0 heart I made, a heart beats here! Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! Thou hast no power nor may'st conceive of mine: But love I gave thee, with myself to love, And thou must love me who have died for thee!" The madman saith He said so: it is strange. CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS; OB, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND. "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself." sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, And feels about his spine small eft-things course, Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: And while above his head a pompion-plant, Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, And now a flower drops with a bee inside, And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch, He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross And recross till they weave a spider-web, (Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times) And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, Touching that other, whom his dam called God. Because to talk about Him, vexes ha, Could He but know! and time to vex is now, When talk is safer than in Winter-timfc. CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep In confidence he drudges at their task, And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! 'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. 'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, But not the stars; the stars came otherwise; Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: He hated that He cannot change His cold, Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine 0' the lazy sea, her stream thrusts far amid, A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; Only, she ever sickened, found repulse At the other kind of water, not her life, (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, And in her old bounds buried her despair, Hating and loving warmth alike : so He. 'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown, He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, CALIBAN UPON SETEB08. 255 And says a plain word when she finds her prize, But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks About their hole He made all these and more, Made all we see, and us, in spite: who else? He could not, Himself, make a second self To be His mate: as well have made Himself; He would not make what He dislikes or slights, An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains; But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, Things He admires and mocks too, that is it. Because, so brave, so better though they be, It nothing skills if He begin to plague. Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash, Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived, W T hich bite like finches when they bill and kiss, Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. Put case, unable to be what I wish, I yet could make a live bird out of clay: Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban Able to fly? for, there, see, he hath wings, And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, And there, a sting to do his foes offence, There, and I will that he begin to live, Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns Of grigs high up that make the merry din, Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, And he lay stupid-like, why, I should laugh; 256 CALIBAN UPON SETBBOS. And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again, Well, as the chance were, this might take or else Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, And give the manikin three legs for one, Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, Drinking the mash, with brain become alive, Making and marring clay at will? So He. 'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. 'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs That march now from the mountain to the sea; 'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 'Say, This bruised fellow shall receive a worm, And two worms he whose nippers end in red As it likes me each time, I do : so He Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, And envieth that, so helped, such things do more Than He who made them! What consoles but this? That they, unless through Him, do naught at all, And must submit: what other use in things? 'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. 257 Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe's hurt: Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth "I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, I make the cry my maker cannot make With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!" Would not I smash it with my foot? So He. But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, What knows, the something over Setebos That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. There may be something quiet o'er His head, Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, Since both derive from weakness in some way. I joy because the quails come; would not joy Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, But never spends much thought nor care that way. It may look up, work up, the worse for those It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, Who, making Himself feared through what He does, Looks up, first, and perceives He cannot soar To what is quiet and hath happy life; Next looks down here, and out of very spite Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, These good things to match those, as hips do grapes. 'T is solace making baubles, ay, and sport. Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped. Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; 258 CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe The eyed skin of a supple ocelot; And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, And saith she is Miranda and my wife. 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; Also a seabeast, lumpish, which he snared, Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge In a hole o' the rock, and calls him Caliban; A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He. His dam held that the Quiet made all things Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex. Had He meant other, while His hand was in, Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, Or plate my scalp. with bone against the snow, Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, Like an ore's armor? Ay, so spoil His sport! He is the One now : only He doth all. 'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, But, had he eyes, would want no help, would hate Or love, just as it liked him : He hath eyes. Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, By no means for the love of what is worked. CALIBAN UPON 8ETEBOS. 259 'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world When all goes right, in this safe summer-time, And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, Than trying what to do with wit and strength. Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-tot, Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 'Shall some day knock it down again: so He. 'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. He hath a spite against me, that I know, Just as He favors Prosper, who knows why? So it is, all the same, as well I find. 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, And licked the whole labor flat: so much for spite. 'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) W'here, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade : Often they scatter sparkles: there is force! 'Dug up a newt He may have envied once And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone. Please Him and hinder this? What Prosper does? Aha, if he would tell me how! Not He! There is the sport: discover how or die! All need not die, for of the things o' the isle Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; Those at His mercy, why, they please Him most 260 CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. "When . . . when . . . way twice! Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth. You must not know His ways, and play Him off, Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, Curls up into a ball, pretending death For fright at my approach : the two ways please. But what would move my choler more than this, That either creature counted on its life To-morrow and next day and all days to come, Saying forsooth in the inmost of its hearts, "Because he did so yesterday with me, And otherwise with such another brute, So must he do henceforth and always." Ay? 'Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means! 'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He. 'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, And we shall have to live in fear of Him So long as He lives, keeps His strength no change, If He have done His best, make no new world To please Him more, so leave off watching this, If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day, or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we, And there is He, and nowhere help at all. 'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. His dam held different, that after death He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: Idly ! He doth His worst in this our life, Giving just respite lest we die through pain. CALIBAN UPON 8ETEBOS. 261 Saving last pain for worst, with which, an end. Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. 'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball On head and tail as if to save their lives: Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, And always, above all else, envies Him ; Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, And never speaks his mind save housed as now: Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chncklest at?" 'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, Or push my tame beast for the ore to taste: While myself lit a fire, and made a song And sung it, " What I hate, be consecrate To celebrate TJiee and Tliy state, no mate For Thee; what see for envy in poor me f" Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch And conquer Setebos, or likelier He Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. [What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once! Crickets stop hissing; not a bird or, yes, There scuds His raven that hath told Him all! It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, 362 BA UL. And fast invading fires begin ! "White blaze A tree's head snaps and there, therfc, there, there, there, His thnnder follows! Fool to gibe at Him! Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos! 'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip, Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!] SAUL. i. SAID Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, Kiss my cheek, wish me well !" Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek. And he, "Since the King, my friend, for thy counte- nance sent, Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife, And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life, SAUL. 263 II. "Yet now my heart leaps, beloved ! God's child with his dew On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat Were now raging to torture the desert!" in. Then I, as was meet, Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped ; I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped; Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid, "But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" And no voice replied. At the first I saw naught but the blackness: but soon I descried A something more black than the blackness the vast, the upright Main prop which sustains the pavilion : and slow into sight Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof, showed Saul, Ji64 SAUL. IV. He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide On the great cross-support in the center, that goes to each side; He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs And waiting his change, the king serpent all heavily hangs, Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come With the spring-time, so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. v. Then I turned my harp, took off the lilies we twine round its chords Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide those sunbeams like swords! And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed "Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star Into eve and the blue far above us, so blue and so far! VI. Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate Till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight SA UL. 265 To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse! God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. VII. Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine- song, when hand Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand And grow one in the sense of this world's life. And then, the last song When the dead man is praised on his journey "Bear, bear him along With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm seeds not here To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier. Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!" And then, the glad chaunt Of the marriage, first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. And then, the great march Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch Naught can break; who shall harm them, our friends? Then, the chorus intoned As the levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. But I stopped here: for herein the darkness Saul groaned. 266 SAUL.. VIII. And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan dart From the jewels that woke in his turban at once with a start All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous; at heart. So the head : but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it un- checked, As I sang, IX. "Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! No spirit feels waste, Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine, And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in iov J SAUL. 26? Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up n- men sung The low song of the nearly departed, and hear her fail, tongue Joining in while it could to the witness, 'Let one more attest, [ have lived, seen God's hand thro' a lifetime, and all was for best!' Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest. And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true: And the friends of thy boyhood that boyhood of wonder and hope, Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope, Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine; And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine ! On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets tho gold go) High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them, all Brought to blaze on the head of one creature King Saul!" 268 SAUL. x. And lo, with that leap of my spirit, heart, hand, harp and voice, Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice Saul's fame in the light it was made for as when, dare I say, The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot "Saul!" cried I, and stopped, And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped By the tent's cross-support in the center, was struck by his name. Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone A year's snow bound about for a breastplate, leaves grasp of the sheet? Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, And there fronts yon, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old, With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest all hail, there they are! Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest Of the dove, tempt the ^oat and its young to the green on his crest SAUL. 2C9 For their food in the ardors of summer. One long shud- der thrilled All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. What was gone, what remained? All to traverse 'twixt hope and despair. Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right hand Held the brow, helped the eyes, left too vacant, forthwith to remand To their place what new objects should enter: 't was Saul as before. I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore, At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean a sun's slow decline Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine Base with base to knit strength more intensely : so, arm folded arm O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. ] xi. What spell or what charm, (For awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge To sustain him where song had restored him? Song filled to the verge His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty.' beyond, on what fields, 270 SAUL. Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not: he lets me praise life, Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. XII. Then fancies grew rife Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep Fed in silence above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep ; And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky. And I laughed ''Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know! Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these old trains Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus SAUL 271 XIII. "Yea, my King," I began "thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute: In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, how its stem trembled first Till it passed the kid's 'lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn, Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn, E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight, When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so ! stem and branch Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm- wine shall staunch Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! the spirit be thine! By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, theu still shalt enjoy More indeed, than at first, when inconscious, the life of a boy. Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast done Dies, revives, goes to work in the world j until e'en as the sun 272 SAUL. Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface, Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must every- where trace The results of his past summer-prime, so, each ray of thy will, Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give forth A like cheer to their sons: who, in turn, fill the South and the North With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past! But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last. As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, So with man so his power and his beauty for ever take flight. No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years! Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's! Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb bid arise A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies, Let it mark where the great First King slumbers : whose fame would ye know? Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go In great characters cut by the scribe. Such was Saul, so he did; With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid, 8A UL. 373 For not half, they '11 affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend, In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend (See, in tablets 't is level before them) their praise, and record With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, the statesman's great word Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river 's a-wave With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet- winds rave : So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thouart!" XIV. And behold while I sang . . . but Thou who didst grant me, that day, And, before it, not seldom hast granted thy help to essay, Carry on and complete an adventure, my shield and my sword In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word, Still be with me, who then at the summit of human en- deavor And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever On the new stretch of heaven above me till, mighty to save, Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance God's throne from man's grave! Let me tell out my tale to its ending my voice to my heart Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took^ part, 274 &A UL. As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep! And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep, For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron up- heaves The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. xv. I say then, my song While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and, ever more strong, Made a proffer of good to console him he slowly resumed His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes Of his turban, and see the huge sweat that his counte- nance bathes, He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore, And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. He is Saul, ye remember in glory, ere terror had bent The broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spent Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose, To receive what a man may waste', desecrate, never quite lose. So sank he along by the tent-prop, still, stayed by the pile Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned SAUL. 275 And sat out my singing, one arm round the tent-prop, to raise His bent head, and the other hung slack till I touched on the praise I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which please To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know If the best I could do had brought solace : he spoke not, but slow Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' my hair The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine And oh, all my heart how it loved him ! but where was the sign? I yearned "Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, As this moment, had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!" XVI. Then the truth came upon me. No harp more no song more! outbroke 276 SAUL. XVII. "I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and I spoke; I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain And pronounced on the rest of his handwork returned him again His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw. I report, as a man may of God's work all 's love, yet all 's law. Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care! Do I task any faculty highest, to image success? I but open my eyes, and perfection, no more and no less, In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew (With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-com- plete, As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet. Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. There 's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh as I think), 8A UL. 277 Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst E'en the Giver in one gift. Behold, I could love if I durst! But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake God's own speed in the one way of love : I abstain for love's sake. What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hun- dredth appal? In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here the parts shift? Here, the creature surpass the creator, the end, what began? Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole? And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height This perfection, succeed, with life's dayspring, death's minute of night? 278 SAUL. Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, the mistake, Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now, and bid him awake From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find him- self set Clear and safe in new light and new life, a new harmony yet To be run and continued, and ended who knows? or endure! The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure; By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this. XVIII. I believe it! 'T is thou, God, that givest, 't is I who receive: In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. All 's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer, As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabbath: /will? the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth To look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dare Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair? This; 't is not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do! See the King I would help him, but cannot, the wishes fall through. Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would knowing which, 8A UL. 279 I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now ! Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou so wilt thou ! So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath, Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death ! As thy love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being beloved ! He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak. 'T is the weakest in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seek In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. Saul, it shall be A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me, Thou shalt love and be loved by, for ever : a Hand like this hand Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!" XIX. I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware : I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, As a runner beset by the populace famished for news Life or death, The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews j 280 SAUL. And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot Out in fire the strong paint of pent knowledge : but I fainted not, For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth ; In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills; In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills; In the startled wild beasts that bore oft, each with eye sidling still Though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill That rose heavily as I appproached them, made stupid with awe: E'en the serpent that slid away silent he felt the new law. The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers: And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and lew, With their obstinate, all but hushed voices "E'en so, it is so!" RABBI BEN EZRA. 281 EABBI BEN EZKA. i. GROW old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand "Who saith "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" n. Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall!" Not that, admiring stars. It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" m. Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. IV. Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men ; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw- cram in ed beast? 283 RABBT BEN EZRA. V. Eejoice we are allied To That which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive ! A spark disturbs our clod ; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. VI. Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain ! Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! VII. For thence, a paradox Which comforts while it mocks, Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i* the scale. VIII. What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test-^ Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? IX. Yet gifts should prove their use; I own the Past profuse RA BBI BEN EZRA . 283 Of power each side, perfection every turn : Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?'* x. Not once beat "Praise be Thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: Perfect I call Thy plan : Thanks that I was a man ! Maker, remake, complete, I trust what Thou shalt do!" XI. For pleasant is this flesh ; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute, gain most, as we did bestt XII. Let us not always say "Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings, Let us cry "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" XIII. Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I. pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ. 284 RABBI BEN EZRA. XIV. And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue. xv. Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. XVI. For, note when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts, The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots "Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." XVII. So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain : The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.' XVIII. For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved RABBI BEN EZRA. 285 To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. XIX. As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made: So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age : wait death nor be afraid ! xx. Enough now, if the Eight And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. XXI. Be there, for oace and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! XXII. Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall my soul believe? 286 RABBI BEN EZRA. XXIII. Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: XXIV. But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account: All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount : XXV. Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped: All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. XXVI. Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor ! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, Thou, to whom fools propound, "When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to- day!" RABBI BEN EZRA. 28? XXVII. Fool ! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall ; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee, That was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. XXVIII. He fixed thee mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. XXIX. What though the earlier grooves AVhich ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Scull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? XXX. Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, The new wine's foaming flow, The Master's lips a-glow! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel? XXXI. But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men! 288 EPILOGUE And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I, to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily, mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst: XXXII. So, take and use Thy work, Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in Thy hand ! Perfect the cup as planned ! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! EPILOGUE. FIRST SPEAKER, as Damd. I. ON the first of the Feast of Feasts, The Dedication Day, When the Levites joined the Priests At the Altar in robed array, Gave signal to sound and say, ii. When the thousands, rear and van, Swarming with one accord, Became as a single man, (Look, gesture, thought and word) In praising and thanking the Lord, in. When the singers lift up their voice, And the trumpets made endeavor, EPILOGUE. 289 Sounding/ 'In God rejoice!" Saying, "In Him rejoice Whose mercy endureth for ever!" IV. Then the Temple filled with a cloud, Even the House of the Lord ; Porch bent and pillar bowed : For the presence of the Lord, In the glory of His cloud, Had filled the House of the Lord. SECOND SPEAKER, as Renan. Gone now! All gone across the dark so far, Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still, Dwindling into the distance, dies that star Which came, stood, opened once! We gazed our fill With upturned faces on as real a Face That, stooping from grave music and mild fire, Took in our homage, made a visible place Through many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre, For the dim human tribute. Was this true? Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his, To help by rapture God's own rapture too, Thrill with a heart's red tinge that pure pale bliss? Why did it end? Who failed to beat the breast, And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide When at first shadow showed the star addressed Itself to motion, and on either side The rims contracted as the rays retired; The music, like a fountain's sickening pulse, Subsided on itself; awhile transpired Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse, 290 EPILOGUE. No prayers retard ; then even this was gone, Lost in the night at last. We, lone and left Silent through centuries, ever and anon Venture to probe again the vault bereft Of all now save the lesser lights, a mist Of multitudinous points, yet suns, men say And this leaps ruby, this lurks amethyst, But where may hide what came and loved our clay? How shall the sage detect in yon expanse The star which chose to stoop and stay for us? Unroll the records! Hailed ye such advance Indeed, and did your hope evanish thus? Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred? We shall not look up, know ourselves are seen, Speak, and be sure that we again are heard, Acting or suffering, have the disk's serene Eeflect our life, absorb an earthly flame, Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb, Its core had never crimsoned all the same, Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb? Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post, Sad sway of sceptre whose mere touch appals, Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the most On whose repugnant brow the crown next falls ! THIRD SPEAKEB. I. Witless alike of will and way divine, How heaven's high with earth's low should intertwine! Friends, I have seen through your eyes: now use mine! Take the least man of all mankind, as I; Look at his head and heart, find how and why He differs from his fellows utterly: EPILOGUE. 291 ill. Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees Grows alive round him as in Arctic seas (They said of old) the instinctive water flees IV. Toward some elected point of central rock, As though, for its sake only, roamed the flock Of waves about the waste : awhile they mock v. With radiance caught for the occasion, hues Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues As only heaven could fitly interfuse, VI. The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, king 0' the current for a minute: then they wring Up by the roots and oversweep the thing, VII. And hasten off, to play again elsewhere The same part, choose another peak as bare, They find and flatter, feast and finish there. VIII. When you see what I tell you, nature dance About each man of us, retire, advance, As though the pageant's end were to enhance IX. His worth, and once the life, his product, gained Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained, And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned, A WALL. X. When you acknowledge that one world could do All the diverse work, old yet ever new, Divide us, each from other, me from you, XI. Why, where 's the need of Temple, when the walls 0' the world are that? What use of swells and falls From Levites' choir, Priests' cries, and trumpet-calls? XII. That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows, Or decomposes but to recompose, Become my universe that feels and knows ! A WALL, i. OH the old wall here! How I could pass Life in a long midsummer day, My feet confined to a plot of grass, My eyes from a wall not once away ! ii. And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green; Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, In lappets of tangle they laugh between. in. Now what is it makes pulsate the robe? Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims The body, the house, no eye can probe, Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs? APPARITIONS. 293 IV. And there again ! But my heart may guess Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps: So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess Died out and away in the leafy wraps. v. Wall upon wall are between us : life And song should away from heart to heart! I prison-bird, with a ruddy strife At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start VI. Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing That 's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free; Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring Of the rueful neighbors, and forth to thee! APPARITIONS. \. L SUCH a starved bank of moss Till, that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across- Violets were born ! n. Sky what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud: Splendid, a star! 294. NATURAL MAGIC. ill. World how it walled about Life with disgrace Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face ! NATURAL MAGIC. i. ALL I can say is I saw it ! The room was as bare as your hand. I locked in the swarth little lady, I swear, From the head to the foot of her well, quite as bare! "No Nautch shall cheat me," said I, "taking my stand At this bolt which I draw!" And this bolt I withdraw it, And there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered With who knows what verdure, o'erfruited, o'erflowered? Impossible! Only I saw it! n. All I can sing is I feel it! This life was as blank as that room ; I let you pass in here. Precaution^ indeed? Walls, ceiling, and floor, not a chance for a weed ! Wide opens the entrance: where 's cold now, where 's gloom? No May to sow seed here, no June to reveal it, Behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing, These fruits of your bearing nay, birds of your winging! A fairy-tale! Only I feel it! A TALE. 295 A TALE. I. WHAT a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. n. Anyhow there 's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting ty Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. in. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that 's behind. IV. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears ! 296 . A TALE. v. None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!'* VI. When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterward eleven, Thank you ! Well, sir, who had guessed Such ill luck in store? it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. VII. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music flew With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. VIII. So that when (Ah joy !) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? IX. Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly, indeed A TALE. 297 Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet. x. Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent ''Take the prize a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" XI. Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That 's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's pover too spent For aiding soul-development. XII. No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir, I hope you understand!) Said "Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!" XIII. So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. XIV. That 's the tale: its application? Somebody I know 298 ^ TALE. Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that 's Oh, All so learned and so wise, And deserving of a prize! xv. If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue 's built, Tell the gazer " 'T was a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt 1 Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? XVI. "For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played, With my lyre at lowest, highest, Eight alike, one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain, Never to be heard again, XVII. "Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone." XVIII. But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a poet? All I care for Is to tell him that a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough !) CONFESSIONS. CONFESSIONS. i. WHAT is he buzzing in my ears? "Now that I come to die, Do I view the world as a vale of tears ?" Ah, reverend sir, not I! n. "What I viewed there once, what I view again Where the physic bottles stand On the table's edge, is a suburb lane, With a wall to my bedside hand. in. That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, From a house you could descry O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue Or green to a healthy eye? IV. To mine, it serves for the old June weather Blue above lane and wall ; And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether" Is the house o'er-topping all. v. At a terrace somewhat near the stopper, There watched for me, one June, 300 CONFESSIONS. A girl : I know, sir, it 's improper, My poor mind 's out of tune. VI. Only there was a way . . . you crept Close by the side, to dodge Eyes in the house, two eyes except: They styled their house "The Lodge." VII. What right had a lounger up their lane? But, by creeping very close, With the good wall's help, their eyes might strain And stretch themselves to Oes, VIII. Yet never catch her and me together, As she left the attic, there, By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether," And stole from stair to stair, IX. And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, We loved, sir used to meet: How sad and bad and mad it was But then, how it was sweet! GARDEN FANCIES. #01 MAGICAL NATURE. I. FLOWER I never fancied, jewel I profess you! Bright I see and soft I feel the outside of a flower. Save but glow inside and jewel, I should guess you, Dim to sight and rough to touch : the glory is the dower. n. You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, a jewel Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime! Time may fray the flower-face: kind be time or cruel, Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time! GARDEN FANCIES. i. THE FLOWER'S NAME. i. HERE'S the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. ii. Down this side of the gravel -walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 302 GARDEN FANCIES. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! in. This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name! Was it love, or praise? Speech half -sleep, or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. IV. Eoses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase. But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. v. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, ' Stay as you are and be loved forever ! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle; Is not the dear mark still to be seen? GARDEN FANCIES. 303 VI. Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow her, beauties flee : Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June 's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall ! Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces Eoses, you are not so fair after all ! II. SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS. PLAGUE take all your pedants, say I ! He who wrote what 1 hold in my hand, Centuries back was so good as to die, Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land ; This, that was a book in its time, Printed on paper and bound in leather, Last month in the white of a matin-prime Just when the birds sang all together, ii. Into the garden I brought it to read, And under the arbute and laurustine Read it, so help me grace in my need, From title-page to closing line. Chapter on chapter did I count, As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge; Added up the mortal amount, And then proceeded to my revenge. in. Yonder 's a plum-tree with a crevice An owl would build in, were he but sage; For a lap of moss, like a fine pont levis In a castle of the middle age, 304 GARDEN FANCIES. Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber; When he 'd be private, there might he spend Hours alone in his lady's chamber: Into this crevice I dropped our friend. IV. Splash, went he, as under he ducked, At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate; Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf, Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis; Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf Over a jolly chapter of Kabelais. v. Now, this morning, betwixt the moss And gum that locked 6ur friend in limbo, A spider had spun his web across, And sat in the midst with arms akimbo: So, I took pity, for learning's sake, And, de profundis, accentibus latis, Cantale! quoth I, as I got a rake; And up I fished his delectable treatise. VI. Here you have it, dry in the sun, With all the binding all of a blister, And great blue spots where the ink has run, And reddish streaks that wink and glister O'er the page so beautifully yellow : Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks! Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow? Here's one stuck in his chapter six! GARDEN FANCIES. 305 VII. How did he like it when the live creatures Tickled arid toused and browsed him all over, And worm, slug, eft, with serious features, Came in, each one, for his right of trover? When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face Made of her eggs the stately deposit, And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet? VIII. All that life and fun and romping, All that frisking and twisting and coupling, While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping, And clasps were cracking, and covers suppling! As if you had carried sour John Knox To the playhouse at Paris, Vienna, or Munich, Fastened him into a front-row box, And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. IX. Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it? Back to my room shall you take your sweet self. Good-by, mother-beetle; husband-eft, sufficit! See the snug niche I have made on my shelf! A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you, Here 's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay, And with E. on each side, and F. right over you, Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day 1 306 IN THREE DATS. IN THEEE DAYS, i. So, I shall see her in three days And just one night, but nights are short, Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn! Feel, where my life broke off from thine, How fresh the splinters keep and fine, Only a touch, and we combine! ii. Too long, this time of year, the days! But nights, at least the nights are short. As night shows where her one moon is, A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, So life's night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her! What is worth The rest of heaven, the rest of earth? in. loaded curls! release your store Of warmth and scent, as once before The tingling hair did, lights and darks Outbreaking into fairy sparks, When under curl and curl I pried After the warmth and scent inside, Through lights and darks how manifold The dark inspired, the light controlled, As early Art embrowns the gold ! IV. What great fear, should one say, "Three days, That change the world, might change as well Your fortune; and if joy delays, Be happy that no worse befell!" TEE LOST MISTRESS. 307 "What small fear, if another says, "Three days and one short night beside May throw no shadow on your ways; But years must teem with change untried, With chance not easily defied, With an end somewhere undescried." No fear ! or, if a fear be born This minute, fear dies out in scorn. Fear? I shall see her in three days And one night, now the nights are short, Then just two hours, and that is morn ! THE LOST MISTRESS, i. ALL'S over, then : does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, 't is the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves ! n. And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that to-day; One day more bursts them open fully: You know the red turns gray. in. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we, well, friends the merest Keep much that 1 resign. 308 ONE WA Y OF LOVE. IV. Each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavor, Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul forever, v. Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer ! ONE WAY OF LOVE, i. ALL June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye. ii. How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music? So! Break the string; fold music's wing: Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! in. My whole life long I learned to love This hour my utmost art I prove RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI. 309 And speak my passion heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'T is well! Lose who may I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they! RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI, i. I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world; and, vainly favored, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow. And, underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, He cannot have perceived, that changes ever At his approach; and, in the lost endeavor To live his life, has parted, one by one, With all a flower's true graces, for the grace Of being but a foolish mimic sun, With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. Men nobly call by many a name the Mount As over many a land of theirs its large Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, Each to its proper praise and own account : Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. n. Angel of the East! one, one gold look Across the waters to this twilight nook, The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook! 310 NUMPHOLEPT08. III. Dear Pilgrim, art thon for the East indeed? Go! saying ever as thou dost proceed, That I, French Eudel, choose for my device A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice Before its idol. See! These inexpert And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt The woven picture; 't is woman's skill Indeed; but nothing baffled me, so, ill Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees On my flower's breast as on a platform broad: But, as the flower's concern is not for these But solely for the sun, so men applaud In vain this Rudel, he not looking here But to the East the East! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear! NUMPHOLEPTOS. STILL you stand, still you listen, still you smile! Still melts your moonbeam through me, white a while, Softening, sweetening, still sweet and soft Increase so round this heart of mine, that oft I could believe your moonbeam-smile has past The pallid limit and, transformed at last, Lies, sunlight and salvation warms the soul It sweetens, softens! Would you pass that goal, Gain love's birth at the limit's happier verge, And, where an iridescence lurks, but urge The hesitating pallor on to prime Of dawn! true blood-streaked, sun-warmth, action-time, By heart-pulse ripened to a ruddy glow Of gold above my clay I scarce should know NUMPHOLEPTOS. 311 From gold's self, thus suffused ! For gold means love. What means the sad slow silver smile above My clay but pity, pardon? at the best, But acquiescence that I take my rest, Contented to be clay, while in your heaven The sun reserves love for the Spirit-Seven Companioning God's throne they lamp before, Leaves earth a mute waste only wandered o'er By that pale soft sweet disempassioned moon Which smiles me slow forgiveness! Such, the boon I beg? Nay, dear, submit to this just this Supreme endeavor! As my lips now kiss Your feet, my arms convulse your shrouding robe, My eyes, acquainted with the dust, dare probe Your eyes above for what, if born, would blind Mine with redundant bliss, as flash may find The inert nerve, sting awake the palsied limb, Bid with life's ecstasy sense overbrim And suck back death in the resurging joy So grant me love, whole, sole, without alloy! Vainly ! The promise withers ! I employ Lips, arms, eyes, pray the prayer which finds the word, Make the appeal which must be felt, not heard, And none the more is changed your calm regard : Bather, its sweet and soft grow harsh and hard Forbearance, then repulsion, then disdain. Avert the rest! I rise, see! make, again Once more, the old departure for some track Untried yet through a world which brings me back Ever thus fruitlessly to find your feet, To fix your eyes, to pray the soft and sweet Which smile there take from his new pilgrimage Your outcast, once your inmate, and assuage With love not placid pardon now his thirst For a mere drop from out the ocean erst 312 NUMPHOLEPTOS. He drank at ! Well, the quest shall be renewed. Fear nothing! Though I linger, unimbued With any drop, my lips thus close. I go! So did I leave you, I have found you so, And doubtlessly, if fated to return, So shall my pleading persevere and earn Pardon not love in that same smile, I learn, And lose the meaning of, to learn once more, Vainly ! What fairy track do I explore? What magic hall return to, like the gem Centuply-angled o'er a diadem? You dwell there, hearted; from your midmost home Eays forth through that fantastic world I roam Ever from centre to circumference, Shaft upon colored shaft: this crimsons thence, That purples out its precinct through the waste. Surely I had your sanction when I faced, Fared forth upon that untried yellow, ray Whence I retrack my steps? They end to-day Where they began, before your feet, beneath Your eyes, your smile: the blade is shut in sheath, Fire quenched in flint; irradiation, late Triumphant through the distance, finds its fate, Merged in your blank pure soul, alike the source And tomb of that prismatic glow : divorce Absolute, all-conclusive! Forth I fared, Treading the lambent flamelet: little cared If now its flickering took the topaz tint, If now my dull-caked path gave sulphury hint Of subterranean rage no stay nor stint To yellow, since you sanctioned that I bathe, Burnish me, soul and body, swim and swathe In yellow license. Here I reek suffused With crocus, saffron, orange, as I used NUMPHOLEPTOS. 313 With scarlet, purple, every dye o' the bow Born of the storm-cloud. As before, you show Scarce recognition, no approval, some Mistrust, more wonder at a man become Monstrous in garb, nay flesh disguised as well, Through his adventure. Whatsoe'er befell, I followed, wheresoe'er it wound, that vein You authorized should leave your whiteness, stain Earth's sombre stretch beyond your midmost place Of vantage, trode that tinct whereof the trace On garb and flesh repel you ! Yes, I plead Your own permission your command, indeed, That who would worthily retain the love Must share the knowledge shrined those eyes above, Go boldly on adventure, break through bounds 0' the quintessential whiteness that surrounds Your feet, obtain experience of each tinge That bickers forth to broaden out, impinge Plainer his foot its path way, all distinct From every other. Ah, the wonder, linked With fear, as exploration manifests What agency it was first tipped the crests Of unnamed wild-flower, soon protruding grew Portentous mid the sands, as when his hue Betrays him and the burrowing snake gleams through ; Till, last . . . but why parade more shame and pain? Are not the proofs upon me? Here again I pass into your presence, I receive Your smile of pity, pardon, and I leave . . . No, not this last of times I leave you, mute, Submitted to my penance, so my foot May yet again adventure, tread, from source To issue, one more ray of rays which course Each other, at your bidding, from the sphere Silver and sweet, their birthplace, down that drear 314 NUMPHOLEPT08. Dark of the world, you promise shall return Your pilgrim jewelled as with drops o' the urn The rainbow paints from, and no smatch at all Of ghastliness at edge of some cloud-pall Heaven cowers before, as earth awaits the fall 0' the bolt and flash of doom. Who trusts your word Tries the adventure: and returns absurd As frightful in that sulphur-steeped disguise Mocking the priestly cloth-of-gold, sole prize The arch-heretic was wont to bear away Until he reached the burning. No, I say: No fresh adventure ! No more seeking love At end of toil, and finding, calm above My passion, the old statuesque regard, The sad petrific smile! you less hard And hateful than mistaken and obtuse Unreason of a she-intelligence ! You very woman with the pert pretence To match the male achievement! Like enough! Ay, you were easy victors, did the rough Straightway efface itself to smooth, the gruff Grind down and grow a whisper, did man's truth Subdue, for sake of chivalry and ruth, Its rapier edge to suit the bulrush-spear Womanly falsehood fights with ! that ear All fact pricks rudely, that thrice-superfine Femininity of sense, with right divine To waive all process, take result stain-free From out the very muck wherein . . . Ah me! The true slave's querulous outbreak! All the rest Be resignation ! Forth at your behest I fare. Who knows but this the crimson-quest May deepen to a sunrise, not decay To that cold sad sweet smile? which I obey. THE WORST OF IT. 315 APPEAKANCES. t AND so you found that poor room dull, Dark, hardly to your taste, my Dear? Its features seemed unbeautiful: But this I know 't was there, not here, You plighted troth to me, the word Which ask that poor room how it heard ! ii. And this rich roo'm obtains your praise Unqualified, so bright, so fair, So all whereat perfection stays? Ay, but remember here, not there, The other word was spoken ! Ask This rich room how you dropped the mask ! THE WORST OF IT. WOULD it were I had been false, not you ! I that am nothing, not you that are all: I, never the worse for a touch or two On my speckled hide; not you, the pride Of the day, my swan, that a first fleck's fall On her wonder of white must unswan, undo! n. I had dipped in life's struggle and, out again, Bore specks of it here, there, easy to see, When I found my swan and the cure was plain; The dull turned bright as I caught your white On my bosom : you saved me saved in vain If you ruined yourself, and all through me ! 316 THE WORST OF IT. m. Yes, all through the speckled beast I am, Who taught you to stoop; you gave me yourself, And bound your soul by the vows which damn : Since on better thought you break, as you ought, Vows words, no angel set down, some elf Mistook, for an oath, an epigram! IV. Yes, might I judge you, here were my heart, And a hundred its like, to treat as you pleased! I choose to be yours, for my proper part, Yours, leave me or take, or mar or make; If I acquiesce, why should you be teased With the conscience-prick and the memory-smart? v. But what will God say? my Sweet, Think, and be sorry you did this thing! Though earth were unworthy to feel your feet, There 's a heaven above may deserve ycur love: Should you forfeit heaven for a snapt gold ring And a promise broke, were it just or meet? VI. And I to have tempted you ! I, who tried Your soul, no doubt, till it sank! Unwise, I loved and was loAvly, loved and aspired, Loved, grieving or glad, till I made you mad, And you meant to have hated and despised Whereas, you deceived me nor inquired ! VII. She, ruined? How? No heaven for her? Crowns to give, and none for the brow THE WORST OF IT. That looked like marble and smelt like myrrh? Shall the robe be worn, and the palm-branch borne, And she go graceless, she graced now Beyond all saints, as themselves aver? VIII. Hardly ! That must be understood ! The earth is your place of penance, then; And what will it prove? I desire your good, But, plot as I may, I can find no way How a blow should fall, such as falls on men, Nor prove too much for your womanhood. IX. It will come, I suspect, at the end of life, When you walk alone, and review the past; And I, who so long shall have done with strife, And journeyed my stage and earned my wage And retired as was right, I am called at last When the Devil stabs you, to lend the knife. x. He stabs for the minute of trivial wrong, Nor the other hours are able to save, The happy, that lasted my whole life long: For a promise broke, not for first words spoke, The true, the only, that turn my grave To a blaze of joy and a crash of song. XI. Witness beforehand ! Off I trip On a safe path gay through the flowers you flung: My very name made great by your lip, And my heart aglow with the good I know Of a perfect year when we both were young, And I tasted the angels' fellowship. 318 THE WORST OF IT. XII. And witness, moreover . . . Ah, but wait! I spy the loop whence an arrow shoots! It may be for yourself, when you meditate, That you grieve for slain ruth, murdered truth : "Though falsehood escape in the end, what boots? How truth would have triumphed!" you sigh too late. XIII. Ay, who would have triumphed like you, I say! Well, it is lost now; well, you must bear, Abide and grow fit for a better day. You should hardly grudge, could I be your judge! But hush! For you, can be no despair: There 's amends: 't is a secret; hope and pray! XIV. For I was true at least oh, true enough ! And, Dear, truth is not as good as it seems! Commend me to conscience! Idle stuff! Much help is in mine, as I mope and pine, And skulk through day, and scowl in my dreams At my swan's obtaining the crow's rebuff. xv. Men tell me of truth now "False!" I cry: Of beauty "A mask, friend! Look beneath!" We take our own method, the Devil and I, With pleasant and fair and wise and rare: And the best we wish to what lives, is death ; Which even in wishing, perhaps we lie! XVI. Far better commit a fault and have done As you, Dear! forever: and choose the pure, THE WORST OF IT. 319 And look where the healing waters run, And strive and strain to be good again, And a place in the other world insure, All glass and gold, with God for its sun. XVII. Misery! What shall I say or do? I cannot advise, or, at least, persuade. Most like you are glad you deceived me rue No whit of the wrong : you endured too long, Have done no evil and want no aid, Will live the old life out and chance the new. XVIII. And your sentence is written all the same, And I can do nothing, pray, perhaps : But somehow the world pursues its game, If I pray, if I curse, f or better or worse : And my faith is torn to a thousand scraps, And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame. XIX. Dear, I look from my hiding-place. Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes? Be happy ! Add but the other grace, Be good! Why want what the angels vaunt? I knew you once: but in Paradise If we meet I will pass nor turn my face. 320 TOO LATE. TOO LATE, i. HERE was I with my arm and heart Andjarain, all yours for a word, a want Put into a look just a look, your part, While mine, to repay it ... vainest vaunt, Were the woman, that 's dead, alive to hear, Had her lover, that 's lost, love's proof to show! But I cannot show it; you cannot speak From the churchyard neither, miles removed, Though I feel by a pulse within my cheek, Which stabs and stops, that the woman I loved Needs help in her grave and finds none near, Wants warmth from the heart which sends it so! ii. Did I speak once angrily, all the drear days You lived, you woman I loved so well, Who married the other? Blame or praise, Where was the use then? Time would tell, And the end declare what man for you, What woman for me was the choice of God. But Edith dead ! no doubting more ! I used to sit and look at my life As it rippled and ran till, right before, A great stone stopped it: oh, the strife Of waves at the stone some devil threw In my life's midcurrent, thwarting God! in. But either I thought, "They may churn and chide A while, my waves which came for their joy And found this horrible stone full-tide: Yet I see just a thread escape, deploy TOO LATE. 321 Through the evening-country, silent and safe, And it suffers no more till it finds the sea." Or else I would think, "Perhaps some night When new things happen, a meteor-ball May slip through the sky in a line of light, And earth breathe hard, and landmarks fall, And my waves no longer champ nor chafe, Since a stone will have rolled from its place: let be!" IV. But, dead ! All 's done with : wait who may, Watch and wear and wonder who will. Oh, my whole life that ends to-day! Oh, my soul's sentence, sounding still, "The woman is dead, that was none of his; And the man, that was none of hers, may go!" There 's only the past left: worry that! Wreak, like a bull, on the empty coat, Rage, its late wearer is laughing at! Tear the collar to rags, having missed his throat; Strike stupidly on "This, this, and this, Where I would that a bosom received the blow!" v. I ought to have done more: once my speech And once your answer, and there, the end, And Edith was henceforth out of reach ! Why, men do more to deserve a friend, Be rid of a foe, get rich, grow wise, Nor, folding their arms, stare fate in the face. Why, better even have burst like a thief And borne you away to a rock for us two, In a moment's horror, bright, bloody, and brief, Then changed to myself again "I slew Myself in that moment; a ruffian lies Somewhere: your slave, see, born in his place!" 322 TOO LATE. VI. What did the other do? You be judge! Look at us, Edith ! Here are we both ! Give him his six whole years: I grudge None of the life with you, nay, I loathe Myself that I grudged his start in advance Of me who could overtake and pass But, as if he loved you ! No, not he, Nor any one else in the world, 't is plain: Who ever heard that another, free As I, young, prosperous, sound, and sane, Poured life out, proffered it "Half a glance Of those eyes of yours and I drop the glass!" VII. Handsome, were you? 'T is more than they held, More than they said; I was 'ware and watched: I was the 'scapegrace, this rat belled The cat, this fool got his whiskers scratched : The others? No head that was turned, no heart Broken, my lady, assure yourself! Each soon made his mind up; so and so Married a dancer, such and such Stole his friend's wife, stagnated slow, Or maundered, unable to do as much, And muttered of peace where he had no part: While, hid in the closet, laid on the shelf, VIII. On the whole, you were let alone, I think! So, you looked to the other, who acquiesced; My rival the proud man, prize your pink Of poets! A poet he was! I 've guessed: He rhymed you his rubbish nobody read, Loved you and doved you did not I laugh ! TOO LATE. 333 There was a prize! But we both were tried. heart of mine, marked broad with her mark, Tekel, found wanting, set aside, Scorned ! See, I bleed these tears in the dark Till comfort come and the last be bled: He? He is tagging your epitaph. IX. If it would only come over again ! Time to be patient with me, and probe This heart till you punctured the proper vein, Just to learn what blood is: twitch the robe From that blank lay-figure your fancy draped, Prick the leathern heart till the verses spirt! And late it was easy ; late, you walked Where a friend might meet you; Edith's name Arose to one's lip if one laughed or talked; If I heard good news, you heard the same; When I woke, I knew that your breath escaped; 1 could bide my time, keep alive, alert. x. And alive I shall keep and long, you will see! I knew a man, was kicked like a dog From gutter to cesspool; what cared he So long as he picked from the filth his prog? He saw youth, beauty, and genius die, And jollily lived to his hundredth year. But I will live otherwise: none of such life! At once I begin as I mean to end. Go on with the world, get gold in its strife, Give your spouse the slip, and betray your friend! There are two who decline, a woman and I, And enjoy our death in the darkness here. 324 BIFURCATION. XI. I liked that way you had with your curls Wound to a ball in a net behind: Your cheek was chaste as a Quaker-girl's, And your mouth there was never, to my mind, Such a funny mouth, for it would not shut; And the dented chin too what a chin! There were certain ways when you spoke, some words That you know you never could pronounce: You were thin, however; like a bird's Your hand seemed some would say, the pounce Of a scaly-footed hawk all but! The world was right when it called you thin. XII. But I turn my back on the world : I take Your hand, and kneel, and lay to my lips. Bid me live, Edith! Let me slake Thirst at your presence ! Fear no slips ! 'T is your slave shall pay, while his soul endures, Full due, love's whole debt, summiim jus. My queen shall have high observance, planned Courtship made perfect, no least line Crossed without warrant. There you stand, Warm too, and white too: would this wine Had washed all over that body of yours, Ere I drank it, and you down with it, thus! BIFURCATION. WE were two lovers; let me lie by her, My tomb beside her tomb. On hers inscribe "I loved him; but my reason bade prefer Duty to love, reject the tempter's bribe BIFURCATION. 325 Of rose and lily when each path diverged, And either I must pace to life's far end As love should lead me, or, as duty urged, Plod the worn causeway arm in arm with friend. So, truth turned falsehood : 'How I loathe a flower, How prize the pavement!' still caressed his ear The deafish friend's through life's day, hour by hour, As he laughed (coughing) 'Ay, it would appear!' But deep within my heart of hearts there hid Ever the confidence, amends for all, That heaven repairs what wrong earth's journey did, When love from life-long exile comes at call. Duty and love, one broadway, were the best Who doubts? But one or other was to choose. I chose the darkling half, and wait the rest In that new world where light and darkness fuse.'* Inscribe on mine "I loved her: love's track lay O'er sand and pebble, as all travellers know. Duty led through a smiling country, gay With greensward where the rose and lily blow. 'Our roads are diverse: farewell, love!' said she: "T is duty I abide by: homely sward And not the rock-rough picturesque for me! Above, where both roads join, I wait reward. Be you as constant to the path whereon I leave you planted !' But man needs must move, Keep moving whither, when the star is gone Whereby he steps secure nor strays from love? No stone but I was tripped by, stumbling-block But brought me to confusion. Where I fell, There I lay flat, if moss disguised the rock: Thence, if flint pierced, I rose and cried, 'All 's well! Duty be mine to tread in that high sphere Where love from duty ne'er disparts, I trust, 326 A LIKENESS. \ And two halves make that whole, whereof since here One must suffice a man why, this one must!' ' Inscribe each tomb thus: then, some sage acquaint The simple which holds sinner, which holds saint! A LIKENESS. SOME people hang portraits up In a room where they dine or sup: And the wife clinks tea-things under, And her cousin, he stirs his cup, Asks, "Who was the lady, I wonder?" " 'T is a daub John bought at a sale/' Quoth the wife, looks black as thunder. "What a shade beneath her nose! Snuff-taking, I suppose," Adds the cousin, while John's corns ail. Or else, there 's no wife in the case, But the portrait 's queen of the place, Alone mid the other spoils Of youth, masks, gloves, and foils, And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine, And the long whip, the tandem-lasher, And the cast from a fist ("not, alas! mine, But my master's, the Tipton Slasher") And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace, And a satin shoe used for a cigar-case, And the chamois-horns ("shot in the Chablais") And prints Rarey drumming on Cruiser, And Sayers, our champion, the bruiser, And the little edition of Eabelais: Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets May saunter up close to examine it, A LIKENESS. 327 And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it, "But the eyes are half out of their sockets; That hair 's not so bad, where the gloss is, But they 've made the girl's nose a proboscis: Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy ! What, is not she Jane? Then, who is she?" All that I own is a print, An etching, a mezzotint; 'T is a study, a fancy, a fiction, Yet a fact (take my conviction), Because it has more than a hint Of a ceratin face, I never Saw elsewhere touch or trace of In women I 've seen the face of: Just an etching, and, so far, clever. I keep my prints an imbroglio, Fifty in one portfolio. "When somebody tries my claret, We turn round chairs to the fire, Chirp over days in a garret, Chuckle o'er increase of salary, Taste the good fruits of our leisure, Talk about pencil and lyre, And the National Portrait Gallery: Then I exhibit my treasure. After we 've turned over twenty, And the debt of wonder my crony owes Is paid to my Marc Antonios, He stops me "Festina lente ! What's that sweet thing there, the etching?" How my waistcoat strings want stretching, How my cheeks grow red as tomatoes, How my heart leaps! But hearts, after leaps, ache, 328 MA T AND DEA TH. "By the by, you must take, for a keepsake, That other, you praised, of Volpato's." The fool ! would he try a flight farther and say He never saw, never before to-day, What was able to take his breath away, A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with, why, I '11 not engage But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage," I should toss him the thing's self '"T is only a duplicate, A thing of no value! Take it, I supplicate!" MAY AND DEATH, i. I WISH that when you died last May, Charles, there had died along with you Three parts of spring's delightful things; Ay, and for me, the fourth part too. n. A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps! There must be many a pair of friends Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm Moon-births and the long evening-ends. in. So, for their sake, be May still May ! Let their new time, as mine of old, Do all it did for me: I bid Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. IV. Only, one little sight, one plant, Woods have in May, that starts up green Save a sole streak which, so to speak, Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between, A FORGIVENESS. 329 v. That, they might spare; a certain wood Might miss the plant; their loss were small: But I, whene'er the leaf grows there, Its drop comes from my heart, that 's all. A FOEGIVENESS. I AM indeed the personage you know. As for my wife, what happened long ago You have a right to question me, as I Am bound to answer. ("Son, a fit reply!" The monk half spoke, half ground through his clinched teeth, At the confessioH-grate I knelt beneath.) Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place I had as still I have. I ran life's race, AVith the whole world to see, as only strains His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains Of good appal him : happy to excess, Work freely done should balance happiness Fully enjoyed ; and, since beneath my roof Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof I went forth every day, and all day long Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song Cheers him ! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe Of laboring flesh and blood ''She loves me so!" One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve That work grew play and vanished. "I deserve Haply my heaven an hour before the time!" I laughed, as silverly the c.lockhouse-chime 330 ^ FORGIVENESS. Surprised me passing through the postern gate Not the main entry where the menials wait And wonder why the world's affairs allow The master sudden leisure. That was how I took the private garden-wav for once. Forth from the alcove, 1 saw start, ensonce Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man. My fancies in the natural order ran: "A spy, perhaps a foe in ambuscade, A thief, more like, a sweetheart of some maid Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps." "Stand there!" Ibid. Whereat my man but wraps His face the closelier with uplifted arm Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm This and that pedestal as, stretch and stoop, Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged Each side the pathway, till the gate 'a exchanged For safety: one step thence, the street, you know! Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow, Near on admiringly, I breathed again, And back to that last fancy of the train "A danger risked for hope of just a word With which of all my nest may be the bird This poacher coverts for her plumage, pray? Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay For such adventure, while Juana's grave W T ould scorn the folly. I applaud the knave! He had the eye, could single from my brood His proper fledgeling!" A FORGIVENESS. 331 As I turned, there stood In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white. Whether one bound had brought her, at first sight Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be Next moment, of the venturous man and me, Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey: Whether impelled because her death no day Could come so absolutely opportune As now at joy's height, like a year in June Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose; Or whether hungry for my hate who knows? Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste Our tingling true relation, hate embraced By hate one naked moment: anyhow There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now The woman who made heaven within my house. Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse As well as love you are to recollect! "Stay!" she said. "Keep at least one soul unspecked With crime, that 's spotless hitherto your own ! Kill me who court the blessing, who alone Was, am, and shall be guilty, first to last! The man lay helpless in the toils I cast About him, helpless as the statue there Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tear Away and tread to dust the parasite, But do the passive marble no despite! I love him as I hate you. Kill me! Strike At one blow both infinitudes alike Out of existence hate and love! Whence love? That 's safe inside my heart, nor will remove For any searching of your steel, I think. Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape, 332 ^ FORGIVENESS. At every form wherein your love took shape, At each new provocation of your kiss. Kill me!" We went in. Next day after this I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke Easily, after all. "The lifted cloak Was screen sufficient: I concern myself Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf Whate'er the ignoble kind may prowl and brave Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave Detected by my household's vigilance. Enough of such ! As for my love-romance I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes And wake and wonder how the film could rise Which changed for me a barber's basin straight Into Mambrino's helm? I hesitate Nowise to say God's sacramental cup ! Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up, Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold? To me a warning I was overbold In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked Only to die, if I remember, staked His life upon the basin's worth, and lost: While I confess torpidity at most In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt, Still should I work on, still repair my fault Ere I took rest in death, no fear at all! Now, work no word before the curtain fall!" The "curtain"? That of death on life, I meant: My "word" permissible in death's event, A FORGIVENESS. 333 Would be truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise, Day by day, three years long, there had to rise And, night by night, to fall upon our stage Ours, doomed to public play by heritage Another curtain, when the world, perforce Our critical assembly, in due course Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game If, suffered to set foot behind our scene, The world had witnessed hovr stage-king and queen, Gallant and lady, but a minute since, Enarming each the other, would evince No sign of recognition as they took His way and her way to whatever nook Waited them in the darkness either side Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit Of sympathetic rapture every whit Earned as the curtain fell on her and me, Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see But calm and concord : where a speech was due There came the speech; when smiles were wanted too Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine, Where foreign and domestic cares combine, There 's audience every day and all day long; But finally the last of the whole throng Who linger lets one see his back. For her Why, liberty and liking: I aver, Liking and liberty! For me I breathed, Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task Of personation till next day bade mask, And quietly betook me from that world To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power 334 A FORGIVENESS. Three years I worked, each minute of each hour Not claimed by acting: work I may dispense With talk about, since work in evidence, Perhaps in history; who knows or cares? After three years, this way, all unawares, Out acting ended. She and I, at close Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows Of bending male and female loyalty, Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare Herald his passage from our palace where Such visiting left glory evermore. Again the ascent in public, till at door As we two stood by the saloon now blank And disencumbered of its guests there sank A whisper in my ear, so low and yet So unmistakable! "I half forget The chamber you repair to, and I want Occasion for one sbort word if you grant That grace within a certain room you called Our 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawled Some paper full of faces for my sport. That room I can remember. Just one short Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake!" "Follow me thither!" I replied. We break The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp, Blind, disused, serpentining ways afar From where the habitable chambers are, Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,- Always in silence, till I reach the lone Chamber sepulchred for my very own A FORGIVENESS. 335 Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy, Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy, Proof-positive of ownership; in youth I garnered up my gleanings here uncouth But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears; Finally, this became in after-years My closet of intrenchment to withstand Invasion of the foe on every hand The multifarious herd in bower and hall, State-room, rooms whatsoe'er the style, which call On masters to be mindful that, before Men, they must look like men and something more. Here, when our lord the king's bestowment ceased To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced, I touched ambition's height, 't was here, released From glory (always symbolled by a chain !) No sooner was I privileged to gain My secret domicile than glad I flung That last toy on the table gazed where hung On hook my father's gift, the arquebuss And asked myself "Shall I envisage thus The new prize and the old prize, when I reach Another year's experience? own that each Equalled advantage sportsman's statesman's tool? That brought me down an eagle, this a fool!" Into which room on entry, I set down The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace. Each of us looked the other in the face. She spoke. "Since I could die now" . . . (To explain Why that first struck me, know not once again Since the adventure at the porphyry's edge Three years before, which sundered like a wedge 336 A FORGIVENESS. Her soul from mine, though daily, smile to smile, We stood before the public, all the while Not once had I distinguished, in that face I paid observance to, the faintest trace Of feature more than requisite for eyes To do their duty by and recognize: So did I force mine to obey my will And pry no farther. There exists such skill, Those know who need it. What physician shrinks From needful contact with a corpse? He drinks No plague so long as thirst for knowledge, not An idler impulse, prompts inquiry. What, And will you disbelieve in power to bid Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid A child from scrutiny that 's just and right In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight, Keported daily she it was not how Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.) "Since I could die now of the truth concealed, Yet dare not, must not die, so seems revealed The Virgin's mind to me, for death means peace, Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease Of life and punishment the truth avowed May haply lengthen, let me push the shroud Away, that steals to muffle ere is just My penance-fire in snow! I dare I must Live, by avowal of the truth this truth I loved you ! Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite Than all preceding torture, proves me right! I loved you yet I lost you ! May I go Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know?" I think there never was such how express? Horror coquetting with voluptuousness, A FORGIVENESS. 337 As in those arms of Eastern workmanship Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip, Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways, Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays Love still at work with the artificer Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer, Except for love's sake, that a blade should writhe And bicker like a flame? now play the scythe As if some broad neck tempted, now contract And needle off into a fineness lacked For just that puncture which the heart demands? Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold! Fancy my favorite which I seem to grasp While I describe the luxury. No asp Is diapered more delicate round throat Than this below the handle! These denote These mazy lines meandering, to end Only in flesh they open what intend They else but water-purlings pale contrast With the life-crimson where they blend at last? And mark the handle's dim pellucid green, Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean, Into a sort of parrot-bird ! He pecks A grape-bunch ; his two eyes are ruby-specks Pure from the mine: seen this way, glassy blank, But turn them, lo the inmost fire, that shrank From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim! Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men War-wearied get amusement from that pen And paper we grow sick of statesfolk tired Of merely (when such measures are required) Dealing out doom to people by three words, A signature and seal : we play with swords 338 ^ FORGIVENESS. Suggestive of quick process. That is know I came to like the toys described you now, Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed The table, even, while my wife pursued Her purpose to its ending. "Now you know This shame, my three years' torture, let me go, Burn to the very ashes! You I lost, Yet you I loved!" The thing I pity most In men is action prompted by surprise Of anger: men? nay, bulls whose onset lies At instance of the firework and the goad! Once the foe prostrate, trampling once bestowed, Prompt follows placability, regret, Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse My veins at this occasion for resolve. Had that devolved which did not then devolve Upon me, I had done what now to do Was quietly apparent. "Tell me who The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!" "No, never! All was folly in his case, All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied." "And yet you loved me?" "Loved you. Double-dyed In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave Your heart and soul away from me to slave At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost, I stung myself to teach you, to your cost, What you rejected could be prized beyond Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond Look on, a fatal word to." A FORGIVENESS. 339 "And you still Love me? Do I conjecture well, or ill?" "Conjecture well, or ill! I had three years To spend in learning you." "We both are peers In knowledge, therefore : since three years are spent Ere thus much of yourself / learn who went Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind To bear upon your action : uncombined Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived Of every purer particle, survived At last in native simple hideousness, Utter contemptibility, nor less Nor more. Contemptibility exempt How could I, from its proper due contempt? I have too much despised you to divert My life from its set course by help or hurt Of your all-despicable life perture The calm I work in, by men's mouths to curb, Which at such news were clamorous enough Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall Blank where a scutcheon hung, by, worse than all, Each day's procession, my paraded life Bobbed and impoverished through the wanting wife Now that my life (which means my work) was grown Riches indeed ! Once, just this worth alone Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby Of good and praise would how rewardingly! Fall at your feet, a crown 1 hoped to cast Before your love, my love should crown at last. No love remaining to cast crown before, My loved stopped work now : but contempt the more 340 ^ FORGIVENESS. Impelled me task as ever head and hand, Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand Eather than taste pure hell in idleness. Therefore I kept my memory down by stress Of daily work I had no mind to stay For the world's wonder at the wife away. Oh, it was easy all of it, believe, For I despised you ! But your words retrieve Importantly the past. Ko hate assumed The mask of love at any time! There gloomed A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged By causes you declare; but love's self purged Away a fancied Avrong I did both loves Yours and my own : by no hate's help, it proves; Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise High by how many a grade! I did despise I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment Eeplace contempt's! First step to which ascent Write clown your own words I reutter you ! '/ loved my husband and I hated who He was, I took up as my first chance, mere Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with /' Here Lies paper!" "Would my blood for ink suffice!" "It may: this minion from a land of spice, Silk, feather every bird of jewelled breast This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prest Above your heart there." . . . "Thus?" "It flows, I see. Dip there the point and write!" "Dictate to me! Nay, I remember." CENCIAJA. 341 And she wrote the words. I read them. Then "Since love, in you, affords License for hate, in me, to quench (I say) Contempt why, hate itself has passed away In vengeance foreign to contempt. Depart Peacefully to that death which Eastern art Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true! Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you Dead in our chamber!" True as truth the tale. She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise. And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes, Now that I used my own. She sleeps as erst Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours! Immersed In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps? For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps Still plain I seem to see ! about his head The idle cloak, about his heart (instead Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude My vengeance in the cloister's solitude? Hardly, I think ! As little helped his brow The cloak then, Father as your grate helps now! CENCIAJA. Ogni cencio vuol entrare in ~bucato. Italian Proverb. MAY I print, Shelley, how it came to pass That when your Beatrice seemed by lapse Of many a long month since her sentence fell Assured of pardon for the parricide, By intercession of stanch friends, or, say, 342 CENCTAJA. By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope, Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt, Suddenly all things changed, and Clement grew "Stern," as you state, "nor to be moved nor bent, But said these three words coldly, 'She must die;' Subjoining 'Pardon ? Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother also yestereve. And lie is fled: she shall not flee, at least /' " So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled? Shelley, may I condense verbosity That lies before me, into some few words Of English, and illustrate your superb Achievement by a rescued anecdote, No great things, only new and true beside? As if some mere familiar of a house Should venture to accost the group at gaze Before its Titian, famed the wide world through, And supplement such pictured masterpiece By whisper "Searching in the archives here, I found the reason of the Lady's fate, And how by accident it came to pass She wears the halo and displays the palm: Who, haply, else had never suffered no, Nor graced our gallery, by consequence." Who loved the work would like the little news: Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me Eelating how the penalty was paid By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise, For his complicity in matricide With Paolo his own brother, he whose crime And flight induced "those three words She must die." Thus I unroll you then the manuscript. "God's justice" (of the multiplicity Of such communications extant still, CENCIAJA. 343 Recording, each, injustice done by God In person of his Vicar-upon-earth, Scarce one but leads off to the self-same tune) ''God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Eests never on the track until it reach Delinquency. In proof I cite the case Of Paolo Santa Oroce." Many times The youngster, having been importunate That Marchesine Costanza, who remained His widowed mother, should supplant the heir Her elder son, and substitute himself In sole possession of her faculty, And meeting just as often with rebuff, Blinded by so exorbitant a lust Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits, Casting about to kill the lady thus. He first, to cover his iniquity, Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then Authoritative lord, acquainting him Their mother was contamination wrought Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House By dissoluteness and abandonment Of soul and body to impure delight. Moreover, since she suffered from disease, Those symptoms which her death made manifest Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin About to bring confusion and disgrace Upon the ancient lineage and high fame 0' the family, when published. Duty-bound, He asked his brother what a son should do? Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard By letter, being absent at his land 344 CENCIAJA. Oriolo, he made answer, this, no morer "It must behoove a son, things haply so, To act as honor prompts a cavalier And son, perform his duty to all three, Mother and brothers" here advice broke off. By which advice informed and fortified As he professed himself as bound by birth To hear God's voice in primogeniture Paolo, who kept his mother company In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared His whole enormity of enterprise And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead; Whose death demonstrated her innocence, And happened, by the way, since Jesus Christ Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years. Costanza was of aspect beautiful Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age Sixty about, to far surpass her peers The coetaneous dames, in youth and grace. Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight, Foiling thereby the justice of the world: Not God's however, God, be sure, knows well The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here! The present sinner, when he least expects, Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate, Stumbles upon his death by violence. A man of blood assaults the man of blood And slays him somehow. This was afterward: Enough, he promptly met with his deserts, And, ending thus, permits we end with him, And push forthwith to this important point His matricide fell out, of all the days, Precisely when the law procedure closed Eespecting Count Francesco Cenci's death Chargeable on his daughter, sons, and wife. CENCIAJA. 345 "Thus patricide was matched with matricide," A poet not inelegantly rhymed : Nay, fratricide those Princes Massimi! Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope That all the likelihood Rome entertained Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight, And she endured the piteous death. Now see The sequel what effect commandment had For strict inquiry into this last case, When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great His efficacy nephew to the Pope!) Was bidden crush ay, though his very hand Got soiled i' the act crime spawning everywhere! Because, when all endeavor had been used To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain "Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence, "Throughout his now deserted domicile! Eansack the palace, roof, and floor, to find If haply any scrap of writing, hid In nook or corner, may convict who knows? Brother Onofrio of intelligence With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood Is but too likely : crime spawns everywhere !" And, every cranny searched accordingly, There comes to light lynx-eyed Cardinal ! Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap, The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer, The word of counsel that things proving so, Paolo should act the proper knightly part, And do as was incumbent on a son, A brother and a man of birth, be sure! Whereat immediately the officers Proceeded to^arrest Onofrio found 346 CENUIAJA. At foot-ball, child's play, unaware of harm, Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat Monte Giordano; as he left the house He came upon the watch in wait for him Set by the Barigel, was caught and caged. News of which capture being, that same hour, ' Conveyed to Eome, forthwith our Eminence Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge, To have the process in especial care, Be, first to last, not only president In person, but inquisitor as well, Nor trust the by-work to a substitute: Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub The floor of Justice, so to speak, go try His best in prison with the criminal; Promising, as reward for by-work done Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained And crime avowed, or such connivency With crime as should procure a decent death Himself will humbly beg which means, procure The Hat and Purple from his relative The Pope, and so repay a diligence Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case, Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat. Whereupon did my lord the Governor So masterfully exercise the task Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week By week, and month by month, from first to last Deserved the prize: now, punctual at his place, Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post, Inquisitor pressed cushion and scoured plank, Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill, Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends! So that observers laughed as, many a day, cmCIAJA. 347 He left home, in July when day is flame, Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged Into the vault where daylong night is ice, There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content, Examining Onof rio : all the stress Of all examination steadily Converging into one pin-point, he pushed Tentative now of head and now of heart. As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nut This side and that side till the kernel sounds, So did he press the sole and single point What was the very meaning of the phrase "Do what beseems an honored cavalier?" "Which one persistent question-torture, plied Day by day, week by week, and month by month, Morn, noon, and night, fatigued away a mind Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude, And one vivacious memory gnawing there As when a corpse is coffined with a snake: Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem Admission that perchance his judgment groped So blindly, feeling for an issue aught With semblance of an issue from the toils Cast of a sudden round feet late so free, He possibly might have envisaged, scarce Recoiled from even were the issue death Even her death whose life .was death and worse! Always provided that the charge of crime, Each jot and tittle of the charge were true. In such a sense, belike, he might advise His brother to expurgate crime with . . . well, With blood, if blood must follow on "the course Taken as might beseem a cavalier." 348 CBNCIAJA. "Whereupon process ended, and report Was made without a minute of delay To Clement, who, because of those two crimes 0' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late, Must needs impatiently desire result. Eesnlt obtained, he bade the Governor Summon the Congregation and despatch. Summons made, sentence passed accordingly Death by beheading. When his death-decree Was intimated to Onofrio, all Man could do that did he to save himself. 'T was much, the having gained for his defence The Advocate o' the Poor, with natural help Of many noble friendly persons fain To disengage a man of family, So young too, from his grim entanglement. But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled There must be no diversion of the law. Justice is justice, and the magistrate Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die. So, the Marchese had his head cut off In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge, With Kome to see, a concourse infinite; Where magnanimity demonstrating Adequate to his birth and breed, poor boy! He made the people the accustomed speech, Exhorted them to true faith, honest works, And special good behavior as regards A parent of no matter what the sex, Bidding each son take warning from himself. Truly, it was considered in the boy Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore By such an angler as the Cardinal ! Why make confession of his privity CENCIAJA. 349 To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips Or, better, saying, "When I counselled him 'To do as might beseem a cavalier,' What could I mean but, 'Hide our parent' s shame As Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church! Bury it in a convent ay, beneath Enough dotation to prevent its ghost From troubling earth !' ' Mere saying thus, 't is plain, Not only were his life the recompense, But he had manifestly proved himself True Christian, and in lieu of punishment Been praised of all men ! So the populace. Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good (That of Aldobrandini, near and dear) And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much, A cardinal's equipment, some such word As this from mouth to ear went saucily: "Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew From Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world. I add: Onofrio left one child behind, A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace Abundantly of soul and body, doomed To life the shorter for her father's fate. By death of her, the Marquisate returned To that Orsini House from whence it came: Oriolo having passed as donative To Santa Croce from their ancestors. And no word more? By all means! Would yon know The authoritative answer, when folks urged "What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch, Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?" The answer was "Hatred implacable, By reason they were rivals in their love." 350 PORPBYR1A >S LO VER. The Cardinal's desire was to a dame Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride The simpleton must ostentatiously Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift, Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage; Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young; Whereon a fury entered him the fire He quenched with what could quench fire only blood. Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot, The unwise boy, a certain festal eve, Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be That pressed too closely on him with a crowd. He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then, To put a face upon the incident, Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court I' the Cardinal's ante-chamber. Mark and mend, Ye youth, by this example how may greed Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!" So ends the chronicler, beginning with "God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Bests never till it reach delinquency." Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome? PORPHYRIA'S LOVER, i. THE rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake, I listened with heart fit to break. PORP SYRIA 'S LOVER. 351 II. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled, and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form in. Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, IV. She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, v. Murmuring how she loved me she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever. VI. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For lore of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. 352 PORPE7RIA '8 LO VER VII. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud : at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. VIII. That moment she was mine, mine fair v Perfectly pure and good : I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, IX. And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids : again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. x. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before. Only, this time my shoulder bore XI. Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! ON THE PRIVILEGE OF B URIAL. 353 XII. Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now. And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word ! FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OP BUKIAL. A Reminiscence <^A.D. 1676. No, boy, we must not (so began My Uncle he 's with God long since A-petting me, the good old man !) We must not (and he seemed to wince, And lose that laugh whereto had grown His chuckle at my piece of news, How cleverly I aimed my stone) I fear we must not pelt the Jews! n. When I was young indeed, ah, faith Was young and strong in Florence too! We Christians never dreamed of scathe Because we cursed or kicked the crew. But now well, well! The olive-crops Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks Would always spare religious shops Whenever he o'erflowed his banks! 354 ON THE PR IVILEO E OF B URIAL. III. I '11 tell you (and his eye regained Its twinkle) tell you something choice! Something may help you keep unstained Your honest zeal to stop the voice Of unbelief with stone-throw r spite Of laws, which modern fools enact, That we must suffer Jews in sight Go wholly unmolested ! Fact! IV. There was, then, in my youth, and yet Is, by San Frediano, just Below the Blessed Olivet, A wayside ground wherein they thrust Their dead, these Jews, the more our shame! Except that, so they will but die, We may perchance incur no blame In giving hogs a hoist to stye. v. There, anyhow, Jews stow away Their dead; and, such their insolence, Slink at odd times to sing and pray As Christians do all make-pretence! Which wickedness they perpetrate Because they think no Christians see They reckoned here, at any rate, Without their host: ha, ha, he, he! YI. For, what should join their plot of ground But a good Farmer's Christian field? The Jews had hedged their corner round With bramble-bush to keep concealed ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. 355 Their doings: for the public road Ran betwixt this their ground and that The Fiirmer's, where he ploughed and sowed, Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat. VII. So, properly to guard his store And gall the unbelievers too, He builds a shrine and, what is more, Procures a painter whom I knew, One Buti (he 's with God) to paint A holy picture there no less Than Virgin Mary free from taint Borne to the sky by angels: yes! VIII. Which shrine he fixed, who says him nay? A-facing with its picture-side Not, as you 'd think, the public way, But just where sought these hounds to hide Their carrion from that very truth Of Mary's triumph: not a hound Could act his mummeries uncouth But Mary shamed the pack all round! IX. Now, if it was amusing, judge! To see the company arrive, Each Jew intent to end his trudge And take his pleasure (though alive) With all his Jewish kith and kin Below ground, have his venom out, Sharpen his wits for next day's sin, Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt J 356 ON THE PRIVILEGE OF B URIAL. x. Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds Mary, I warrant, soaring brave! And in a trice, beneath the folds Of filthy garb which gowns each knave, Down drops it there to hide grimace, Contortion of the mouth and nose At finding Mary in the place They 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose! XI. At last, they will not brook not they ! Longer such outrage on their tribe: So, in some hole and corner, lay Their heads together how to bribe The meritorious Farmer's self To straight undo his work, restore Their chance to meet, and muse on pelf Pretending sorrow, as before! XII. Forthwith, a posse, if you please, Of Rabbi This and Kabbi That Almost go down upon their knees To get him lay the picture flat. The spokesman, eighty years of age, Gray as a badger, with a goat's Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage War with our Mary. Thus he dotes: xni. "Friends, grant a grace ! How He brews toil Through life in Florence why relate To those who lay the burden, spoil Our paths of peace? We bear our fate. ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. 357 But when with life the long toil ends, Why must you the expression craves Pardon, but truth compels me, friends! Why must you plague us in our graves? XIV. "Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe! For how can you the lords of ease By nurture, birthright e'en conceive Our luxury to lie with trees And turf, the cricket and the bird Left for our last companionship: No harsh deed, no unkindly word, No frowning brow nor scornful lip! xv. "Death's luxury, we now rehearse While, living, through your streets we fare And take your hatred : nothing worse Have we, once dead and safe, to bear! So we refresh our souls, fulfil Our works, our daily tasks; and thus Gather you grain earth's harvest still The wheat for you, the straw for us. XVI. " 'What flouting in a face, what harm, In just a lady borne from bier By boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?' You question. Friends, the harm is here That just when our last sigh is heaved, And we would fain thank God and you For labor done and peace achieved, Back conies the Past in full review ! 358 ON THE PR1 V1LEGE OF B URIAL. XVII. "At sight of just that simple flag, Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag Though fangless forth, what needs must strike When stricken sore, though stroke be vain Against the mailed oppressor! Give Play to our fancy that we gain Life's rights when once we cease to live! XVIII. "Thus much to courtesy, to kind, To conscience ! Now to Florence folk ! There 's core beneath this apple-rind, Beneath this white of egg there 's yolk ! Beneath this prayer to courtesy, Kind, conscience there 's a sum to pouch! How many ducats down will buy Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch! XIX. "Removal, not destruction, sirs! Just turn your picture ! Let it front The public path! Or memory errs, Or that same public path is wont To witness many a chance befall Of lust, theft, bloodshed sins enough, "Wherein our Hebrew part is small. Convert yourselves!" he cut up rough. xx. Look you, how soon a service paid Religion yields the servant fruit! A prompt reply our Farmer made So following: "Sirs, to grant your suit ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. 359 Involves much danger! How? Transpose Our Lady? Stop the chastisement, All for your good, herself bestows? What wonder if I grudge consent? XXI. "Yet grant it: since, what cash I take Is so much saved from wicked use. "We know you! And, for Mary's sake, A hundred ducats shall induce Concession to your prayer. One day Suffices : Master Buti's brush Turns Mary round the other way, And deluges your side with slush. XXII. "Down with the ducats therefore!" Dump, Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece, Hard gold. Then out of door they stump, These dogs, each brisk as with new lease Of life, I warrant, glad he '11 die Henceforward just as he may choose, Be buried and in clover lie ! Well said Esaias "stiff-necked Jews!" XXIII. Off posts without a minute's loss Our Farmer, once the cash in poke, And summons Buti ere its gloss Have time to fade from off the joke To chop and change his work, undo The done side, make the side, now blank, Recipient of our Lady who, Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank! 360 ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. XXIV. Now, you 're no boy I need instruct In technicalities of Art! My nephew's childhood sure has sucked Along with mother's-milk some part Of painter's-practice learned, at least, How expeditiously is plied A work in fresco never ceased When once begun a day, each side. XXV. So, Bnti he 's with God begins: First covers up the shrine all round With hoarding; then, as like as twins, Paints, t'other side the burial-ground, New Mary, every point the same; Next, sluices over, as agreed, The old ; and last but, spoil the game By telling you? Not I, indeed! XXVI. Well, ere the week was half at end, Out came the object of this zeal, This fine alacrity to spend Hard money for mere dead men's weal! How think you? That old spokesman Jew Was High Priest, and he had a wife As old, and she was dying too, And wished to end in peace her life! XXVII. And he must humor dying whims, And soothe her with the idle hope They 'd say their prayers and sing their hymns As if her husband were the Pope ! ON THE PRIVILEGE OF B URIAL. 361 And she did die believing just This privilege was purchased ! Dead In comfort through her foolish trust! "Stiff-necked ones," well Esaias said! XXVIIT. So, Sabbath morning, out of gate And on to way, what sees our arch Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight The corpse on shoulder, and so, march! "Now for it, Buti !" In the nick Of time 't is pully-hauly, hence With hoarding! O'er the wayside quick There 's Mary plain in evidence! XXIX. And here 's the convoy halting: right! Oh, they are bent on howling psalms And growling prayers, when opposite! And yet they glance, for all their qualms, Approve that promptitude of his, The Farmer's duly at his post To take due thanks from every phiz, Sour smirk nay, surly smile almost! XXX. Then earthward drops each brow again; The solemn task 's resumed; they reach Their holy field the unholy train: Enter its precinct, all and each, Wrapt somehow in their godless rites; Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo They lift their faces ! What delights The mourners as they turn to go? 362 ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. XXXI. Ha, ha, he, he! On just the side They drew their purse-strings to make quit Of Mary, Christ the Crucified Fronted them now these biters bit! Never was such a hiss and snort, Such screwing nose and shooting lip! Their purchase honey in report Proved gall and verjuice at first sip! XXXII. Out they break, on they bustle, where, A-top of wall, the Farmer waits With Buti : never fun so rare ! The Farmer has the best: he rates The rascal, as the old High Priest Takes on himself to sermonize Nay, sneer "We Jews supposed, at least, Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!" XXXIII. "Theft?" cries the Farmer. "Eat your words! Show me what constitutes a breach Of faith in aught was said or heard! I promised you in plainest speech I 'd take the thing you count disgrace And put it here and here 't is put! Did you suppose I 'd leave the place Blank therefore, just your rage to glut? XXXIV. "I guess you dared not stipulate For such a damned impertinence! So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence! 0# THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. 363 As long as I have house and land, To spite you irreligious chaps Here shall the Crucifixion stand--- Unless you down with cash, perhaps!" XXXV. So snickered he and Buti both. The Jews said nothing, interchanged A glance or two, renewed their oath To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged From grace, for all our Church can do. Then off they scuttle: sullen jog Homewards, against our Church to brew Fresh mischief in their synagogue. XXXVI. But next day see what happened, boy! See why I bid you have a care How you pelt Jews! The knaves employ Such methods of revenge, forbear No outrage on our faith, when free To wreak their malice! Here they took So base a method plague o' me If I record it in my Book! XXXVII. For, next day, while the Farmer sat Laughing with Buti, in his shop, At their successful joke, rat-tat, Door opens, and they 're like to drop Down to the floor as in there stalks A six-feet-high herculean-built Young he-Jew with a beard that balks Description. "Help, ere blood be spilt!" 364 ON THE PRIVTL EOE OF B URIAL. XXXVIII. Screamed Buti: for he recognized Whom but the son, no less no more, Of that High Priest his work surprised So pleasantly the day before! Sou of the mother, then, whereof The bier he lent a shoulder to, And made the moans about, dared scoff At sober, Christian grief the Jew ! XXXIX. "Sirs, I salute you ! Never rise! No apprehension !" (Buti, white And trembling like a tub of size, Had tried to smuggle out of sight The picture's self the thing in oils, You know, from which a fresco '& dashed Which courage speeds while caution spoils) "Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed! XL. "Praised, ay, and paid too: for I come To buy that very work of yours. My poor abode, which boasts well, some Few specimens of Art, secures Haply, a masterpiece indeed If I should find my humble means Suffice the outlay. So, proceed ! Propose ere prudence intervenes!" XLI, On Buti, cowering like a child, These words descended from aloft, In tone so ominously mild, With smile terrifically soft 365 To that degree could Buti dare (Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice? He asked, thus taken unaware, No more than jnst the proper price! XLII. "Done!" cries the monster. "I disburse Forthwith your moderate demand. Count on my custom if no worse Your future work be, understand, Than this I carry off! No aid! My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews: The burden 's easy, and we 're made, Easy or hard, to bear we Jews!" XLIII. Crossing himself at such escape, Buti by turns the money eyes And, timidly, the stalwart shape Now moving doorwards; but, more wise, The Farmer, who, though dumb, this while Had watched advantage, straight conceived A reason for that tone and smile So mild and soft ! The Jew believed! XLIV. Mary in triumph borne to deck A Hebrew household! Pictured where No one was used to bend the neck In praise or bow the knee in prayer! Borne to that domicile by whom? The son of the High Priest! Through what? An insult done his mother's tomb! Saul changed to Paul the case came patJ 366 ON THE PRIVILEGE Off BURIAL. XLV. "Stay, dog- Jew . . . gentle sir, that is! Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned Mary, by miracle Oh bliss ! My present to your burial-ground? Certain, a ray of light has burst Your veil of darkness ! Had you else, Only for Mary's sake, unpursed So much hard money? Tell oh, tell's!" XLYI. Bound like a serpent that we took For worm and trod on turns his bulk About the Jew. First dreadful look Sends Buti in a trice to skulk Out of sight somewhere, safe alack! But our good Farmer faith made bold: And firm (with Florence at his back) He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled XLVII. "Ay, sir, a miracle was worked, By quite another power, I trow, Than ever yet in canvas lurked, Or you would scarcely face me now! A certain impulse did suggest A certain grasp with this right-hand, Which probably had put to rest Our quarrel, thus your throat once spanned ! XLVIII. "But I remembered me, subdued That impulse, and you face me still! And soon a philosophic mood Succeeding (hear it, if you will !) OJV THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL. 36? Has altogether changed my views Concerning Art. Blind prejudice! Well may you Christians tax us Jews With scrupulosity too nice! XLIX. "For, don't I see, let 's issue join! Whenever I 'm allowed pollute (I and my little bag of coin) Some Christian palace of repute, Don't I see stuck up everywhere Abundant proof that cultured taste Has Beauty for its only care, And upon Truth no thought to waste? L. " 'Jew, since it must be, take in pledge Of payment' so a Cardinal Has sighed to me as if a wedge Entered his heart 'this best of all My treasures I' Leda, Ganymede, Or Antiope; swan, eagle, ape (Or what 's the beast of what 's the breed), And Jupiter in every shape ! LI. "Whereat if I presume to ask 'But, Eminence, though Titian's whisk Of brush have well performed its task, How comes if these false godships frisk In presence of what yonder frame Pretends to image? Surely, odd It seems, you let confront The Name Each beast the heathen called his god I* 368 ON THE PRIVILEGE OF B URIAL. LII. "Benignant smiles me pity straight The Cardinal. "T is Truth, we prize! Art 's the sole question in debate! These subjects are so many lies. We treat them with a proper scorn When we turn lies called gods forsooth To lies' fit use, now Christ is born. Drawing and coloring are Truth. LIII. " 'Think you I honor lies so much As scruple to parade the charms Of Leda Titian, every touch Because the thing within her arms Means Jupiter who had the praise And prayer of a benighted world? Benighted" I too, if, in days Of light, I kept the canvas furled !' nv. "So ending, with some easy gibe. What power has logic ! I, at once, Acknowledged error in our tribe, So squeamish that, when friends ensconce A pretty picture in its niche To do us honor, deck our graves, We fret and fume and have an itch To strangle folk ungrateful knaves ! LV. "No, sir! Be sure that what 's its style, Your picture? shall possess ungrudged A place among my rank and file Of Ledas and what not be judged ON THE PRIVIL EOE OF I) URIA L. 369 Just as a picture! and (because I fear me much I scarce have bought A Titian) Master Buti's flaws Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!" LVI. So, with a scowl, it darkens door This bulk no longer! Buti makes Prompt glad re-entry; there 's a score Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes From what must needs have been a trance, Or he had struck (he swears) to ground The bold bad mouth that dared advance Such doctrine the reverse of sound ! LVII. "Was magic here? Most like! For, since, Somehow our city's faith grows still More and more lukewarm, and our Prince Or loses heart or wants the will To check increase of cold. 'T is "Live And let live! Languidly repress The Dissident! In short, contrive Christians must bear with Jews: no less!'* LVIII. The end seems, any Israelite Wants any picture, pishes, poohs, Purchases, hangs it full in sight In any chamber he may choose! In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue! In Mary's bosom, one more sword! No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew! Lord, how long? How long, Lord? 370 SOLlLOQffT OF THE SPANISH CLOtSTER. SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER, i. GK-E-B there go, my heart's abhorrence! Water your damned flower-pots, do ! If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, God's blood, would not mine kill you! What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? Oh, that rose has prior claims Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? Hell dry you up with its flames! ii. At the meal we sit together: Salve tibi ! I must hear Wise talk of the kind of weather, Sort of season, time of year: Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt: What 's the Latin name for "parsley"? What 's the Greek name for Swine's Snout? in. Whew! We '11 have our platter burnished, Laid with care on our own shelf! With a fire-new spoon we 're furnished, And a goblet for ourself, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere 't is fit to touch our chaps Marked with L. for our initial ! (He-he! There his lily snaps!) IV. Saint, forsooth ! While brown Dolores Squats outside the Convent bank SOLILOQUY OF TEE SPANISH CLOISTER. 371 With Sanchicha, telling stories, Steeping tresses in the tank, Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horse-hairs, Can't I see his dead eye glow, Bright as 't were a Barbary corsair's? (That is, if he 'd let it show !) v. When he finishes refection, Knife and fork he never lays Cross-wise, to my recollection, As do I, in Jesu's praise. I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange-pulp In three sips the Arian frustrate; While he drains his at one gulp. VI. Oh, 'those melons? If he 's able We 're to have a feast! so nice! One goes to the Abbot's table, All of us get each a slice. How go on your flowers? None double? Not one fruit-sort can you spy? Strange? And I, too, at such trouble Keep them close-nipped on the slyl VII. There 's a great text in Galatians, Once you trip on it, entails Twenty-nine distinct damnations, One sure, if another fails: If 1 trip him just a-dying, Sure of heaven as sure can be, Spin him round and send him flying Off to hell, a Manichee? 372 THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. VIII. Or, my scrofulous French novel On gray paper with blunt type! Simply glance at it, you grovel Hand and foot in Belial's gripe: If I double down its pages At the wof ul sixteenth print, When he gathers his greengages, Ope a sieve and slip it in 't? IX. Or, there 's Satan! one might venture Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave Such a flaw in the indenture As he 'd miss till, past retrieve, Blasted lay that rose-acacia We 're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine . 'St, there 's Vespers ! Plena gratia Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r you swine! THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE. ROSA MUNDI; 8ETJ, FULCITE ME FLORIBUS. A. CONCEIT OF MASTER GY8BRECHT, CANON -REGULAR OF SAINT JODOCU8 BY-THE-BAR, YPRES CITY. CANTUQUE, VirgiliuS. AND HATH OFTEN BEEN SUNG AT HOCK- TIDE AND FESTIVALS. GAVISUS ERAM, JeS&ideS. (It would seem to be a glimpse from tlie burning of Jacques du Bourg-Molay, at Paris, A.D. 1314; as distorted by the refraction from Flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of cen- turies.) I. PREADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEODABT. THE Lord, we look to once for all, Is the Lord we should look at, all at once: He knows not to vary, saith Saint Paul, Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce. THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. 373 See him no other than as he is! Give both the infinitudes their due Infinite mercy, but, I wis, As infinite a justice too. [ Organ: plagal-cadence. As infinite a justice too. ii. ONE SINGETH. John, Master of the Temple of God, Falling to sin the Unknown Sin, What he bought of Emperor Aldabrod, He sold it to Sultan Saladin: Till, caught by Pope Clement, a-buzzing there, Hornet-prince of the mad wasps' hive, And clipt of his wings in Paris square, They bring him now to be burned alive. [And wantetli there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth We bring John now to be burned alive. in. In the midst is a goodly gallows built; 'Twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck; But first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt, Make a trench all round with the city muck; Inside they pile log upon log, good store; Fagots not few, blocks great and small, Eeach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no more, For they mean he should roast in the sight of all. CHORUS. We mean he should roast in the sight of all. IV. Good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith; Billets that blaze substantial and slow; 374 T1IE HERETIC '8 TRA QED Y. Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith ; Larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow: Then up they hoist me John in a chafe, Sling him fast like a hog to scorch, Spit in his face, then leap back safe, Sing "Laudes," and bid clap-to the torch. CHORUS. Laus Deo who bids clap-to the torch. v. John of the Temple, whose fame so bragged, Is burning alive in Paris square! How can ne curse, if his mouth is gagged? Or wriggle his neck, with a collar there? Or heave his chest, while a band goes round? Or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced? Or kick with his feet, now his legs are bound? Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ. [Here one crosseth himself. VI. Jesus Christ John had bought and sold, Jesus Christ John had eaten and drunk; To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold. (Salvd reverentid.) Now it was, "Saviour, bountiful lamb, I have roasted thee Turks, though men roast me! See thy servant, the plight wherein I am ! Art thou a saviour? Savethoume!" CHOKUS. 'T is John the mocker cries, "Save thou me!" THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY. 375 VII. Who maketh God's menace an idle word? Saith, it no more means what it proclaims, Than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird? For she too prattles of ugly names. S.vith, he knoweth but one thing, what he knows? That God is good and the rest is breath ; Why else is the same styled Sharon's rose? Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith. CHORUS. Oh, John shall yet find a rose, he saith. VIII. Alack, there be roses and roses, John ! Some honeyed of taste like your leman's tongue: Some, bitter; for why? (roast gayly on!) Their tree struck root in devil's dung. When Paul once reasoned of righteousness And of temperance and of judgment to come, Good Felix trembled, he could no less: John snickering, crooked his wicked thumb. CHORUS. What cometh to John of the wicked thumb? IX. Ha, ha! John plucketh now at his rose To rid himself of a sorrow at heart! Lo, petal on petal, fierce rays unclose; Anther on anther, sharp spikes out-start; And with blood for dew, the bosom boils; And a gust of sulphur is all its smell; And lo, he is horribly in the toils Of a coal-black giant flower of hell ! 376 AMPHIBIAN. CHOBUS. What maketh heaven, That maketh hell. x. So, as John called now, through the fire amain, On the Name, he had cursed with, all his life To the Person, he bought and sold again For the Face, with his daily buffets rife Feature by feature It took its place; And his voice, like a mad dog's choking bark, At the steady whole of the Judge's face Died. Forth John's soul flared into the dark. SUBJOINETH THE ABBOT DEODAET. God help all poor souls lost in the dark! AMPHIBIAN, i. THE fancy I had to-day, Fancy which turned a fear! I swam far out in the bay, Since waves laughed warm and clear. 11. I lay and looked at the sun, The noon-sun looked at me: Between us two, no one Live creature, that I could see. in. Yes! There came floating by Me, who lay floating too, Such a strange butterfly ! Creature as dear as new : AMPHIBIAN. 377 IV. Because the membraned wings So wonderful, so wide, So sun-suffused, were things Like soul and naught beside. v. A handbreadth over head! All of the sea my own, It owned the sky instead; Both of us were alone. VI. I never shall join its flight, For naught buoys flesh in air. If it touch the sea good-night! Death sure and swift waits there. VII. Can the insect feel the better For watching the uncouth play Of limbs that slip the fetter, Pretend as they were not clay? VIII. Undoubtedly I rejoice That the air comports so well With a creature which had the choice Of the land once. Who can tell? IX. What if a certain soul Which early slipped its sheath, And has for its home the whole Of heaven, thus look beneath, 378 AMPHIBIAN. x. Thus watch one who, in the world, Both lives and likes life's way, Nor wishes the wings unfurled That sleep in the worm, they say? XI. But sometimes when the weather Is blue, and warm waves tempt To free one's self of tether, And try a life exempt XII. From worldly noise and dust, In the sphere which overbrims With passion and thought, why, just Unable to fly, one swims! XIII. By passion and thought upborne, One smiles to one's self "They fare Scarce better, they need not scorn Our sea, who live in the air!" XIV. Emancipate through passion And thought, with sea for sky, "We substitute, in a fashion, For heaven poetry: xv. Which sea, to all intent, Gives flesh such noon-disport As a finer element Affords the spirit-sort. ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. 379 XVI. Whatever they are, we seem : Imagine the thing they know; All deeds they do, we dream; Can heaven be else but so? XVII. And meantime, yonder streak Meets the horizon's verge; That is the land, to seek If we tire or dread the surge; XVIII. Land the solid and safe To welcome again (confess!) When, high and dry, we chafe The body, and don the dress. XIX. Does she look, pity, wonder At one who mimics flight, Swims heaven above, sea under, Yet always earth in sight? ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER i. No protesting, dearest! Hardly kisses even ! Don't we both know how it ends? How the greenest leaf turns searest? Bluest outbreak blankest heaven? Lovers friends? 380 ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. II. You would build a mansion, I would weave a bower Want the heart for enterprise. "Walls admit of no expansion: Trellis-work may haply flower Twice the size. in. What makes glad Life's Winter? New buds, old blooms after. Sad the sighing "How suspect Beams would ere mid-autumn splinter, Eooftree scarce support a rafter, Walls lie wrecked?" IV. You are young, my princess ! I am hardly older: Yet I steal a glance behind! Dare I tell you what convinces Timid me that you, if bolder, Bold are blind? v. Where we plan our dwelling Glooms a graveyard surely ! Headstone, footstone moss may drape,- Name, date, violets hide from spelling, But, though corpses rot obscurely, Ghosts escape. VI. Ghosts! breathing Beauty, Give my frank word pardon ! What if I somehow, somewhere ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER. 33 Pledged my soul to endless duty Many a time and oft? Be hard on Love laid there? VII. Nay, blame grief that 's fickle, Time that proves a traitor, Chance, change, all that purpose warps, Death who spares to thrust the sickle, Which laid Love low, through flowers which later Shroud the corpse! VIII. And you, my winsome lady, Whisper me with like frankness ! Lies nothing buried long ago? Are yon which shimmer mid what 's shady Where moss and violet run to rankness Tombs, or no? IX. Who taxes you with murder? My hands are clean or nearly! Love being mortal needs must pass. Repentance? Nothing were absurd er. Enough: we felt Love's loss severely; Though now alas! x. Love's corpse lies quiet therefore, Only Love's ghost plays truant, And warns us have in wholesome awe Durable mansionry; that 's wherefore I weave but trellis-work, pursuant Life, to law. 382 81. MARI1N 'S SUMMER. XI. The solid, not the fragile, Tempts rain and hail and thunder. If bower stand firm at autumn's close, Beyond my hope, why, boughs were agile; If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder Wreathing rose ! XII. So, truce to the protesting, So, muffled be the kisses! For, would we but avow the truth, Sober is genuine joy. No jesting! Ask else Penelope, Ulysses Old in youth ! XIII. For why should ghosts feel angered? Let all their interference Be faint march-music in the air! "Up! Join the rear of us the vanguard! Up, lovers, dead to all appearance, Laggard pair!" XIV. The while you clasp me closer, The while I press you deeper, As safe we chuckle, under breath, Yet all the slyer, the jocoser, "So, life can boast its day, like leap-year, Stolen from death!" xv. Ah me the sudden terror! Hence quick avaunt, avoid me, You cheat, the ghostly flesh-disguised! JAMES LEE'S WIVE. 383 Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error! So, 't was Death's self that clipped and coyed me, Loved and lied ! XVI. Ay, dead loves are the potent! Like any cloud they used you, Mere semblance you, but substance they! Build we no mansion, weave we no tent! Mere flesh their spirit interfused you ! Hence, I say ! XVII. All theirs, none yours the glamour! Theirs each low word that won me, Soft look that found me Love's, and left What else but you the tears and clamor That 's all your very own ! Undone me Ghost-bereft ! JAMES LEE'S WIFE. I. JAMES LEE'S WIFE SPEAKS AT THE WINDOW. I. AH, Love, but a day, And the world has changed ! The sun 's away, And the bird estranged ; The wind has dropped, And the sky 's deranged: Summer has stopped. 384 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. II. \ Look in my eyes ! Wilt thou change too? Should I fear surprise? Shall I find aught new In the old and dear, In the good and true, With the changing year? in. Thou art a man, But I am thy love. For the lake, its swan ; For the dell, its dove; And for thee (oh, haste!) Me to bend above, Me, to hold embraced. II. BY THE FIKESIDE. I. Is all our fire of shipwreck wood, Oak and pine? Oh, for the ills half-understood, The dim dead woe Long ago Befallen this bitter coast of France! Well, poor sailors took their chance; I take mine. ii. A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot O'er the sea; JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 385 Do sailors eye the casement mute, Drenched and stark, From their bark And envy, gnash their teeth for hate 0' the warm safe house and happy freight Thee and me? in. God help you, sailors, at your need ! Spare the curse ! For some ships, safe in port indeed, Rot and rust, Run to dust, All through worms i' the wood, which crept, Gnawed our hearts out while we slept: That is worse. IV. Who lived here before us two? Old-world pairs. Did a woman ever would I knew! Watch the man With whom began Love's voyage full-sail, (now, gnash your teeth !) When planks start, open hell beneath Unawares? III. IN THE DOORWAY. I. THE swallow has set her six young on the rail, And looks seaward : The water 's in stripes like a snake, olive-pale To the leeward, On the weather-side, black, spotted white with the wind. "Good fortune departs, and disaster 's behind," Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite wail ! 386 JAMES LEE "8 WIFE. II. Our fig-tree, that leaned for the saltness, has furled Her five fingers, Each leaf like a hand opened wide to the world Where there lingers No glint of the gold, Summer sent for her sake: How the vines writhe in rows, each impaled on its stake! My heart shrivels up and my spirit shrinks curled. in. Yet here are we two; we have love, house enough, With the field there, This house of four rooms, that field red and rough, Though it yield there, For the rabbit that robs, scarce a blade or a bent; If a magpie alight now, it seems an event; And they both will be gone at November's rebuff. IV. But why must cold spread? but wherefore bring change To the spirit, God meant should mate his with an infinite range, And inherit His power to put life in the darkness and cold? 0, live and love worthily, bear and be bold ! Whom Summer made friends of, let Winter estrange! IV. ALONG THE BEACH. I. I WILL be quiet and talk with you, And reason why you are wrong. You wanted my love is that much true? And so I did love, so I do: What has come of it all along? JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 387 II. I took you how could I otherwise? For a world to me, and more; For all, love greatens and glorifies Till God 's a-glow, to the loving eyes, In what was mere earth before. in. Yes, earth yes, mere ignoble earth ! Now do I misstate, mistake? Do I wrong your weakness and call it worth? Expect all harvest, dread no dearth, Seal my sense up for your sake? IV. Love, Love, no, Love! not so, indeed You were just weak earth, I knew: With much in you waste, with many a weed, And plenty of passions run to seed, But a little good grain too. v. And such as you were, I took you for mine: Did not you find me yours, To watch the olive and wait the vine, And wonder when rivers of oil and wine Would flow, as the Book assures? VI. Well, and if none of these good things came, What did the failure prove? The man was my whole world, all the same, With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame, And, either or both, to love. 388 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. VII. Yet this turns now to a fault there! there! That I do love, watch too long, And wait too well, and weary and wear; And 't is all an old story, and my despair Fit subject for some new song: VIII. "How the light, light love, he has wings to fly At suspicion of a bond : My wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-by, Which will turn up next in a laughing eye, And why should you look beyond?" V. Otf THE CLIFF. I. I LEANED on the turf, I looked at a rock Left dry by the surf; For the turf, to call it grass were to mock: Dead to the roots, so deep was done The work of the summer sun. ii. And the rock lay flat As an anvil's face: No iron like that ! Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace: Sunshine outside, but ice at the core, Death's altar by the lone shore. in. On the turf, sprang gay With his films of blue, JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 389 No cricket, I '11 say, But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too, The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight, Real fairy, with wings all right. IV. On the rock, they scorch Like a drop of fire From a brandished torch, Fall two red fans of a butterfly: No turf, no rock, in their ugly stead, See, wonderful blue and red! v. Is it not so With the minds of men? The level and low, The burnt and bare, in themselves; but then "With such a blue and red grace, not theirs, Love settling unawares ! VI. BEADING A BOOK, UNDEB THE CLIFF. I. "STILL ailing, Wind? Wilt be appeased or no? Which needs the other's office, thou or I? Dost want to be disbnrthened of a woe, And can, in truth, my voice untie Its links, and let it go? ii. "Art thou a dumb, wronged thing that would be righted, Intrusting thus thy cause to me? Forbear! No tongue can mend such pleadings; faith, requited With falsehood, love at last aware Of scorn, hopes, early blighted, 390 JAMES LEE' 8 WIFE. III. "We have them; but I know not any tone So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow: Dost think men would go mad without a moan, 11 they knew any way to borrow A pathos like thy own? IV. "Which sigh wouldst mock, of all the sighs? The qne So long escaping from lips starved and blue, That lasts while on her pallet-bed the nun Stretches her length; her foot comes through The straw she shivers on ; v. "You had not thought she was so tall: and spent, Her shrunk lids open, her lean fingers shut Close, close, their sharp and livid nails indent The clammy palm; then all is mute: That way, the spirit went. VI. "Or wouldst thou rather that I understand Thy will to help me? like the dog 1 found Once, pacing sad this solitary strand, Who would not take my food, poor hound, But whined, and licked my hand." VII. All this, and more, comes from some young man's pride Of power to see,' in failure and mistake, Eelinquishment, disgrace, on every side, Merely examples for his sake, Helps to his path untried : JAMKS LEE'S WIFE. 391 VIII. Instances he must simply recognize? Oh, more than so! must, with a learner's zeal, Make doubly prominent, twice emphasize, By added touches that reveal TI;e god in babe's disguise. IX. Oh, he knows what defeat means, and the rest! Himself the undefeated that shall be: Failure, disgrace, he flings them you to test, His triumph, in eternity Too plainly manifest! x. Whence, judge if he learn forthwith what the wind Means in Its moaning by the happy prompt Instinctive way of youth, I mean; for kind Calm years, exacting their accompt Of pain, mature the mind: XI. And some midsummer morning, at the lull Just about daybreak, as he looks across A sparkling foreign country, wonderful To the sea's edge for gloom and gloss Next minute must annul, XII. Then, when the wind begins among the vines, So low, so low, what shall it say but this? "Here is the change beginning, here the lines Circumscribe beauty, set to bliss The limit time assigns." 392 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. XIII. Nothing can be as it has been before; Better, so call it, only not the same. To draw one beauty into our hearts' core, And keep it changeless! such our claim; So answered, Never more! XIV. Simple? Why this is the old woe o' the world; Tune, to whose rise and fall we live and die. Rise with it, then ! Eejoice that man is hurled From change to change unceasingly, His soul's wings never furled ! xv. That 's a new question; still replies the fact, Nothing endures: the wind moans, saying so; We moan in acquiescence: there 's life's pact, Perhaps probation do 1 know? God does: endure his act! XVI. Only, for man, how bitter not to grave On his soul's hands' palms one fair good wise thing Just as he grasped it! For himself, death's wave; While time first washes ah, the sting! O'er all he 'd sink to save. VII. AMONG THE BOOKS. I. OH, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 393 To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. II. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you : Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! VIII. BESIDE THE DRAWING-BOARD. I. "As like as a Hand to another Hand!'* Whoever said that foolish thing, Could not have studied to understand The counsels of God in fashioning, Out of the infinite love of his heart, This Hand, whose beauty I praise, apart From the world of wonder left to praise, If I tried to learn the other ways Of love, in its skill, or love, in its power. "As like as a Hand to another Hand:" Who said that, never took his stand, Found and followed, like me, an hour, The beauty in this, how free, how fine To fear, almost, of the limit-line! As I looked at this, and learned and drew, Drew and learned, and looked again, While fast the happy minutes flew, 394 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. Its beauty mounted into my brain, And a fancy seized me : I was fain To efface my work, begin anew, Kiss what before I only drew; Ay, laying the red chalk 'tvvixt my lips, With soul to help if the mere lips failed, I kissed all right where the drawing ailed, Kissed fast the grace that somehow slips Still from one's soulless finger-tips. n. 'T is a clay cast, the perfect thing, From Hand live once, dead long ago: Princess-like it wears the ring To fancy's eye, by which we know That here at length a master found His match, a proud lone soul its mate, As soaring genius sank to ground And pencil could not emulate The beauty in this, how free, how fine To fear almost! of the limit-line. Long ago the god, like me The worm, learned, each in our degree: Looked and loved, learned and drew, Drew and learned and loved again, While fast the happy minutes flew, Till beauty mounted into his brain And on the finger which outvied His art he placed the ring that 's there, Still by fancy's eye descried, In token of a marriage rare : For him on earth, his art's despair, For him in heaven, his soul's fit bride, JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 395 III. Little girl with the poor coarse hand I turned from to a cold clay cast I have my lesson, understand The worth of flesh and blood at last! Nothing hut beauty in a Hand? Because he could not change the hue, Mend the lines and make them true To this which met his soul's demand, Would Da Vinci turn from you? I hear him laugh my woes to scorn "The fool forsooth is all forlorn Because the beauty, she thinks best, Lived long ago or was never born, Because no beauty bears the test In this rough peasant Hand ! Confessed 'Art is null and study void!' So sayest thou? So said not I, Who threw the faulty pencil by, And years instead of hours employed, Learning the veritable use Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath Lines and hue of the outer sheath, If haply I might reproduce One motive of the mechanism, Flesh and bone and nerve that make The poorest coarsest human hand An object worthy to be scanned A whole life long for their sole sake. Shall earth and the cramped moment-space Yield the heavenly crowning grace? Now the parts and then the whole! Who art thou, with stinted soul And stunted body, thus to cry, 396 JAMES LEE'S WIFE. 'I love, shall that be life's strait dole? I must live beloved or die!' This peasant hand that spins the wool And bakes the bread, why lives it on, Poor and coarse with beauty gone, "What use survives the beauty? Fool!" Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand ! I have my lesson, shall understand. THE END. A. L BURT'S PUBLICATIONS For Young People BY POPULAR WRITERS, 52-58 Duane Street, New York. Bonnie Prince Charlie : A Tale of Fontenoy and Cnlloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWXE. 12ino, cloth, price $1.00. The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is a rested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scot- land. " Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of ' Quentin Durward.' The lad's journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a nar- rative of the kind as we have ever read. For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty has surpassed himself." Spectator. With Clive in India ; or, the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and i>f the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adven- ture, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. " He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume." Scotsman. The Lion of the North : A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illus- trations by JOHN SCHOXBERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Hen'y gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has ex- tended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous king of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. " The tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited. "Time*. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. The Dragon and the Raven; or. The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANI- LAND, R.I. 12nio, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris. " Treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader." Athenaeum. The Young Carthaginian : A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANI- LAND, R.I. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Boys reading the history of the Punic Wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. That it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of Carthage, that Hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the Romans at Trebia, Lake Trasimenus, and Cannae, and all but took Rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. To let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world Mr. Henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant descrip- tion of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of ex- citing adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. " Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a Jstream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force." Saturday Review. In Freedom's Cause : A Story of Wallace and Bruce. ByG. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The extraordinary valor and personal prowess of Wallace and Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. " It is written in the author's best style. Pull of the wildest and most re- markable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, wUl not willingly put on one side." The Schoolmaster. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 8 With Lee in Virginia: A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, isseve-al times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. " One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet written. The picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story." Standard. By England's Aid ; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585- 1604). By Q. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEA.RSE, and Maps. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of " the fighting Veres." After many adven- tures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz. " It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with stirring inci- dent and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations add to its attractiveness." Boston Gazette. By Right of Conquest ; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and Two Maps. 12rno, cloth, price $1.50. The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. With this as the groundwork of his story Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth, Roger Hawkshaw, the sole sur- vivor of the good ship Swan, which had sailed from a Devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the Spaniards in the New World. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an Aztec princes^. At last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico h^ succeeds in re- gaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride. 14 ' By Right of Conquest ' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet published." Academy. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. In the Reign of Terror : The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by J. SCHON- BERG. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and aft< r various adventures accom- panies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Im- prisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the Louse iu his charge. After hairbreadth escapes they reach Nan- tes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-hhips, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. " Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat Mr. Henty's record. His adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict. . . . The story is one of Mr. Henty's best." Saturday Review. With Wolfe in Canada ; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In the present volume Mr. Henty gives an account of the strug- gle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. On the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate iu the New World; that Britain, and not France, should take the lead among the nations of Europe; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe, " It is not oly a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field." Illustrated London News. True to the Old Flag: A Tale of the American War of Inde- pendence. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which American and British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. " Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile red- Bkins in that very Huron country which has been endeared to us by the ex- ploits of Hawkeye and Chingachgook,' 1 The Times. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. The Lion of St. Mark : A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12nio, cloth, price $1.00. A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of in- trigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the vic- tories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the band of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice. " Every boy should read ' The Lion of St. Mark.' Mr. Henry has never pro- duced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious." Satur- day Review. A Final Reckoning: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. ByG. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. ISino, cloth, price $1.00, The hero, a young English lad. after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to Australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. " Mr. Henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully con- structed, or a better written story than this.' 1 Spectator. Under Drake's Flag : A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. " A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray." Harper's Monthly Magazine. By Sheer Pluck : A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With full- page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the de- tails of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventure? in the interior, is de- tained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedit on on their march to Coornassie. " Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. ' By Sheer Pluck ' will be eagerly read." Athenaeum. 6 A. L. BURTS PUBLICATIONS. By Pike and Dyke : A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. IStuo, cloth, price $1.00. In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea- captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is em- ployed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great siege.s of the time. He u timately settles down as Sir Edward Martin. " Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the hook, while the rest who only care for ad venture .will be students in spite of them- selves." St. James' Gazette. St. George for England : A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNS. 12mo, cloth, price $1 00. No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish, fleet; the plague of the Black Death; tte Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in " St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless ad. ventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince. "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boy_s which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of Sir Walter Scott in the land of fiction." 1 The Standard. Captain's Kidd's Gold: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12rao, clot i, price $1.00. There is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the Spanish Main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroon ish rake and sheer, to attack an unsus- pecting trading craft. There were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is Mr. Fitts' true story of an adven turous American boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. The document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a cer- tain island in the Bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of Kidd's crew. The hero of this book, Paul Jones Garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. Captain Bayley's Heir: A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. By G. A. HEXTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12iuo, cloth, price $1.00. A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in theheirshipof a co siderable property. The former frills into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly have excelled." Christian Leader. For Name and Fame ; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With full page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regi- ment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He ac- companies the force nnder General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is trans- ferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan. "The best feature of the book apart from the interest of its scenes of ad- ventureis its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan people." Daily Sews. Captured by Apes : The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. The scene of this tale is laid on an island in the Malay Archi- pelago. Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of New York, sets sail for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo and young Garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. The lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as Goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. The brute recognizes 'him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself ex- perienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonish- ing is monkey recollection. Very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. R A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. The Bravest of the Brave ; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12m >, cloth, price $1.00. There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peter- borough. This is largely due to the fact that they were over- shadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been sur- passed. " Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. Lads will read The Bravest of the Brave ' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure." Daily Telegraph. The Cat of Bubastes : A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With full page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00 A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Auieres, the Egyptian high- p:iest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son acci- dentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. " The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. It is admirably illustrated." Saturday Review. With Washington at Monmouth : A Story of Three Phila- delphia Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Three Philadelphia boys, Seth Graydon "whose mother con- ducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the British officers;" Enoch Ball, "son of that Mrs. Ball whose dancing school was situated on Letitia Street," and little Jacob, son of ' Chris, the Baker," serve as the principal characters. The story is laid during the winter when Lord Howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the American spies who make regular and frequent visits from Valley Forge. One reads here of home-life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodi- gality shown by the British officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. The story abounds with pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of Washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without con- siderable study. A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. 9 For the Temple : A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Mr. Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of Josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home with the favor of Titus. "Mr. Henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless Jewish resistance to Roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world." Graphic. Facing Death ; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustra- tions by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. "Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though " shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. " The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend." Standard. Tom Temple's Career. By HORATIO ALGER. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Tom Temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of Nathan Middleton, a penurious insurance agent. Though well paid for keeping the boy, Nathan and his wife endeavor to bring Master Tom in line with their parsimonious habits. The lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. As Tom is heir to $40,000, he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. He leaves Plympton village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an important mission to Cali- fornia, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. Some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale is written in Mr. Alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. 10 A. L. BURT'S PUBLICATIONS. Maori and Settler: A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. The Kenshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, coura- geous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the ad ventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hope- lessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing them- selves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys. "Brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life." Schoolmaster. Julian Mortimer): A Brave Boy's Struggle for Home and Fortune. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, price $1.00. Here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. There is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. One of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young American in every sense of the word. He enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. Surrounded by an un- known and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. Harry Castlemon has written many enter- taining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of America regard him as a favorite author. "Carrots:" Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. With Illustrations by WALTER CRANE. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. " One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good for- tune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of." Examiner. "A genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane's illustrations. "Punch. Mopsa the Fairy. By JEAN INGELOW. With Eight page Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, price 75 cents. " Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and ' Mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius Miss In- gelow has and the story of ' Jack ' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood." Eclectic. A 000 708 642 4